Datasets:

openerotica

/

erotiquant-xl

like 6

Follow

openerotica 106

CHAPTER ONE: He could fall asleep Anywhere including on Half a beer hell she Mike Reynolds knotted the scarf tighter around his neck, and buttoned his fatigue jacket against the wind coming off the sea. Grevlage was a port town; that's why he picked it. He aimed to buy his own ship, nothing fancy, but enough to take to the Black and stay free. His mustering-out pay, a roll of bills he won during R&R leaves, and a few fast shuffles and deals that maybe wouldn't stand up to the closest scrutiny, should be enough to buy him a ship. Just as long as he counted his pennies and didn't go squandering them on luxuries. A year In Country had accustomed him to danger and to living hard. He knew that his cammies drew some hostile stares, just a few years after the flag-waving parades. Well, frog-hump 'em if they couldn't take a joke. As he walked along the sidewalk, lost in thought, his duffle bag (carrying a few pieces of clothing and a stack of precious pages) bumping his hip, he noticed a hand-lettered "Room for Rent" sign placed in a parlor window of one of the brownstone row houses. The sign hung behind a wrought-iron grille, and above a window box full of acrid geraniums and bright purple pansies. He climbed the stairs and rang the doorbell. The landlady, plump, voluble, and evidently long- widowed (she wore a plain, thin gold wedding ring, but her black dress showed signs of hard wear), said, "Lucky you come now. Soon I gotta go to my place, serve the supper. Unpack your bag, wash your hands—the gabinetto is down the hall, you share with Mr. Rabinovich—and go down the block, turn left. Piccola Firenze, that is my restaurant." The room was on the top floor ("You young, you strong, so stairs not bad, eh?"), sunny, clean, and plain. "I'll take it," he said, and gave her $25 for the first week's rent. He stowed his duffle bag under the brass bed, too tired to unpack. As soon as the landlady, Mrs. Washburno's, back was turned, he lifted the crucifix above the bed-head off the wall and stowed it in the top drawer of the dresser. CHAPTER TWO: I Cover the Waterfront "Sit," Mrs. Washburno said. "I bring you some supper." She lit the ancient, battered candle in a straw-wound wine bottle, and poured him a tumbler of rough red wine from the bottle that would hold the next generation of candles. The late-autumn sun was dipping in the sky, but it was already dark in the small storefront room, behind canvas shades pulled halfway down. Knotty-pine paneling was tacked to the wall, and the small round tables wobbled. Generations of cigarette smoke hung in the air. And not all the kind of cigarette that comes in a pack with a tax stamp, either. Mike conjured that plenty of sticks of Mary Sue had been smoked here. What the hell kind of place was this, anyway? The door to the john opened, and a skinny little fellow with a light-brown crewcut came out, zipping up his coveralls. Mike did a double-take: under the ribbed undershirt beneath the coveralls was a honey of a pair of tits. The boy—the girl—whatever—sat down at a table across from a pretty Negro girl in a light blue shirtwaist dress. Mike's eyes were riveted by the pink edge of her foot where she had kicked off one worn black pump. "There you are, J.B. Look what I got at the market this morning." "Awww, thanks, Miz Washburno!" J.B. said. She dipped her face and sniffed at the small white china bowl of strawberries, then, smilingly, dipped the biggest, sweetest berry into her tumbler of wine and fed it to the other girl. Mike's jaw dropped as he watched the ripe berry disappear between those soft, full lips. Then the Negro girl picked up the glass sugar canister, poured a stream of sugar into her palm, coated another berry with the white sweetness, and dangled it over J.B.'s open mouth. Mike was starting to get some idea what the hell kind of place it was, and he was going to pack his bag again, leave the key on the hall table, and go find someplace to live that wasn't full of sideshow freaks. But just as he was about to push away from the table and storm out, Mrs. Washburno came back with a steaming plate of some kind of meat loaf all mixed up with wavy noodles and pungent red sauce. When he looked up from the plate, he saw that a newcomer had entered the room: a huge, thick-muscled man in tight denim, motorcycle boots, and a brown leather jacket with a shearling collar. The outfit was topped off with a striped, knitted watch cap in yellow and orange. A pair of horns—Mike squinted and thought they were white plastic—stood out from the sides of the cap. "Colder'n a witch-tit out there!" the giant boomed, rubbing his hands. "Hey, Mama, got any heroes today?" "Unhappy is the land that needs a hero," said the young man at the table nearest the pay phone. He had a stack of dimes on the table in front of him. He splashed something from a silver flask into his coffee cup. He looked up from the book he was reading, brushed his long dark hair away from his eyes, said, "The box-shovin' man-ape has favored us with his presence," and resumed reading. His Southern accent was so thick that Mike blinked and looked for subtitles to form in the air, like those movies he never went to unless they had Swedish blondes in them. Mike felt like yelling, "Hey! Get a haircut!" but didn't, because the aroma of the steaming platter reminded him that a meal was long overdue. "Sure, Gina," Mrs. Washburno said. "I got what you like, Big Man." She wrestled out the cork, handed him a straw-swathed bottle of wine and passed through the slatted half-doors to the kitchen. Mrs. Washburno lifted a thick length of hot sausage onto the grill. As she waited for it to sizzle, she selected a baton of bread, sliced through the crispy crust, and prepared the tender crumb with a sprinkling of herbed oil. Then she enveloped the meat in the bread and laved it with tangy tomato sauce. Mike's stomach was still growling, but the fork stayed poised in his hand as, fascinated, he watched the hot meat disappear into the man she called Gina's mouth, alternating with long pulls directly from the neck of the wine bottle. "That is not a camp name," the reader informed him. "That truly is what it says on his birth certificate." The giant nodded. "My Pop was a stevedore too. Used to work for this fella, Luigi was his name." Mrs. Washburno beamed. "So my folks thought it would be a…what's the word?...to name me after him." "Suck-up?" J.B. said; "Encomium?" the young man near the phone. "Tribute!" Gina said. 'Cept, when my birth certificate got writ, it didn't say "Gino." It said "Gina" instead. An' well, Pop sometimes got flusterated when he was 'round fancy folks, so he didn't try to get it changed back. 'Cause he thought it would be good for me—toughen me up—to not take any guff and have to let everybody know that I got man-parts." "Which have now been seen by approximately as many people as 'Abie's Irish Rose,'" came a voice from the corner. "AND to as little aesthetic effect." "Hell, folks loved that show," Gina said equably. "Mama, ya got any of that stripy ice-cream? Hey, you," he said. "What's your name? And didja get that flak jacket the hard way, or in an Army Surplus store?" "Mike Reynolds," Mike said. "76th Air Cav," he said. "Did you ever wonder if you were on the wrong side?" asked the young man near the payphone. "Thing about wars, son," Mike said, "Is, when you're in 'em, you ain't got time to think about my side, your side, right side, wrong side." "Next time you're in trouble, call a hippie. Well, Mike, this place is dead," Gina said, leaning in toward Mike (who ducked his head to get out of the way of the horns on his cap). "How's about comin' over to mine, have some fun? I like you soldier boys. Keep yourselves fit, don't whine over every little thing, and you know how to take orders." "Sir! Yes sir!" Mike said, mesmerized. CHAPTER THREE: And alliance had been Cemented at first gently Then with increasing… "Huh, that's quite some buck," Mike said, nodding at the proud head of a magnificent 14-point stag. The head was mounted on a piece of wood the same color as the paneling on the walls, so it looked like the stag had poked his head through the wall, and presumably his ass was dangling in the next door apartment. "That's what it's all about, baby," Gina said. "Stalk, mount, and shoot." He went to the small refrigerator, hip-checked it, and walked toward Mike with three bottles of beer dangling from each hand, like matched bunches of highly overripe bananas. He made use of one of the bottle openers nailed to the wall at intervals. (They, the stag's head, and a three-month-old calendar showing a basket of puppies, were the only décor.) "All that guinea red ink gives a man a thirst," he said with a belch, after dispatching the first of the beers. He unzipped his jacket, and leered, "Let's be bad guys!" He crooked a finger, and Mike went over to him. "Damn!" Gina said approvingly, his hands possessive. "If that ain't an ass like a coupla bowling balls all lined up and ready to throw." Then he moved his hands to Mike's shoulders, and pushed down firmly. Mike clutched at the bottom of Gina's t-shirt (tearing it further), and pulled himself up. "GINAAA!" he moaned. CHAPTER FOUR: Mine Is An Evil Canvas Mrs. Washburno wasn't home, so Mike dropped by Piccola Firenze to pay the week's rent. She wasn't at the restaurant either. This time, instead of sitting near the payphone, the man in the corner was on the phone, occasionally dropping one of the dimes from his stack into the phone. "Yes, of course, darlin'. I wish we lived somewhere too. But I'm afraid that we have very most definitely lost Belle Reve, and my ability to construct an alternative is so far limited…Uh-huh. When I was your age, I was bored more than occasionally myself. Work on your differential equations, all right? And your Latin grammar. Love you madly too." A young man, with a black beret covering his hair, and a small goatee clinging indecisively to his chin, sat on a barstool behind the counter. He looked up from the sports page. "Hi. Are you Mike? Mama said you were a 'big, handsome boy' and she was sure right. I guess that's where I get my artistic eye. She's over at St. Anthony's, so I'm holding down the fort. Want some eggs?" "Mama?" Mike asked. "And, about them eggs, sure. Fried hard, and maybe some of that round bread with the hole in the middle if you got it and a little cup of that black rocket fuel of yours." "Yeah, she does have this generally maternal vibe, but she is, in point of fact, my actual mother," he said. He extended a hand. "Gualtiero Washburno. AKA Gouache." "Oh," Mike said. "So, you work here?" "Not so much, just when Mama has some big-time confessing to do. I'm…well, I'm a man with a divided soul. I'm a pilot, and there isn't a crate you can show me that I can't fly as easy as you could juggle geese. But I'm an artist, too. So, I want to be out there in the Black. But I want to be where that cool North light is." Gouache offered to pay five bucks for Mike to pose for him, but Mike figured his friend needed the money more than he did, so he shook his head as the artist pulled a crumpled stack of singles out of his pocket and started straightening them out. "I'm good, Gouache," he said. He looked around the studio. A half-remembered movie made him expect a platform and perhaps a stool to sit on, and a screen to duck behind and undress. There was nothing like that, nothing much at all in the big room that had once been a factory. The ancient cage elevator rumbled from time to time, and sometimes something would clank on one of the other floors. "North light!" Gouache said, gesturing to the big bare windows in the cast-iron façade of the building. There was a long dark wooden table, scored with scratches and cigarette burns, heaped with tubes of paint, brushes, and jars of turpentine. Dozens of huge stretched canvases leaned against the wall. Mike craned his neck to see their subjects, but they were turned in so all he could see was the tense stapled rim and the reverse side of each picture. An iron bucket on the floor was full of melting ice cubes and green bottles of beer. "Hey, where's the easel?" Mike asked, unbuttoning his shirt. "That's…old! That's yesterday!" Gouache said, and pointed down at the floor, which was largely occupied by a huge stretched canvas. Because it rested on stretchers, it bounced a little, like a slice of trampoline, when Gouache prodded at it with his foot. He bent down, found a screwdriver on the floor, flipped the lid off a can of paint, and stalked through the loft, pouring a trail of vivid crimson along the fresh whiteness of the canvas. Then he took a pushbroom and shoved at the wet paint, feathering it here and there. "Gouache, why do you need a model at all if you paint stuff that don't look like nothin'?" "Strip!" the artist said. "And I'll show you! Bio-Action painting is what's happening now! It's the sunlight—no, it's the A-bomb explosion!—of the day that we seize!" Mike pulled his shirt off, saw a coatrack in the far corner and hung it up there, and took off his shoes and pants as well. Gouache didn't specify, so he left on his socks and BVDs. He padded back to the center of the room. "Lie down!" the artist said, his voice muffled as he lifted the black turtleneck over his head, revealing smooth, milky skin and soft, reddish hair beneath his armpits. The paint was cold against Mike's back and shoulders. Gouache prodded him with one foot, and he rolled over, twirling a scarlet candy stripe across his body. When he fetched up on his back again, he found the artist straddling his feet. Gouache knelt, and ran a large, soft brush caressingly over Mike's torso. Mike closed his eyes, then opened them and grunted as a line of thick, cold paint was laid down on his chest. The flat, bitter smell of the oil filled his nostrils. Gouache trailed the brush around in the paint. Then he pushed Mike over onto the canvas, and lay down next to him, adding more splashes of paint to the canvas from his own skin. The two men wrestled, flesh and pigment smacking against the taut whiteness, like a vast (and now sullied) sail. "Who is that fella?" Mike asked, as they scrubbed off the last traces of paint. "Y'know, the one that's there all the time makin' phone calls. The one with the funny accent." "Says his name—or his 'transparent alias' as he calls it—is Timon Samm. He's, or used to be a doctor, anyway. A big favorite with all the little old ladies around here. When it's Social Security day, Mama makes me schlep around to all their walk-up apartments, put their checks in the bank, you know? And then he goes around and does house calls and they give him, like, three tiny crumpled-up dollar bills. Some kind of story there. His kid sister lives with him, she's, I don't know, crazy or something. Definitely quaint." CHAPTER FIVE: You meet the Buddha On the road him he'd have no Chance at even if A softball team (with J.B. at second base) whooped it up over Cold Duck and eggplant parmigiana heroes. Gouache slow-danced with a besotted CPA named Roland. "Hey," Mike said diffidently. "You're not readin' that book about germs any more." Timon looked puzzled for a moment, then said, "Ah. Germinal" (It came out as something like "Zhairmnahl."). "No, I finished that one. It's not about germs, though. It's about…material and spiritual poverty." He folded down a corner of a page of "The Golden Bowl" and looked up at Mike. Mike found he was having some difficulty in getting the conversation started. "That's too bad because, uh, not that I'm sure or anything but I might…well, germs…you got pills, right? Or shots, if you gotta." Now Timon looked mildly amused. "So you've been hangin' back with the beasts, mmmm? I hate to think that the soldiers once under my aegis, prior to my dishonorable discharge, would have been…improvident enough to contract dishonorable discharges of their very own. Sure, I'll give you some pills. And some pro kits in the event of future misbehavior." "You were in the Army?" Mike asked incredulously. "The Navy, to be precise. And my…terms of engagement…there were somewhat brief. One would have thought that 'orderly' was a quality to be prized in a physician. But evidently only as an adjective, not as a noun…" Timon stood up and wrapped a very long scarf, in a plethora of colors and odd assemblages of stitches, around his neck, then put on a tweed overcoat. Mike didn't bother to button his jacket. "My family's attitude had always been, 'come back with your shield or on it,' and so in lieu of going home, I planned a valedictory visit to my younger sister Moon, who was away at boarding school. In our milieu, intellect in a young female is…not prized…so when she was offered a place at a very exclusive Academy, my parents and I were glad enough for her to go. For varying reasons. I'd received some rather disTURbing letters from her. Letters about the D'Arbanville's ball…and THIS from a girl who flatly reFUSED to make her debut despite invitations at a number of the finer cotillions. I discovered that all was not well with her and so we…fell in love with long distance." He lived a few blocks from Piccola Firenze, in a large older building with echoing black-and-white marble tiles on the lobby floor. Mike was rather impressed to see that the building had an elevator, albeit an ancient and creaky one. "I'd best go in first," Timon said. "Let her know that you're all right, not to be afraid." He unlocked the door with three of a very large bunch of keys. Mike sniffed. There was a kind of toasted atmosphere, but no smoke. Timon went inside the apartment and gave the light bulbs and silk scarves a little breathing room. "Moon, darlin', told you before, puttin' the scarves over the lights like that, ain't safe." "I don't want realism!" she said proudly. "I want magic!" She was thin and had tangled dark hair and a round face that, Mike thought, might have explained her name. But then it could have been whimsically self-bestowed or, Mike was beginning to think, could have been exactly the kind of thing that members of that family got named. "Well, have a cold collation while I take care of Mike in the office. This is Sergeant Mike Reynolds, Moon." Timon spread two slices of bread with something sticky and orange, flipped the slices together, guillotined off the crusts, and cut four triangles with two precise slaps of the knife. To Mike's fascination, the sandwich filling spread precisely to the edge of the bread and stopped there. "Smells like crotch!" Moon said, pushing at the plate with the glass of milk Timon had also handed her. "Heresy!" he said. "We live and die by pimento cheese." The apartment consisted of the kitchenette, a living room with a fireplace surrounded by well-filled bookshelves, and two white-sprayed wrought iron daybeds neatly made up with candlewick spreads and heaps of cushions. In the back, and past three more locks, was a room fitted up as a doctor's office, with an examination table and a small sink and cabinets with more locks. "Yeah," Timon said, with a wry smile. "Makes me feel like Bluebeard." He tipped a dozen pills into a pill bottle and gave Mike a couple of boxes of Trojans. "I…well, I thought those were just for girls," Mike said. "Just for with girls. You know." He wondered why Timon would want to put himself out of business—there'd been cartons of the damn things inside the cupboard. "Microbes are remarkably democratic," he said. There was a crash and a wail from the living room, or perhaps the kitchenette. "I'd best go see what's wrong this time," Timon said. "If only you'd known her, before," he said. "Before, whatever this thing is that…befellher. He was graceful, and gracious, and brilliant and lovely in every way and if you'd known, you would have been proud to be her chevalier." Mike let himself out as Timon tweezed and swept. He liked a loyal man. Frannie put a bookmark in "We Two Won't Last" (she respected books, even apart from the fact that it had cost thirty-five cents), put it back in her purse, and started doing the crossword puzzle in the Sunday paper. J.B. and Gouache squabbled fraternally about the handling qualities of the Capissen-38 engine. Mike picked up a corner of the curtain, and sunlight streamed in. "See!" he said. "It's a real pretty day out, and here we are again, lurkin' around as usual." "Aww, it's real homey here," J.B. said. "Like we're all family." "And let's just say that our presence is not…solicited…in many other venues," Timon said. "It's early days yet," Frannie said. "Social structures can change." "Anyways, just imagine a buncha fairies gettin' together to do anythin' 'cept maybe throw a drag ball," Gina said. "You, of course, are merely here to read the gas meter," Timon said. Gina shrugged. "So what? A man got needs. Hey, Mike, you play Calvinball? Some of the guys down the yard have a pickup game Sundays. You want some sunlight and fresh air, that'd do ya." Mike nodded, slugged down the last of his espresso, and put on his cap. "You been to their apartment?" "Yeah. It's real…neat." "Wouldn't bet my life both them beds get slept in, neither." "Yeah? Maybe you're just jealous you can't have him for yourself," Mike said. They were pretty narrow beds anyway. "What makes you think I ain't had him for myself?" For a moment, Gina looked nostalgic. "He can take a damn sight more than you'd think by those mimsy ways of his. But he's more trouble than he's worth. Him and his Baby Ruth sister—all drippin' caramel and peanuts--and their COMplicated CHALDhood. Mine weren't no walk in the park, what's he think?" Mike stared at him. It had never occurred to him to think of Gina as anything other than six-feet-four and right there. "You like Frannie? The colored girl? I hear she swings both ways." Gina said. "Awww, I wouldn't want to beat J.B.'s time. J.B.'s all right. Did you know that she can rebuild a whole gravity wave amplifier in two hours, including windin' her own trackback coil? Ain't every girl can say that. How 'bout you?" "If you mean windin' trackback coil, nope, wouldn't know where to start. 'Bout Frannie, nah, I don't hold with that race-mixin' stuff. The Lord made white and He made colored and he wants 'em to stay that way, not everybody get all taffy." CHAPTER SIX: Sunday in the Park The pay phone rang. Mama answered it and beckoned Timon over to the phone. "Yes, this is he….how far along? Eight weeks? Then are you sure? No, no, the rabbit always dies, one way or the other, don't matter…yes…three hundred….why should I care if you'll have to hock her engagement ring? You could buy her a weddin' ring for fifty…all right. Tomorrow. Three o'clock. I'll meet you in front of the museum. I'll be drivin' a blue an' white Mercury." He went over to Frannie's table and handed her a ten-dollar bill for rental of her car. "Those poor damn girls," she said. "Why can't they be smarter? Or look for themselves better?" Timon sighed. "I'll feel better 'bout the whole thing once more of them can get those If You Can't Be Good Be Careful pills. Me, I'm sellin' all I can get my hands on." "Hey!" Mike said. "Them pills—are they illegal?" "Not here they aren't. Lots of planets, they are, though." "Shiny!" Mike said thoughtfully. CHAPTER SEVEN: Savage Rhythms "She always did love to dance," Timon said. He picked up a couple of well-stuffed dance bags and pushed them under the bench so there would be somewhere for him and Mike to sit down during the class. The dance studio was a big attic room, with sunshine pouring down from a skylight, reflected in the mirrored wall. "Hey, what's he doin' here?" Mike asked Gina tilted his hips forward enough so, apart from anything else, Mike could see that he was seated on a gigantic African drum. The objects in his lap proved to be a set of bongos, and he set up a savage tattoo. "I just like smackin' em," he said. "This is Miss Sierra," Timon said, kissing her on the forehead. She kissed his cheek. "My Hodgeberry friend," she said. "Imogen, may I present Sergeant Mike Reynolds? Mike, Miss Sierra—nee Idabelle-- is certain to become the toast of the theatrical profession." She blushed a little, becomingly. "But in the meantime, you see, I teach a little…this and that…" "Askin' her friends for fifty bucks for the powder room…" Gina said. "Hey!" Mike said. "No need to be offensive to a lady." Imogen smiled at him, and he felt his heart melt a little. She was tall and slim, her wavy dark hair captured in a chiffon scarf, with a larger scarf wrapped around her hips over a scoop-necked black leotard and footless black tights. She wore a necklace of large, barely polished turquoises. "We'll wait a little longer for Gualtiero," she said. "He is…not very punctual." Moon and half a dozen other girls, in circle skirts and t-shirts or leotards and tights, sprawled on the floor in attitudes of competitive relaxation. One girl knitted away on a circular needle at a much-handled pair of pink tights. Then the door opened, and Gouache came in, kicking off his shoes. He wore a pair of gray sweatpants and a paint-spattered t-shirt. "Sorry!" he said. "I got this idea for a cut-paper series…." He saw Mike and gave him a little salute. "The complete artist!" he said. "Gotta experience every way to make body art!" Imogen dropped the needle onto the turntable, and as the "Missa Luba" pounded through the studio, augmented by Gina's flailing at the drums, Imogen led the class through stretches, extensions, and contractions, then gave them themes and allowed them to improvise. Moon was the best, by far: her thin long legs flashing, crouching and hunching her body in then fluttering to the freedom of huge jumps. It was too noisy to talk, but Mike felt content, sitting on the bench next to Timon. Timon passed him the silver flask (which, somewhat to Mike's surprise, contained brandy; he'd expected bourbon). Mike handed back the flask, and realized it was the first time he'd ever really looked at Timon—whose hair he still thought was too long, but who, he noticed with a small shock, was remarkably handsome, with bluebell eyes and the mien of an overworked angel. CHAPTER EIGHT: Pursuit "Thank you, Gina, for looking after Moon," Timon said. "Did you have a nice day, sweetheart?" "We went to the zoo," Moon said. "All those sad little lives. Had you chosen to pursue a vocation of advocacy rather than one of healin' betcha you could have gotten them let off with a warnin'." "Hey, what are you, Doc, some kinda Commie?" Gina asked. "'Cause, I dunno, I always thought the two of ya got toys in the attic—like, your parents was cousins. If you was lucky. But turns out there really was somebody followin' Moon, ya didn't make it up just to sound important. Little fella, blue suit, glasses. And when I braced him, he said he was from the Federated Bureau of Investigation." "What happened?" Timon asked. "Are you all right?" "You should have been there," she said. "Yes, I know, I'm sorry, I should have protected you, of all of my failures that is the very saddest…" "Oh, stop caterwaulin'. No, I mean, you should have been there, it was amusin'," Moon said, twirling in a circle and then reaching up to touch Gina's collarbone (which was about as far as she could reach). "Gina picked him up by the neck and set him down some distance away, and then took my hand and we ran. I have always depended upon the kindest of stranglers." CHAPTER NINE: I'm Gonna Wash that Man Right Out of My Hair J.B. yelped. It was so uncharacteristic that everyone's head turned. She waved a letter written on blue gingham stationery. "It's from my Mama," J.B. said. "She and my daddy are comin' to visit…next week." A pall descended. "Is nice, to see your parents," Mrs. Washburno said. "You don't understand, Mrs. Washburno, uh, there's things about our apartment…" Mrs. Washburno brushed her objection away with the sweep of a barmop. "Some of my big strong boys, they go to your apartment and push apart the two little beds…" Gina guffawed. "Yeah, an' put away your stash of girlie magazines." "Hey!" J.B. said. "I just get it for the articles!" "And the Dottore, he will lend you his sister to pretend to be your roommate, because they will see is una bianca and be happy, and the Dottore's friend the stuck-up actor lady will lend you a dress that is not too big like your girlfriend's. Even, if you wish, I send you a pot of gravy so you can pretend you know how to cook." "You're a champ, Missus Dubya, but all that garlic…they wouldn't even chaw enough of it down to get heartburn." A week later, J.B. looked into Imogen's hand mirror, and nearly burst into tears. "My hair!" she said. "I am sorry, but you didn't give me a lot to work with," Imogen said. She had swapped the Brylcreem for hairspray and set a flurry of tiny pincurls, but the result was, frankly, grotesque. "Tell them that it's like Mary Martin's hairdo in South Pacific. She had to wash her hair right on stage, eight performances a week." Imogen preferred the serious, experimental Drama to the musical indulgences of the tired businessman, but she would have given a lot for a long run. Even a bus and truck tour. "And perhaps I can find you a darling little cocktail hat…All right, now," Imogen said. "Hold up your arms over your head." She held the cage crinoline over J.B.'s head and let it fall, until it belled out around her. Then she eased the starched cotton frock, printed with lavish bunches of violets, over her head and zipped it up to the sweetheart neck. "Walk a little bit…you should practice, so you don't flip your hoop." "Jesus!" J.B. said, grimacing at her pinched toes and slithering heels. "How do girls walk in these things?" "Oh, come on," Imogen said. "You used to do this all the time!" "Me? Hell, no," J.B. said. "Right around when it was gonna stop lookin' cute that I was a tomboy an' all, the Army recruiters blew through town. One of 'em taught me a thing or three, and she said if I joined up they'd put me in the motor pool." CHAPTER TEN: Chickens Come Home to Roost "Oh, lord," Frannie said, putting down a wide, striped china bowl of potato salad. "Look at that big ol' fry-kettle. And two whole cans of Crisco." "Well, I had them in the house anyway," Timon said, turning his back on Frannie's shocked expression and neglecting to explain it was for piecrust. (Although it was hardly his usual youthful pastime, he had a copy of "The Joy of Cooking" and a lot of time to kill in the evenings, and a vague idea of thrift involving saving money for wherever he and Moon eventually would wind up.) "You gonna drown that poor chicken," Frannie said. "Pan-fry it, in not but a couple of inches of lard, that's the ticket." Timon opened the icebox and took out a pan of neatly cloven chicken pieces. He put it down next to the dishtowel on which the tongs and pancake turner and wooden spoons were laid out. He lifted out chicken pieces and drained them. "Soaked in buttermilk," he said proudly. "Chicken for frying should not be soaked in one thing," Frannie said. "Whoever told you you know how to do this?" "My ma—that is, our housekeeper, Mrs.Jukes." "Uh-huh. What're you gonna do now?" "Put a cup of flour on a dish, roll the chicken in it, give it a minute to dry off, then set the grease to heatin'." Frannie shook her head. "I can't tell you how wrong all this is." "Just sit on that stool and keep me company, then," he said, lighting the burner and turning on the oven to keep the chicken warm. "I know you'd say we ain't even from the same planet, but I like havin' someone down-home around me. I….I just can't get used to it here. It's damp and it's cold and I'm grateful to have the smell of antiseptic in my nostrils all the time, because otherwise it would all smell wrong. How 'bout you, Government Girl? You like it here?" "I don't relish spending all day, every day, in a little blue smock sortin' letters. I miss farmstand peaches. I miss folks in church knowin' you even though I came all this way for 'em not to know my business. I hate spending a week's wages on a coat, and still not bein' warm enough. But J.B.'s my home, so if she's here, I'll stick." CHAPTER ELEVEN: Had been a haunted House even before the dawn He gulped down the "Moon, honey, whyn'cha go into the kitchen and get my folks some iced tea while we're catchin' up?" J.B. asked, after having exclaimed over the Captures of the Frye's trip to Aberdeen Planetary Park. Several minutes later, and to loud clashing and slamming noises evidently not limited to the kitchen, neither Moon nor iced tea was forthcoming (although she did manage to locate and hide the Pirelli calendar that had escaped notice earlier). "Ha-ha," Mike said unconvincingly. "They been cleanin' up all week, Mrs. Frye. Wanted to make it look nice for you. No wonder they can't find a thing." "I hope your intentions toward my daughter are honorable," Mr. Frye said. Mike couldn't figure out if he was joking or not. "Well, uh, I sure wouldn't say we're engaged or nothin', if that's what you mean, but I swear to you on a stack of Bibles that I have behaved like a perfect gentleman toward her. You ask J.B…." (he paused, desperately racking his brain for what J.B.'s actual name might be or if he had ever heard it) "or Moon if I ever stayed the night here, or ever didn't leave at a decent hour." Moon made an entrance, her arms filled with everything vaguely liquid that had been in the refrigerator (having remembered that people keep food in refrigerators). "So, Moon, did you have a nice summer vacation? Did you go away?" Mrs. Frye asked, righting the milk carton where Moon had dumped it on the coffee table . Moon swiveled her head around to look at Mrs. Frye. "I…I don't know," she said. "No, wait…" and then began to scream, keeping it up until Mike scooped her up, said, "I think I'd better take her home…uhh…to her brother's apartment, he's a doctor, he'll know what to do…" and ran down the stairs. J.B. opened the window and threw down the keys to Frannie's car, parked around the corner. Moon was still screaming, in syncopation with the squeal of the tires, when Mike pulled up in front of her apartment just as Gina arrived, carrying a squashy butcher-wrapped package for hamburgers. "Uh," Mike said. "We came back…a little sooner than we planned." Timon put down the tongs, switched off the burner under the pot of chicken, and hugged Moon until the screams died down. "Pills," Moon said. "They gave them, they gave us, pills. Last summer. And it made some people happy, and content, and they thought nobody had any right to complain or interfere in any way whatsoever, even though they knew what was awful was awful. But some of them…some of them, suddenly, like a flock of plucked birds came darting up to the barbed wire fence as if blown there by the wind, and they would play, on instruments of percussion! Rushing out through a wicket gate like an assault party in war! Do you know what I mean?" Actually nobody did. "White hot, a blazing white hot, hot blazing white, at five o'clock in the afternoon in the city of—Cabeza de Lobo. As if a huge white bone had caught on fire in the sky and turned the sky and everything under the sky white with it! And the oompa-oompa of the—following band—there was a flock of featherless little black sparrows—and they devoured parts of each other, torn or cut parts of them away with their hands or knives or maybe those jagged tin cans they made music with…until nothing was left but a big white-paper-wrapped bunch of red roses torn, thrown, crushed—against that blazing white wall." "Hunh!" Gina said. "When'd that get fun? And that's what they do with our tax money? No wonder I never pay any." "Well, if the G-men are chasing you, you can't stay here," Frannie said, once the injection had taken effect and Moon slept peaceably. Timon knelt by the daybed and cleaned her tear-stained face with a lace-edged pink washcloth. "No," Mike said. "We can't stay here. I was gonna tell you later, save it for a surprise, but I bought a ship. OK, it needs some work, but J.B.'s been helpin' out with that. And Timmy—ah, that is, the Doc—he got some prescription pads and some stationery printed up, looks real official. And the companies that make the pills, either they think he's runnin' some kinda clinic or somethin' or they don't rightly care, long's he pays up and they got the paper. By the time anyone gets to analyzin' the legalities, we'll be long gone. Gouache will hop us from planet to planet—he says his time dirtside's about done anyway, his hands are gettin' itchy for the switches--and we'll get rich. And we'll be free, no one lookin' over our shoulders." "So your point is, bunch of queers like us, we're gonna be God's gift to snatchhounds?" Gina asked. Frannie shrugged. "The Lord moves in mysterious ways." CHAPTER TWELVE: Suddenly, in Autumn Despite J.B.'s best efforts, it took a little longer than planned. ("What good's a ship to you, if you got stuff fallin' off all the time?" she asked, not unreasonably.) As soon as the paint was dry, where Gouache had painted "The Fugitive Kind" on the fuselage, they took off. "Well, dip me in honey an' throw me to the lesbians—once they're done christenin' the ship, that is--if we ain't the swishiest gang in the 'Verse," Gina said.

"Now what the fuck do we do, Spike?" Xander whispered urgently. Spike waved him off, watching the soldiers moving through the warehouse, hoping against hope that if they stayed quiet they wouldn't be discovered. As they followed a methodical search pattern, though, Spike's hopes coughed and died. Fuck. We stay here, we're both gonna get caught. And then, even if I manage to get us loose, Buffy's gonna kick my ass for getting her boy involved in this. Turning to face Xander, one eye still focused on the soldiers on the other side of the crack between the crates they were hiding behind, he finally answered Xander. "I'm gonna go out there - distract them and get them to the other side of the warehouse. As soon as we're out of sight, you leg it out of here, you got me?" When Xander opened his mouth to argue, Spike slapped his hand over the boy's mouth and rolled his eyes. "They're not gonna catch me, Xander. I'm faster, I'm capable of moves they can't even comprehend, and even if they manage to put a bullet in me, I can keep going. That's not true for you and you know it. I'll meet you back at the Magic Box." Before Xander could voice a protest, Spike had already slipped away, around the far end of the row of boxes. When he judged himself far enough away to give Xander a fighting chance of getting out without being noticed, he yelled, "Oi! Morons!" Most of the soldiers immediately started making their way towards him, leaving only one anywhere near Xander, and Spike paused long enough to watch as the boy cold cocked him with no hesitation, and then ran towards the back of the building. Spike's distraction had cost him dearly, though. Several of the soldiers were almost on top of him, and it was time to get moving himself. For long minutes, he led them on a merry chase through the rows of crates and boxes, going up and over just as often as around the ends. When they'd finally started to realize it, he changed tactics, running back towards them and sliding under one of the pallets. Gunfire rang in his ears, but apparently these guys were just as bad with guns as they were stupid, and they all missed. Laughing, he dodged another volley, and around a corner - right into someone who looked vaguely familiar and was holding a taser. "Hostile Seventeen. So nice to see you again." the guy said, and then fired. Spike didn't have a chance to do more than recoil in surprise before the electricity took him to his knees. The soldier fired again, and everything. Went. Black. *** Spike woke up freezing cold and in the dark. Holding still for a moment, he heard voices, but peculiarly muffled. Reaching out, he discovered that he was in a small, coffin shaped box. It wasn't until he felt behind his head and found cold metal, though, that he realized that he was in the morgue. There was no handle on this side, and Spike resigned himself to waiting until either the voices went away and he could force it, or until someone opened the door and he could "rise from the dead," scare the hell out of someone, and get out that way. Just as the voices receded and he started to brace himself to try and open the door from the inside, the door swung open. Before he could do more than tense, he was hit with another blow from a taser. This time, when he woke up, he was shackled in what looked like a cave. It didn't take him long to recognize it as the remains of Adam's lair, and he swore quietly. He hadn't imagined someone recognizing him, then. He pulled on his chains, trying desperately to get them loose, just as he heard harsh laughter from behind him. Spinning, there was the same grinning face from the night before. "So, we're awake now, Hostile 17? Wonderful." Pulling himself up straight, he tried to look as though he wasn't scared to hell and back. "You seem to have the advantage, friend. So, who are you?" The guy didn't have Riley's build or all-American good looks - shorter and darker - but still a big guy, next to Spike. The man approached confidently, and without a word started cutting Spike's clothes off with a knife, careless about whether he cut Spike in the process. Spike struggled for a moment, until the chip fired and he went to his knees, panting, trying to shake off the effects. By the time the pain cleared, he was naked, and the soldier was standing in front of him, watching him the way a scientist would watch a bug. "You know," the man began, conversationally, "The initiative was doing good work - useful work. And then you escaped. And all hell broke loose. Most of the members of my unit were killed or hurt, and the rest of us were debriefed, patted on the head, and assigned to other units." The guy was still standing, still just staring but Spike was starting to get a real bad feeling about this. "I had almost managed to forget about it - put it out of my mind, you know? And then who falls into my lap but Hostile 17. Well, the Initiative may no longer exist, but I can finally get some revenge for my buddies - the ones no longer capable of getting it for themselves, anyway." With that, the soldier backhanded Spike across the face. Spike took the beating the guy dished out as silently as he could, not bothering to try and struggle and fight back. That would only cause the chip to fire, and that would hurt worse than any punches or kicks the guy could give him. One particularly hard kick knocked Spike over onto his face, and before he could struggle back to his knees, the guy was kicking his legs apart. Now Spike tried to fight, suspecting what was coming, and the damn chip went off, leaving him panting and nauseous. Dimly, he heard the guy's belt as he dropped his pants, and then there was a burning pain as he forced his way into Spike, who scrabbled on the rock floor, trying to pull himself away. Thankfully, it was over fast, and then the guy was standing again, pulling up his pants and moving away. As Spike lay on the floor of the cave, trying to not react, the guy spit on him and walked away, only turning back at the cave entrance. "I'll be back later - not hardly done with you, yet." When Spike could no longer hear him, he pulled himself up to a sitting position, wincing as he did so. Oh, fuck... *** "So, let me get this straight. You guys thought that we could use some more firepower, and decided that the way to get it was to break into the armory at the base, assuming that the passcodes you remembered from being army-guy were still accurate. Then, when you got caught, Spike distracted them and you ran. That about right?" Xander hung his head and mumbled something that might have been a yes. Buffy sighed. "Okay, Xander. So, then, Spike was supposed to meet you at the Magic Box - and that was last night. So why am I just now hearing about this?" At that, Xander looked up. "Look, we need the firepower. We were trying to help, and you know it. As far as why I waited, Spike can take care of himself. I just figured he was having trouble shaking them or something. But it's been twenty four hours, and so I came right to you." Buffy nodded. "Alright. So, we have to assume that he got caught, and now we've got to find a way to spring him loose. First things first, let's find out where they're holding him." Going to the phone, she called Willow, explaining the situation and asking her to see what she could find. That done, she got outfitted so that she could go poke around at the base and see what she could find. Turning to leave, only to find Xander standing next to the door. "Where do you think you're going, Xander?" "It's my fault Spike got caught, Buffy. I'm going too." Buffy looked like she wanted to argue for a minute, but then nodded and led the way out the door. *** When Spike heard the footsteps, he didn't even look up. The dried blood on his wrist showed his struggles to get loose, but they'd been in vain. Whoever this guy was, he knew how strong vampires were, and had driven the stake holding the chains deep into the rocky ground, and the heavy steel of the chains themselves resisted every attempt by Spike to break them. The guy stood there silently for a minute, and then kicked Spike heavily in the ribs. Spike grunted, but didn't react, otherwise. At least, not until the guy moved behind him and dropped a chain around his neck. When the cross dangling from it touched the skin of Spike's chest, he hissed and tried to get it loose. The guy just clipped him heavily in the back of the head and held the chain so it was pulled tight against Spike. The smell of burning quickly filled the cave, and just when Spike decided that it was worth the pain of the chip to try and shove the guy away, the cross disappeared. He wearily lifted his head as the guy came back around. "On your knees, 17. You're gonna suck me off, and you're going to do it well, or I'm going to paint pretty little burn designs all over you with that cross." Spike snorted. "You're going to do it anyway. Arseholes like you just want to hurt people. And rape is probably the only way you can get any." The guy froze for a second, and then fiercely backhanded him. "Let me explain something to you. No one knows you're here. You can't die unless I kill you - and we both know you can't fight back. Now, you can be a good little vampire, and do as you're told, or I can spend all of my offtime investigating exactly how much pain you can take." "And in order for it to be rape, you'd have to be human." For a minute, Spike contemplated fighting the guy anyway. Maybe he'd luck out and the guy would just kill him in disgust. But ultimately, his instinct for self preservation won out, and he pulled himself to his knees, swallowing down his disgust... and fear. *** It was pointless. Xander and Spike's little foray into the base had caused security to be tightened to the point that Buffy and Xander couldn't even get near enough to the gates to hear anything. After the third close call, Buffy shook her head at Xander and the two of them faded back from the edge of the complex. "Well, hopefully, Willow will have found something," Buffy said. But when they got back, there was a message from Willow that she'd had no luck breaking the encryption to get into the base's computers and that she'd keep trying. As the days dragged on, they all got more and more on edge. Willow had never taken so long to break into a system before, and there was nothing, not one word, on the streets about Spike being taken. Increasingly, the scoobies - and Xander and Buffy in particular - were feeling like they were running out of time. *** Spike was so hungry that he'd taken to eyeing the rats that scurried along the edge of the cave he was in. If one would come within reach, he could at least attempt to kill it before the chip kicked in, and then he could eat something after the chip was done kicking his teeth in. He was covered in bruises and burns from the soldier's "little games," and he didn't even want to think about the more... personal ones. None of them were healing, as a side effect from prolonged hunger. And the last time the soldier had been there was two days earlier. He'd complained that Spike was starting to stink, and at the time, he'd just been grateful because he'd cut his games short. Now, he was starting to wonder if the guy was just going to leave him here. Just then, Spike was hit with what felt like gallons of ice-cold water. Sputtering, he looked around, finding soldier-boy standing there and smirking. As soon as he saw he had Spike's attention, he picked up another bucket and threw the contents directly at Spike's face. As he blinked the water from his eyes, Spike shivered. So much for the guy deciding he smelled too bad to be bothered with. When soldier-boy unbuckled his pants, he dragged himself up to his knees, only to be waved down again. As he was split open, tears of anger and frustration and pain leaked down his face. He was a master vampire, who had been reduced bending over for some stupid human, and for all he knew, this was going to be the rest of his life. A spark of hope flared as he heard voices outside the cave, only to be dashed as soldier-boy didn't even pause, just yelling out, "Come on in, guys - we're just getting warmed up..." As a group of soldiers made their way into the cave, an arm looped around Spike's neck, and he was pulled back so that soldier-boy could whisper in his ear. "You're going to be a very good vampire for my friends. If you do, I might even feed you." Spike was pushed flat again, and the last piece of hope in him died at that point, because he knew that he'd do it - he'd be that "good boy" - just to have a chance to survive. *** The mood in the Magic Box was dark. It had been more than two weeks and nobody had been able to find out anything. Occasionally, someone would voice the thought, partially formed, that Spike was fine, he'd just decided to get out before Glory got to them, or that he'd decided that he was a liability, or whatever, but the sentence was never completed. They all knew, regardless of anything else, that Spike would never abandon Dawn or Buffy without at least making enough contact to let them know he was safe. He'd know that they'd be wasting resources finding him, and they just didn't have any to spare. Then Willow looked up from her computer, face completely a blank. "I think I'm in..." she whispered. As they all gathered around the computer, she methodically picked through till she found the reports from the night of the failed attempt. There was a note about a "white male, approximately mid twenties, dead of apparent heart attack from taser bolt. Body removed to morgue for autopsy." And then further on, a small note in the MP's reports that a body had disappeared from the morgue. While Dawn and Anya proceeded to argue that of course, this meant Spike had escaped, Buffy and Xander just looked at each other silently. They knew that it wasn't likely - that it was just as possible for some other covert group like the Initiative to have taken Spike. Then Willow spoke again. "Uh, guys? We may have a problem - and an answer..." Buffy and Xander went to stand behind Willow's chair, and she showed them the personnel records she found, pointing at one picture in particular. "Does he look familiar to you?" Xander shrugged. "He looks like one of the guys who was in the warehouse, but I could be wrong. Why?" Buffy took one look and swore. "That's Kevin - he was in the Initiative with Riley and was part of the team that was looking for Spike. Want to bet he took Spike somewhere?" Willow continued to look through the records. "Well, he hasn't been transferred, and he's been on duty every day since then, so he couldn't have taken him far." "Right then. Xander - you and I are going to go check out the old facility. Maybe he has Spike stashed there for some reason. Willow, you keep looking for anything else that might help, okay?" As Willow bent back to the computer, Buffy and Xander grabbed a couple of prepared bags of weapons and supplies and headed out. It took them a little while to find the entrance to the labs, but once inside... "Holy fuck, Buff - it looks like they didn't do a damn thing to clean this up. Just got their own people out and abandoned it!" "That's exactly what they did. Now, quiet - I'm trying to see if I can hear anything..." But as they searched, all they found were demon remains, rats, rats, and a few more rats. No sign of Spike - no sign that anyone at all had been down here since the Initiative had been shut down. As they climbed back out, Xander shook his head tiredly. "Fucking dead end. Maybe..." "Wait on that thought, Xander - there's one place we haven't tried. Adam's cave." *** When Spike heard footsteps, he curled up as small as he could. Since the day soldier-boy had brought his friends, they had all come back, separately or together. Now, instead of one man for a couple of hours a day, the rapes and beatings were happening pretty much around the clock. He had to give soldier-boy credit, though. He had been fed - a little cow's blood, it was true, and hardly enough to keep him going, much less let him heal, but he was getting fed. Then came the voices he'd never expected to hear again. For a moment, he actually believed they were there, but then just decided that he'd finally gone insane, and curled up even more. *** "Oh, god, Buffy - what the hell did that guy do to him?" Xander asked as Buffy attempted to break the chain holding Spike in place. Spike didn't even react, unless they touched him, and even then, it was only to shudder and turn away. Buffy didn't answer. Spike's injuries and reactions were clear enough to her, and when Xander slowed down to think, they were going to be clear to him too. Her priority right this minute was to get him free of the chain and then figure out how they were going to get him out of the cave, when she wasn't sure that he wouldn't bolt the moment she got him free, or whether he could walk, and then add in the little problem of daylight... Finally, the chain parted with a snap, and she tensed, waiting to grab Spike, but he seemed oblivious. Then she heard the sound she'd been worried about - an approaching vehicle. Standing, she pulled Spike to his feet and then, when he wavered, lifted him over her shoulder. Carrying him, motioning at Xander for quiet, they moved deeper in the cave. As soon as they were far enough in that she didn't think that they'd be heard, she set Spike down, and then, very reluctantly, pulled out rope and started binding his arms behind his back. Xander shot her a sharp glance. "What the hell -" "I don't think he knows we're here, Xander - don't want to risk him bolting. And I'm going to go take care of the visitor out there so we can get him out of here. You need to stay with Spike - make sure he doesn't try to run, okay?" Xander nodded, face pale but set, and Buffy turned back towards the entrance. She paused at the entrance of the main chamber. Yep, there was Kevin, swearing a blue streak. "Looking for your toy?" Kevin's head shot up, and he smiled ingratiatingly at her as she picked her way back through the cave. "I don't know what you're talking about. I was just exploring some caves on my day off. Hey, aren't you Buffy? I remember Riley talking about you. Didn't he call you the killer or destroyer or something?" Buffy smiled - though it had little humor in it. Those who knew her well would have recognized it as her "You are going to die, slowly and in a lot of pain" smile. She was pissed, and the only thing that was stopping her from putting Kevin down like a dog was the fact that he was human. Then she thought about the damage done to Spike. Marginally human. "The word is Slayer. And you're going to go now. You ever touch me or mine again, and I'll forget that I don't kill humans." "What are you going to do to stop me?" "This." Buffy crossed the last of the cave in a few rushing steps, and threw a punch hard enough to knock Kevin into the cave wall. As he sat on the stone, trying to catch his breath, Buffy came to stand in front of him. Taking his keys, she added, "I mean it, Kevin. You're going to get orders transferring to another base. If I ever hear of you in, near, or anywhere around Sunnydale again, I will make sure that you regret it." *** Kevin sat in silence as Buffy went back to where Xander was waiting with Spike. Carefully, they helped him to his feet and led him as far as the cave entrance. Then Buffy wrapped him up in a blanket and carried him to Kevin's car. Settling him in the backseat, Xander got behind the wheel and took the keys that Buffy handed him. Once they were moving, he glanced in the rearview mirror. "What are we going to do, Buffy? We can't take him back to his crypt like this." "I know - but I can't take him home with me, either. With mom sick, I can't try to explain this to her." Xander pulled to a stop at a light and looked at her. Fuck. He knew that look. "No, Buffy, I can't. There is no way I can take him home with me. Anya will have a cow." Buffy didn't say anything, just continuing to look at him, and Xander sighed and shook his head. "Fine, but let me go up first, okay?" With a small smile, Buffy nodded. *** Twenty minutes later, Xander was back down at the car. "Okay, he can stay till he's healed. Anya called a friend of hers - and I didn't ask whether or not they're human - and she's gonna go stay there. Let's get him up the stairs, okay?" Buffy nodded and together they manhandled Spike out of the backseat and up the stairs to Xander's apartment. At the door, though, Xander looked at Spike, and then at Buffy. "I've got it from here, Buffy." Buffy started to argue, and Xander held up a hand. "Right now, he's out of it. But when he's back to being Spike, he's gonna be embarrassed as fuck that he required rescuing at all, and that you saw him like this is going to be even worse. And before I can let him lie down to sleep, he's going to have to be cleaned up. Let me handle it, okay? If you want to do something else, go get him some blood, lots of it. If he's had any at all in the last week, it's been nowhere near enough." She started to argue, and then sagged. Buffy knew that she wasn't very good at this part - the patching up of hurt people part - and Xander was right. Spike was already hurt and embarrassed. No need to add more humiliation to that. "Okay. I'll go by his crypt, too. Pick up some clothes for him." Xander nodded. "No rush on those. For tonight, one of my sweatsuits will do just find. When you come back with the blood, just leave it on the counter. I'm going to go see what I can do to get him cleaned up." Buffy nodded, and left. *** Once she'd left, Xander manhandled Spike into the apartment, muttering an invitation under his breath. As Buffy had thought, once he'd taken some time, he knew exactly what had caused the marks on Spike's body, and this was going to suck big time. Inside, he didn't even slow down, just guiding Spike directly to the bathroom. Sitting him down on the toilet, he started the water in the tub. As it filled, he untied Spike's arms, braced for an attack that never came. Shaking his head, he sighed and waited for the water. While getting blood into him would let Spike heal relatively fast, the first order was definitely getting him clean. Stopping the flow of water when the tub when it was about half full, he turned and tried to pull Spike back to his feet, but this time, Spike's eyes opened and he tried to croak out something. "What?" Spike cleared his throat and obviously concentrated. "Xan-Xander?" "Yeah, Spike - it's Xander. We've got you, you're safe. Just gonna get you in the tub while Buffy gets you some blood, okay?" Spike shook his head wearily. "Just a dream. All just a dream, Spike - Xander's not looking for you. Stop this already." Xander crouched down in front of him and tried to catch Spike's eyes. "I'm real, Spike. We found you and you're safe now. I promise." Spike just shook his head and closed his eyes. Sighing, Xander stood back up and carefully hooked his arm under Spike's, tugging gently till he was on his feet. Xander practically had to lift him over the edge of the tub, swearing at how light Spike was. He'd clearly lost weight that he didn't have to spare in the first place. Biting his lip, he began the careful task of trying to get Spike clean as gently as he could. As the caked dirt was washed away, he found bruises ranging from the dull yellow of old, to bright red and vivid. There were burns, some clearly caused by crosses. The damage between Spike's legs was the worst, though. By the time Xander had Spike as clean as he could get him, he'd had to change the water three times. Occasionally, he'd become alert, looking around, though never at Xander, before he'd fade away again, and he hadn't spoken again. As Xander stood Spike up and started to dry him off, he could hear Buffy moving around in the kitchen. Then her footsteps approached and before he could say anything to stop her, she'd opened the door. Silently, she looked Spike over, but when her eyes moved to Xander, the anger there was as clear as if she was screaming. "I know, Buffy. I know." She just nodded and then turned around and left. Half supporting, half carrying Spike, Xander got him into the bedroom and then into a set of sweats. That got Spike's attention, and again came that doubtful, "Xander?" Forcing himself to smile, when all he really wanted to do was curl up in a ball and shake, he said, "Yep. Told you I was real. Now, can you sit here for a minute? I need to get you something from the kitchen." Spike nodded carefully, and Xander went to the kitchen, leaving the door open so that he could hear if Spike had a problem. There was a bag on the counter, and a mug of blood already warmed up, and when Xander looked, there were more bags in the fridge. Carrying the mug back, he tried to hand it to Spike, who just looked at him blankly. Carefully, he held it to Spike's mouth and tipped it slightly. As soon as Spike tasted the blood, he grabbed the mug and started swallowing as fast as he could, as if he expected to have it taken away at any second. When the mug was empty, Xander half expected Spike to hold it out and demand more, but instead, he just held the empty mug silently. "Spike? Could you eat a little more? Or do you just want to sleep?" Spike looked at him, but didn't say anything. The expression on his face was clear enough though. That guy had obviously not contented himself with Spike's body but also played with his head - probably teased him with offers of food that he then took away. Without saying anything else, Xander went and heated up another mug, bringing it back and handing it over. And then again. And again. When Spike finally slowed down, he'd had about three pints, and Xander gently urged him to lie down. Tomorrow was soon enough to figure out long term sleeping arrangements - for tonight he could sleep in the chair. *** Over the next few days, Spike regained the weight he'd lost and the visible injuries faded, but he still wouldn't speak outside the occasional word and if Xander got too close, he flinched away. The first day that Xander went to work, he came home to discover that the large closet/small room next to the bedroom had been cleared out, and that Spike had found a few blankets, almost making himself a nest in there. Xander didn't say anything. He just went out and borrowed the folding bed from Buffy, leaving it sit outside the door for Spike to use if he wanted. Then next morning, it was gone, and Spike was sound asleep on it. For his part, Xander tried to give Spike as much space as he could, going to work as usual and coming home with extra blood for Spike. Finally, one night, Spike came out of the room that he spent most of his time hiding in to stare at him. He ignored it as well as he could, thinking that maybe Spike was still trying to convince himself that he wasn't in that cave any more. He had succeeded to the point that when Spike actually spoke, he jumped. "Why did you and Buffy rescue me?" "What? Why wouldn't we?" Spike looked frustrated. "Cause you shouldn't have, Xander. I'm useless, and you need all the resources you have to protect Dawn. Tracking me down took away from those, and you still have Glory to fight." Xander started to stand up and Spike flinched. Sighing, Xander sat back down. "Look, come out here, okay? Not going to bite your head off, but let's have this out already." Hesitantly, Spike came as far as the chair on the opposite side of the room and perched on the edge. "Okay, now listen. Regardless of what happened in the past, you're one of us, now. You've helped us fight a bunch of demons, you're helping us against Glory, and Dawn likes you. That makes you one of us, and if you think about it, you know we never leave one of our own. Never." Spike opened his mouth like he was getting ready to argue, and then closed it again, looking thoughtful. Then he said, "Yeah, but other than Dawn, none of you guys like me. So why the hell?" Xander sighed and rolled his head along the back of the chair. "Spike, none of us know any part of you except what you've shown us. And you're a vampire. So no, none of us particularly like you. You're still one of us. Besides, while we may kill vampires and demons, we don't torture them. We don't starve them. We don't... well, what was done to you by the Initiative was wrong, and what Kevin did to you was worse. The least we can do is give you space to heal." For a long time there was silence, and then Spike stood back up and walked back to his room. At the door, he turned around and whispered something that sounded an awful lot like "Thank you." *** Weeks passed. One day, Anya came in and looked at Spike, sitting on the couch and staring out the window. There was an intense conversation with Xander in the bedroom, and then she packed a suitcase and left again. It was never mentioned. Gradually, Spike rejoined the scoobies, fighting whatever demons came within reach with a fierceness and anger that should have frightened them. But instead, they simply accepted it, the same way they accepted the way that Spike still flinched if they got too close. Word apparently got out about Spike to the local demon population, which gave them a little breathing room from the "monster of the week" attacks and they were able to focus more on what to do about Glory. Spike rarely spoke when they were in a group, looking as if he wasn't even paying attention unless he was asked to do something. Later, though, he'd talk to Xander, and it became apparent that he didn't miss anything. He would make suggestions and then Xander would carry his ideas back to the group. Xander treated Spike as one would a wild thing, never making sudden moves around him, never making any attempt to touch or reach out. On the surface, he just seemed to be offering Spike food and warm place to sleep. Occasionally, one of the other scoobies would pull Xander aside, asking if he was okay, why he was doing this. They'd done their part - rescued Spike and given him time to heal physically. Why was he letting Spike into his life like this? Xander just shrugged and said things like Spike was useful. Glory was still out there. He was keeping an eye on Spike to make sure that he didn't do something stupid. The reality was one that Xander didn't want to look at too closely for what it said about himself. He would, however, if pressed, admit that he was growing to like Spike. After all, hadn't Spike gotten caught because he was trying to save Xander? And this Spike, the one he had living with him this time, was a lot different than the last. *** What no one ever saw, and that neither Spike nor Xander would ever tell anyone was that when they were alone, they could and did talk about anything or everything - except for Spike's captivity. Spike had spent enough time alone with Xander's video collection that he was familiar with many of Xander's favorite shows and movies. Both of them had firm opinions, and they could argue for hours about whether Jean belonged with Wolverine or Cyclops, and who would win in a fight, Picard or Kirk. Gradually, Spike relaxed when he was in Xander's apartment and no longer twitched if Xander got too close when they were both in the kitchen. One night, Spike had begged off patrol, claiming that he had something he had to do. When Xander got home, he found Spike, completely wasted and barely able to stand. He tried to get him to go to bed, only to have Spike wrap a firm hand around his wrist and pull him down next to him. It was the first time that Spike had willingly touched anyone since they'd pulled him out of the cave, and Xander was well aware of that. "Spike? What happened?" Spike laughed, a harsh sound in the quiet room. "I tried to go back to the cave. Needed to prove I could do it and only discovered I couldn't. I honestly thought that I was going to spend the rest of my life there, Xander, being beaten and fucked for some arsehole's entertainment. Eventually, I would have gone mad - I think I was already a little mad when you got there." "Then you and Buffy found me, and took me out of there. That, alone, would have been enough, but you brought me to your home and took care of me and I've spent a long time trying to figure out why. And I can't. Why did you do it, Xander? Why?" Xander shook his head. "I told you why, Spike." Spike snorted. "Okay, yeah, you did. And your reasons made real good sense right up to the point where Anya gave you an ultimatum - her or me. So why? I want to know, Xander. I think I deserve to know. I mean, if you want something as a thank you, you've certainly earned it, and I expect that you at least won't hurt me deliberately." Xander recoiled from the implication that he'd only done what he had, only to fuck Spike himself. His subconscious whispered at him traitorously You wouldn't turn it down if you thought Spike wanted it. You're only pulling away because you want to think you're better than Kevin. "That's not why we rescued you, Spike. And it's not why you're still living with me. You're still here because I've discovered that I like you. Anya... I love Anya, but I don't think that we should be together right now. Yeah, her ultimatum put it in sharp relief, but I think we would have split up eventually." And then some small part of him demanded that he be completely honest with Spike, for his own sake if not Spike's. "As far as your offer goes. If I thought for a second that you were ready for me to... well, do anything, I'd offer. But I don't want a pity fuck, and I don't want it because you r16;owe' me. I want it because I like you, and because I have to admit that when you're not trying to kill us or snark me to death, you're actually pretty cool. And if you think I haven't noticed that you're hot as fuck, than you must think me blind." Spike's face looked even paler than normal, if that was possible,, and Xander decided that he needed some reassurance. "But that's your decision. It is now, and always will be, your decision. For now, I'm just happy to keep sharing the apartment, but I wish you'd pick up your towels occasionally." The smile he got in response was as forced as the teasing had been, but it broke the mood. Pretty soon, they were talking as they normally did, arguing who would win in a fight between Superman and Batman. *** Somehow it came to be accepted that where Xander was, Spike was. Splitting them up was something that the others just... didn't do. And the longer they worked together, the better they got. Then Glory stole Dawn. Spike was a desperate as the rest of them to rescue Buffy's sister, to stop the hell goddess. As Buffy fought Glory to a standstill, Spike and Xander raced up the makeshift staircase, and managed to reach the top together. As Xander frantically tried to cut the ropes binding Dawn, Spike fought with Doc. When he was knocked to his knees, Doc turned to face Xander and Dawn. Pulling a large knife, he slashed at Dawn, only to miss as Xander managed to dodge in front of her. The knife scored a deep cut on Xander's arm, but he continued to bob and weave, keeping himself in front of the frightened girl. Then, suddenly, Spike was there, grabbing Doc from behind. As the old demon whirled, Spike caught Xander's eye, winked, and deliberately fell backwards, pulling Doc off the tower with him. As Dawn screamed, Buffy ran out onto the platform. It took her a few moments to realize that Dawn hadn't been hurt, that Xander had been, and that Spike had gone over the side. Dawn bound Xander's arm tightly, and got him to lean on her as they made their way carefully back down. On the ground, they found a dead Ben, a dead Doc, and a, well, technically dead Spike. Except that Spike was only being prevented from going back up the tower by the combined efforts of both Giles and Willow. As soon as he saw Xander, he pushed past them and took Xander in hand, leaving Buffy and Dawn to explain what had happened. *** Thirty-five stitches and some very good pain pills later, Spike was helping Xander into the apartment. The drugs were making Xander very talkative, and Spike couldn't help but smile as he babbled on about light shows and superheroes and how well he and Spike worked together. The babble continued right through as Spike helped him change and clean up, and when Xander nearly walked into the bedroom door, he sighed patiently and wrapped an arm around his ribs, helping him get into bed. Then came words that Spike never would have expected. "Spike? Do you think you're ever going to kiss me? I keep waiting and hoping. Don't want to ask. Don't want you to think I'm making you do it. But I'd really like it if you'd kiss me. Just thought you should know." And then Xander fell asleep. For a long time, Spike stood there and stared at him. While they'd never brought it up again, the words of the one time he'd offered to sleep with Xander as a "thank you" had never been forgotten. And Spike had known by smell that Xander was bisexual as long as he'd known him. But he'd put it all out of his head, not wanting to deal with the implications. Ever since his captivity, Spike hadn't wanted to even contemplate sex. While it hadn't been the first time that he'd been forced into sex he didn't want, it was the first time that he'd ever been broken since he'd become a master. But now... oh, now he was thinking about it again. But could he get involved with a human? Could he do this? Right now, it didn't matter. Xander was sleeping the sleep of the injured and drugged, and so he shrugged and left the room. Time to think about it when Xander was recovered. *** The next morning, Xander was pissy and sore, and didn't notice that Spike wasn't reacting normally to his demands and whining. It was only after the third time that he tried to bitch him out for going off the side of the tower like that and scaring the hell out of him - when Spike just nodded and said, "Yes, Xander. You've said this already" - that Xander noticed that there was something wrong. "Spike? You okay?" Spike just shrugged and turned so that Xander couldn't see his face. "Fine, just thinking." But when Xander laid his hand on Spike's shoulder, he couldn't stop the flinch. Xander pulled back as if he had been burnt. "Spike?" "I said I'm fine, Xander. Now just leave me alone. You're injured. Go lie down." Feeling hurt, and more than a little concerned, Xander went. *** Once Xander had gone back to bed, Spike sighed and sat down on the chair, head in his hands. What the fuck was he going to do? He had to admit that he liked Xander - liked him a lot. But he wasn't sure he wanted to sleep with him, and it wasn't fair of him to stay here, keeping Xander from finding someone else if he wasn't going to give him what he wanted. For a long time, he just sat, mind spinning from images of Xander and he playing around, fighting together, hanging out - but every time he tried to imagine them in bed together, he'd flash on Soldier-boy or one of his friends, and that would pull him up short. Goddamn it, he was a hundred and twenty six years old and a master vampire. He was not going to let some fuckhead soldier with a god complex and inability to get laid without raping someone unable to fight back control the rest of his life. He liked Xander. He trusted him. He was going to do the only thing he could at this point. He was going to tell Xander, and wait to see what he said. For a human, Xander was pretty damn smart. *** When Xander woke up, he was startled to see Spike sitting in the chair next to the bed. "Okay, either I'm dying and you don't want to tell me, or... Well, I can't actually think of an or, so just tell me what I'm dying from?" When Spike didn't answer, Xander started to try and push himself up, only to forget about his injured arm. It collapsed under him, and he dropped back down, hissing at the pain. "You fucking moron, Xander," Spike said as he jumped up to try and prevent him from landing on the stitches. Xander took it patiently as Spike examined the wound, making sure he hadn't torn it open again and clucking over him like a bird with one chick. When he finally stopped, he just cocked his head at him and raised an eyebrow. Interesting. Vampires could blush. **** "You're not dying, Xander. I've just been thinking." "You? Thinking? Dammit, we just stopped one apocalypse. Don't we get a break before the next?" Spike glared at him. "Shut. Up. Xander." Xander sat up again, this time much more carefully. "Spike? What - Is there something wrong? Talk to me." "What do you remember from after we got back from hospital last night?" Xander stopped and thought for a moment. ""You brought me home, helped me clean up and then I went to bed, right?" Spike froze. He'd known that Xander probably wouldn't remember, but he'd hoped... Well, fuck. Nothing but just spill it out. "You told me that you wanted me to kiss you." Xander's face went completely, totally and utterly blank. There was a moment of complete silence, and then he said, "I'm sorry, Spike." Spike shook his head. "Nothing to be sorry for. Just made me think, that's all." "I like you, Xander. Like you a lot. But I'm not sure if I'm ever gonna be able to give you what you want. That arsehole really fucked me up. I can admit that, and it's been months. I don't even think about sex. That's not fair to you." Xander bit his lip and clearly hesitated to say anything at all. But his face was screaming the he wanted to say... something. "What, Xander? Spill it." "Spike, I'm not seventeen anymore. Sex is not the be all or end all of the universe, and is that all you think I'm interested in?" He started to answer with a smart-ass answer, and then decided that Xander deserved a serious one. "I guess. I guess I just assumed it was." Xander shrugged. "It's important, but I'm not gonna die without it. My right hand does me fine most of the time." A flash of what Spike had to admit was lust hit him in the gut at the mental image of Xander touching himself. Maybe... Maybe they could make this work after all. Xander shifted then, and hissed as he jostled his arm. "Spike? Let's leave this till we're both healed, okay?" Spike nodded and got up to get the pain pills. As they argued over how much Xander should take, Spike made careful note of all that had been said - and what hadn't. *** It had been a routine fight. Four vampires, five fighters, no waiting. Except that there had been three more vampires hiding where no one realized they were, and one of them had managed to get a hold on Xander and another on Oz. For a moment, there was a standoff, as no one wanted to risk either of them getting hurt. Then the one holding Xander went to bite him, and chaos took over. Spike charged, followed by Buffy a split second behind. Willow's voice yelled out, "Oz! Drop!" and as he went limp in the vampire's hands, sliding through them to land on his knees in the grass, that particular one blew up into dust. Xander was also out of the fight, but the vampire who'd held him wasn't down yet - mostly because Spike and Buffy were taking turns beating the unliving crap out of him. Finally, the last of the vampires went down into dust, and Buffy looked around. Willow was down from the exertion of dusting the vamp with her magic, but Oz was already with her. Spike had a few cuts and bruises, but was too busy hovering over Xander to appear to notice. Buffy had seen this - a lot - over the last few months, and it wasn't something she could ignore anymore. "Xander? You okay?" Xander nodded, and she took him at his word. "Can you and Oz start getting Willow back to the dorm? I need to talk to Spike and then we'll catch up." He shot her a hard look, but rolled to his feet and then he and Oz pulled Willow up. Without looking back, they started towards the college. Spike stared after them for a long time, and then finally turned to look at Buffy. "What do you want, Slayer?" She swallowed hard and then just blurted it out. "You're in love with Xander, Spike. I need to know that you're not going to hurt him, not going to turn him, not going to do anything to him that he doesn't want." Spike sighed. Spying a large, flat tombstone, he nodded towards it. "Let's sit down, okay?" "I'd rather stand." "Suit yourself." Spike went over and flopped down anyway. "I don't know if I'm in love with him. I like him, a lot. I like spending time with him. Hasn't gone any further than that - probably won't. But I can tell you that I'm not going to hurt him, and I'm certainly not going to turn him. Okay?" Buffy stared at him for a long time. "You know what I'll do if you hurt him, right?" "Yeah, yeah, you'll dust me. Don't you think that if I was gonna find a way to eat him, I would have done it already?" She just nodded, still watching him. Then, with a one armed shrug, she turned and followed in the scoobies' footsteps, Spike following behind. *** When they got home, Spike insisted that Xander sit down in the bathroom and let him check the bite on his neck. Cleaning and bandaging it took only a few minutes, and then Spike just stood there, one hand resting on Xander's shoulder. Xander waited patiently, only covering Spike's hand with his own. Spike started and looked at Xander. "I like you, Xander. You willing to put up with one very fucked up vampire? See if maybe we could make something of this?" He let out a sigh, and said, "I thought you'd never ask." Moving slowly, Xander stood up and opened his arms. "Do you think I might be able to finally give you that kiss?" Nodding, Spike slipped into Xander's light embrace and as his lips met Xander's for the first time, he thought that maybe, just maybe, things might work out okay after all.

From the pen of Bertram W. Wooster: In which plans are made and ethics are discussed. Chapter 13: Preux Chevalier It was full dark by the time we arrived near Wapping Lane and found a secluded place to park the car. I would have driven right up to the door of the nearest warehouse, but Jeeves suggested that it would be less conspicuous if we were to park further down the road and walk. There were a number of warehouses on the street, and it would take a careful and catlike stealth to determine which one was housing our quarry. Any sensible and well-groomed cat would have avoided this street, however. The rain had let up, but the foul smell of mould, fish, and waste hung in the air with the mist. The pavement was slick with puddles, many of which were disguised as shadows due to the absence of sufficient streetlamps. After stepping in my third such puddle, I decided that even cats would have a devil of a time walking quietly in this mess. Watson was our vanguard since he had more experience with this sort of thing, i.e. sneaking up on villainous lairs--the people in the lair being villainous, that is, not the lair itself, which could potentially be as benign as a row house or a tobacconist's. Jeeves brought up the rear and I was between them, ostensibly because they each had a weapon and I did not, although I couldn't help but to feel that I was being herded or contained, like a piece of undisciplined cheese between two pieces of stern, armed bread. I felt a bit useless, but I did not for one second doubt that before the night was out Bertram Wilberforce Wooster would have his moment. I was so busy thinking about this Moment, what it would look like and how I would have it, that I didn't notice when Watson stopped in his tracks. If it weren't for Jeeves's quick reflexes, grabbing my shoulder and holding me back, I would have run square into him. Watson's back was taut and his left hand rose in a gesture indicating that we should wait. "What is it?" I whispered. Watson shook his head and hissed for silence. I clammed up obediently and was rewarded with a finger pointing down the street. I squinted in the darkness. A shadow crept across the lane, anonymous until it gained the pavement on the other side and passed under a streetlamp. It was Inspector Cinwell, the man who had arrested Watson not two nights ago, and he was walking in our direction. Watson pushed me into a nearby alley with such force that I staggered and nearly fell into a heap of rotting leaves. I caught myself against the wall and prepared for action, although what action it would be I was not quite sure. Meanwhile, Watson drew his pistol and thumbed the whatsit on the end so it made a click. Cocked, that's the word I want, he cocked his pistol. He then nodded meaningfully at Jeeves and received a solemn bow of the head in turn. I wondered if they'd worked out some sort of code involving various and sundry head shakes in advance, or if these were standard recognized signals known by people who have served crown and country, as Watson did in Afghanistan and Jeeves did in the early days of the Great War. Regardless, I had no idea what they were planning, but as they seemed to have the thing well in hand, I took myself out of their way. Jeeves stationed himself against the wall where the alley met the lane. When the inspector passed, Jeeves lashed out like a striking viper or a lightning bolt or something equally fast and deadly. He looped his right arm tight about the man's neck, and, clapping his left hand over the chap's mouth, hauled him back into the dark alley. A second later, Watson pressed his revolver against the inspector's temple, instantly curtailing Inspector Cinwell's incipient struggles. Cinwell raised his hands in surrender. Once the situation was thus made clear to the inspector, Watson took a step back, saying, "Wooster, check him for weapons and bind his hands." "Right ho." Spotting a gun at the inspector's waist, I drew it from its holster, and not knowing what else to do with the blasted thing, I tucked it in my waistband and resumed my search. No further weapons found, I looked about for a length of rope, going so far as to turn out my pockets, although I was pretty sure I hadn't stashed any rope, cord, binding, or even twine on my way out the door this evening. "I say, with what shall I bind him?" I asked, at a loss. Jeeves, as always, had a solution. "If you should remove your tie, sir, I believe you would find that it will answer for the purpose." "Tie him up with my tie, what? When you put it that way, it seems so obvious that I can't imagine why I didn't think of it myself," I said, my hands tugging at the old half-windsor. "Nor I, sir." It was a bit awkward, tying Inspector Cinwell's hands behind his back while Jeeves still held him locked in his grip, but I managed. I'm a pat hand at tying knots, have been since I was a lad. Untying them, however, is another matter. At Eton, I once had to cut the laces off a pair of shoes to remove them from my feet. Fortunately, I was not excessively fond of this particular tie and would not weep were it to become necessary to break out the scissors at some later time. Cinwell was subdued and surprisingly agreeable about the whole tied-up-in-an-alley thing; undoubtedly Watson's steady aim contributed to Cinwell's placidity. Once he was adequately bound, Jeeves pushed down on the inspector's shoulders gently but implacably 'til he was forced to seat himself on the ground. Cinwell winced as he sat. "You couldn't have picked a drier spot, could you?" "The state of your trouser seat should be the least of your concerns," Jeeves replied. "Where is Holmes?" Watson interrupted, impatiently. "And do not think of trying to deny your involvement." Cinwell raised his shoulders in an abbreviated shrug, hampered by his bound wrists. "I'd no intention of denying it. Circumstances being what they are, there would be little point." "Then tell me where Roberson is keeping Holmes." "The large warehouse across the road and four buildings down," he replied readily. Too readily, I thought, but Watson didn't seem keen to question the gift horse's truthfulness. Watson said to Jeeves and me, "Guard him and ensure that he doesn't escape or sound an alarm. I'll see if I can find Holmes." As he was leaving, Jeeves stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Sir, I appreciate your anxiety, but I believe that your emotions are causing you to act with precipitous haste. If you truly wish to save Mr. Holmes, and not, instead, merely increase Roberson's leverage by recklessly placing yourself within his grasp, I recommend we proceed with caution." In the diffuse light from the streetlamp, which gave the mist a sickly glow, I could see on Watson's face the conflict of head and heart playing itself out. Jeeves's advice was wholly logical, but that dratted malady love attacked the wits above all else, as I had ample cause to know. I had observed it in others many a time, and I don't doubt that I'd be experiencing much the same mental agony if Jeeves were ever held captive in a warehouse by a homicidal felon. "Roberson has used you against Mr. Holmes before," Jeeves continued. "Would you so readily put yourself in a position to be used again?" That threat to Holmes decided it more than any possible endangerment of Watson's own life. He breathed a shaky sigh and returned to where Cinwell sat. "You'd better lead the interrogation, Jeeves. I'm not…" His sentence drifted off, unable to encompass what he was and was not at that moment. Jeeves didn't press for details, but crouched face to face with Inspector Cinwell. "You have made no attempts to flee, even while two-thirds of your guard were distracted," Jeeves said. "Would you like me to?" Cinwell answered, his tone strangely flat and lacking in fear, disdain, braggadocio, or any of the other things one might expect from a man in his position. Instead, he behaved as if he were a distant spectator of events, one who had little interest in the situation, conversation, or life in general. "I am merely making a curious observation. Most men in your position would at least be contemplating escape, whereas you appear wholly indifferent to your circumstances." "I assure you, I'm not indifferent. My trousers are soaked and my arse is getting bloody cold." "Who are you working for? Roberson?" "No. Adams. Superintendent Adams." He chuckled. "Think of Adams as the contractor and Roberson as the rich and demanding client. I, of course, am the exploited labourer." "What service is Roberson contracting?" "At first, it was simply to frame Dr. Watson for the theft of the Jewels of Tarpeia, to hold him in custody until further notice was given, and to make sure Mr. Holmes was aware of the situation. I wasn't told why and I've found that in circumstances like these it's better not to ask." Watson broke in. "Where did you get the fob that you presented as evidence?" "Adams gave it to me. I don't know where he got it--possibly from Roberson, possibly from some other police officer Adams has under his thumb. Adams put me on the de Glanville case and told me to suppress whatever evidence I found that pointed to anyone other than you as a suspect and to drop that fob on the grass for one of the constables to find. Surprisingly, I had to suppress no evidence at all. It was a masterful job; what little evidence I found legitimately--a partial footprint under the sill--could indeed have come from you." He stopped, staring at Watson with curiosity. Watson scoffed. "I dare say there are thousands, even tens of thousands of other people in this city with shoes similar to mine. They're hardly unique." "Quite right," Cinwell said. "Not enough to justify an arrest, but when combined with the fob it was enough to hold you for a while. Adams told me that if you went to the summary court then the conviction was in the bag, and if you insisted on a trial by jury then further damning evidence would be brought forward to secure the desired verdict." "Justice bought and sold," Watson spat. Jeeves resumed his questioning. "And what task are you carrying out for Roberson at present? What brought you here tonight?" "I was making arrangements with him for finding Mr. Holmes's body." The silence that followed such a chilling statement was a heavy presence pressing on my tongue. Ever since my own close brush with death at Roberson's hands, I'd known that murder might be in the offing, but despite such awareness it nevertheless came as a shock to hear Holmes referred to as a "body." Watson, to my surprise, was the first to regain speech, slow and halting though it was. "Holmes…is he?...he's dead then." Cinwell smiled tightly. "Not yet." Relief burst from Watson in a shuddering breath. "Thank God!" "God has nothing to do with it," Cinwell retorted. "Roberson is enjoying watching Holmes go mad." "'Go mad?'" Watson said. "What do you mean 'go mad?'" "Roberson's got him caged up, like an animal, and when I saw him he was--" For the first time since his capture, I detected a glimmer of emotion in Cinwell. He turned away so that his face was wholly in shadow. When he continued his story, his words had a raspy edge. "Sometimes he would just writhe and spasm, limbs contorted and neck twisted unnaturally. He would scream and thrash as if terrified, eyes bulging and darting about wildly. Other times he'd have moments of somewhat greater lucidity and would beg for water and babble about being burned alive." "Ah-ha, I know this one!" I said, grateful for the opportunity to contribute. "Radix pedis diaboli, what?" I looked to Watson for confirmation. I naturally hoped that it was not so, as the poisonous root was deadly and capable of driving a man permanently insane, but it seemed the most reasonable guess. Watson shook his head slowly. "No. No, it doesn't sound right; there are many other substances that can cause hallucinations. The poor souls afflicted with the devil's-foot root were utterly raving. There were no lucid periods while under its effect." "And there's no place Roberson could have administered it," Cinwell added. "The warehouse has no small rooms and Roberson hasn't taken Holmes anywhere else. The root needs to be burnt in an enclosed space to be inhaled by the victim in sufficient quantity, yes?" "Yes," Watson replied acidly. "I have read your stories, Doctor." "But clearly failed to absorb any moral precepts from them." Cinwell paused before he replied, each word clipped. "We can't all be Sherlock Holmes." Watson was ready to give some sort of cutting rejoinder, but Jeeves steered the interrogation back to its rightful course. "Do you know what Roberson gave Holmes?" "No. It was administered before I entered the scene. Holmes was already in a frenzy when I arrived and he remained so during my entire stay." "How long was that?" "Around an hour. Roberson insisted on playing genteel host," Cinwell sneered. "Although I suspect what he really wanted was an opportunity to show off his trophy." Watson muttered an imprecation under his breath. Cinwell continued as if he hadn't heard. "I think it was wearing off, though. That or he simply wore himself out. Whatever the cause, by the time I left Holmes was quieter than he had been when I arrived." "Aside from Roberson and Holmes, who else is in the warehouse?" "There are four other people. Common hired thugs from the look of them." "Armed?" "At least one of them had a pistol. I didn't see whether the others were likewise equipped, but I suspect so. Roberson's very proud of his prize and doesn't want it getting away." Jeeves stared at Cinwell for many long seconds, a hard glare that could turn a chap inside out and make him squeal. Cinwell offered nothing else, however. At last, Jeeves stood to confer quietly with Watson. "Sir," Jeeves said to him. "Given the facts that we are outnumbered and outgunned and on hostile territory, I recommend that we take an indirect approach." "Are you getting one of your corking schemes, Jeeves?" I asked, my heart lifting at the thought. If anyone could save the day, it was Jeeves. "Not all the pieces are yet in place, but I am working on it, sir." "We do have the advantage of surprise, at least," Watson said. "If we burst through the door, take them off guard, I'm sure I could shoot at least one of them before they could react. If you, Jeeves, could take one as well, between the two of us, if we're lucky, we could at least even the odds a bit." Cinwell, who must have been listening intently to overhear their quiet muttering, laughed a dry, acrid laugh. "Don't be daft," he scoffed. "Roberson will spot you in one second and shoot you in the next. You don't want to go barging through the front door. You'll want to go around to the east side of the building. In the back there's a small door, nearly invisible. It looks like it hasn't been used in ages. There are old crates stacked in front of it that are half rotted from exposure. If you're very careful, you might be able to enter through there undetected." "If it's nearly invisible, how do you know of it?" Watson asked suspiciously. "I scoped the whole outside carefully before I met with Roberson. Knowledge is power, as they say." "Wait just a blasted minute," I said. "Aren't you on Roberson's side? Why would you tell us all this unless it's some sort of trap? We go in the back door thinking it's safe when it's really under guard by men with guns, and all that?" Cinwell twitched an eyebrow in a half-hearted facial shrug. "I've no loyalty to that bastard, and Dr. Watson's criticism of my moral fibre aside, I don't enjoy seeing a decent man murdered." "Yes, but if you are lying, then that's exactly what you would say." I said. "I do not believe the inspector is being mendacious," Jeeves replied, contemplating Cinwell's face. "If I am assessing the inspector's psychology correctly, he is a man to whom crime did not come naturally, but for whom it was learned. He probably showed no delinquency as a child, but slipped into vice only as an adult. He did so with full cognisance of the moral repercussions of his choice. He no longer balks at immoral acts and has coldly participated in many misdeeds. He was perhaps once idealistic, but is now cynical. His criminal activity is not performed on his own initiative, but at the bidding of those who have power over him. Bitterness fuels a desire to lash out at his superiors in whatever feeble way he can. He is a villain, perhaps, but pathetically so, out of habit and fear of retribution more than any real malevolence." Cinwell's mouth hung open in shock. At last he spoke. "I think your opinion of me was more flattering when you thought me irredeemably evil." "Roberson, exercises his own free will, however appallingly wicked that will may be." Jeeves replied. "You, however, have washed your hands of your moral agency, allowed yourself to be led by others, and have permitted your sense of ethics and decency wither into apathy. Although Roberson is assuredly the more malicious, I would nevertheless be hard pressed to decide which of you is more contemptible." An uneasy chill ran down my spine at Jeeves's words about "free will" and "agency", although I could not swear to its source. It may have been the mere thought of the mighty force of the Jeevesian ire, or the reminder of what foul people I'd become surrounded with these last few days, or just a cold breeze coming off the river and slipping under my collar. Whatever the source, it niggled under my skin and refused to be cast aside. I had the feeling that my brain--which, despite being often referred to as deficient, negligible, or barmy, did experience the occasional bright flash--was trying to tell me something, something unpleasant that I'd rather not hear. I ignored its rusty groan and turned to more practical matters. Succeeding in this herding of the mental sheep down the proper pathways, I said, "I think the most sensible option would be to wait for Lestrade's police contacts to arrive. Then we could hand Inspector Cinwell into their custody, surround the warehouse, and demand Roberson's immediate surrender." Watson didn't seem very chuffed at this plan. I suppose waiting patiently outside the building where his dearest companion is being tormented until reinforcements arrive would be trying for any man of action. Jeeves, too, was unconvinced. "Roberson does not strike me as the sort who would surrender easily." "He'd put a bullet through Holmes' head just to get one last memorable victory in before he was arrested," Cinwell said. "So we can't wait for the police and do it the official way," Watson said. "What are our other options?" Watson and I looked at Jeeves. "We do have a hostage of our own, sir, whom we could put to use." I turned to where Jeeves indicated. Cinwell, however, laughed. "There's not a chance in hell that I'll get you anywhere. He doesn't give a damn about me. His deal is with Superintendent Adams. And the Super has plenty of other inspectors on his unofficial payroll; he won't mind if I go missing. I'm expendable. You won't get anywhere by holding me hostage. Sherlock Holmes is worth hundred times more than I am and Roberson knows it." "I wasn't proposing an exchange, but a distraction." I was a bit lost. "What are you getting at, Jeeves?" "I suggest that Dr. Watson enter through the front with the inspector here as a hostage. While he engages in negotiations, thus distracting Roberson and his guards, I enter through the rear entrance and venture to liberate Mr. Holmes. When Mr. Holmes is free, Dr. Watson extracts himself by whatever means necessary. It is an extremely perilous strategy, and fraught with uncertainty, but with such constraints of time and manpower it is the best I can put forth." "Sounds as good as anything," I said. "But what do I do, while Watson here is dangling bait out front and you are sneaking around the back?" "You will remain outside and inform the police of the situation when they arrive." Even I could tell when I was being pushed aside. Had I asked, undoubtedly words such as "for your own good" or "out of harm's way" would have been uttered, so I didn't bother asking. Instead I demanded, "No no no and no. On no account am I going to twiddle my thumbs on the street whilst you and Watson are walking into Lord knows what danger." I took out Cinwell's pistol from the waistband where I'd stashed it. "I've got a weapon now, so I might be of some use. I coming with you, and I shall not be gainsaid." "As you wish, sir," Jeeves said in that rummy sort of voice, which he employed when the polite words he was saying were completely opposite to what he was feeling, which was more along the lines of "go boil your head." He did not openly object, although I had a sneaking suspicion that he was merely biding his time. "Do you know how to use that?" Watson asked, gesturing towards the pistol. "Well, a bit. That is to say, I did a spot of pheasant hunting out at Aunt Dahlia's place once, although we used rifles, which were, as I recall, a fair bit larger than this little thing. I didn't hit any pheasants but I did fare better than my friend Gussie Fink-Nottle. He couldn't get his gun to go off at all and couldn't work out why until later that evening when Cousin Angela pointed out that he'd never once loaded the bally thing." Watson looked frightfully alarmed at my story relating my firearm experience��"it was hearing about Gussie's foolishness that caused it, no doubt. At last he said, "Just don't point it at anything that you don't mean to shoot." "You're all barking mad," Cinwell said. "Three," he flicked his glance at me, "Make that two-and-a-half against five, on their turf, every advantage theirs and you're going to waltz on in anyway? Anyone sensible would cut his losses and get out. I could understand the doctor's lapse of reason on account of his close association with Mr. Holmes and consequent fear of losing him, but you two," he shook his head at Jeeves and me, "are either inveterate risk-takers or dangerously thick." I drew myself up. It was one thing to call me thick��"indeed, it happened with some regularity��" but it was another thing entirely to hurl such an accusation at Jeeves. It was not to be borne. "Nothing of the sort. Loyalty to friends is a motive which I should think both obvious and above reproach." "Furthermore," Jeeves added, "any ethical man would refuse to abandon a good person to death when it was within his power to stop it." "You yourself said that you didn't want to see a decent man murdered," Watson said softly. "But I didn't volunteer to risk my life for his," Cinwell replied. "You don't have to. So long as you don't betray us to Roberson, I won't harm you. You don't have to help us, just so long as you don't hinder us." Inspector Cinwell turned his head down in thought. At last, after a few seconds pause, he nodded slowly. "There's a set of lock picks," he said, "in the inside pocket of my jacket. They'll help you get through the back door. None of you gentlemen look like the type to carry such things on your person." "I didn't think upstanding policemen carried such things either," I said. "Haven't you been paying attention? I'm not upstanding." Cinwell smiled archly. "Besides, perhaps I did pick up a thing or two from the good doctor's stories. Mr. Holmes wasn't above a bit of judicious breaking and entering, eh?" "Just what the force needed, I'm sure," Watson replied. "Someone who picked up all of Holmes's most dishonest tendencies and none of his virtues." Jeeves grasped Cinwell by the elbow and hauled him to his feet, holding him upright even as Cinwell slid on the wet cobbles. Slipping his hand into Cinwell's jacket, he quickly retrieved the promised lock picks before passing Cinwell over to Watson, who, pressing his revolver against the inspector's back, held him in a position not dissimilar to the one I'd been in a few days ago with Roberson. We walked together to the corner of the warehouse Cinwell had indicated, a large, windowless edifice, and paused at the junction where we were to go our separate ways. "I'll wait ten minutes to give you time to find and unlock the back entrance, then I'll go in," Watson said. "Just…find Holmes, as fast as you can, and get him out." He held his medical bag out to Jeeves. "Take this. Do what you can for Holmes once you've got him to safety." "We will," I assured him. Jeeves and I began our long walk around the enormous building. As we started down the alley, I mused, "First Ettie, now Inspector Cinwell. You know, Jeeves, Roberson has pretty poor luck in his allies. Pretty soon, he won't have any left at all." "Nothing so completely baffles one who is full of trick and duplicity himself, than straightforward and simple integrity in another." "One of yours?" "No, sir. The Reverend Charles Caleb Colton," he said. "Whereas a wise man will find and cherish his opposite--his complement, if you will--it is the nature of those who are unwise to surround themselves only with those similar in nature, and so men like Roberson, who are dishonest and have no loyalty in their hearts and no understanding of decency or devotion, often find themselves betrayed by others." All this philosophical talk got my brain shouting for my attention. That shiver down the spine that came on when Jeeves ranted about will and morality and all that brainy stuff had not abated, but the source had at last become clear as the message seeped into my bone and settled uncomfortably there next to assorted criticisms that had been lobbed in my direction over the years. "Did you really mean all that?" I asked. "About the inspector being contemptible for letting others control him?" "I did." "Do you…?" I nibbled at my lip, trying to decide how best to phrase the thing but quickly gave it up as a lost cause and blurted it out. "Do you think I'm contemptible? Upon reflection it does seem that everyone else has their way with Bertram W. Wooster and as much as I may resent the intrusion, in the end I acquiesce. It's a…what's the word…en-something…enteric…endemic! That's the chap. It's an endemic feature of my life. Someone--Aunt Agatha, Aunt Dahlia, fellow Drones, assorted ex-fiancées, even you--tells me to do something and I say I won't and then I somehow end up doing it anyway." "I was referring specifically to moral weakness, and despite various forceful outside influences issuing demands and the occasional misdemeanours into which you have been coerced, you have always retained a firm moral centre. You do not abandon your core principles." "The Code of the Woosters, what?" "In part," he replied. "It is also in part your own nature. You may occasionally accede to another's wishes, but you never forsake your sense of self or allow others to fashion you into anything other than what you are." I tried to wrap my head around the thing, but feared my head hadn't quite the circumference to encompass it. "You mean, I'm all right because at the end of the day Bertram is still Bertram and not some pseudo-Bertram or faux-Bertram of someone else's making." "Yes." "I'm not sure I get your meaning there, dear chap, but I'll take your word on it." "If I may be so bold to suggest, however, it may behove you to be more forceful in placing your own wishes before, or at least equivalent to those of others upon occasion. I think you would find that your life would become, on the whole, more congenial as a result." "If you think I should, Jeeves, I will by all means give it a try." A smile lurked in the vowels and peeked around the consonants as Jeeves said, "Indeed, sir." We turned the corner and crept along the east side of the building. Jeeves whispered to me, "We must be nearing the door now. It would be best if we speak as little as possible from this point on." "Right ho," I whispered back. We were silent as ghosts, if ghosts had to splash around in puddles, until we reached the door itself. As we carefully pushed the crates aside, Jeeves muttered to me, "It would be best if you waited by the door to ensure that I am not taken by surprise by possible reinforcements of Roberson's." I did not reply, not an acquiescence or even an acknowledgement. Jeeves, clever chap that he was, knew at once that something was wrong. He raised a querying eyebrow at me. "I know what you're trying to do, Jeeves," I said. "I made no secret of it. I am endeavouring to ensure that no one slips in from behind." "There's little chance of that and you know it. You're trying to protect me." I placed my hand on Jeeves's cheek. "I appreciate the thought, old chap, and I know that it's a habit that must be difficult to break considering how often you've pulled the Wooster corpus from the soupiest of soups, and I'm never one to object to a helping hand, but I don't want you to put my welfare above yours. We're equals now, what? So if you're going to put yourself in danger, I'm going to bally well be right there beside you. Metaphorically speaking, since we'd not literally fit through the door walking side by side. Besides, you told me not five minutes ago not to let others boss me about, and so here I am, exercising my will. I want to share the danger with you and I'm damn well going to, no matter what you or anybody else says." "You pick an inconvenient time to follow my advice, sir." "Would there ever have been a convenient time to challenge you?" "Undoubtedly not." "Well, there you have it." "I do heartily request, sir, for my safety as well as yours, that you follow my lead and obey my directions once we are inside." "I think I can agree to that. I'm sure you're more practiced at daring rescue missions than I." Jeeves looked me in the eye with a decidedly solemn cast to his mien. Just as I was about to open my flap and ask him what vexation put such a rum expression on his face, he dropped the doctor's bag to the ground and grabbed my lapel with a careless violence that would have appalled the fine craftsman who'd stitched this jacket and pulled me into an equally ferocious kiss. I let out what I am ashamed to say was a rodentious squeak, the sound a mouse whose tail has been trod upon might make. This is not to say that I objected; on the contrary, as soon as my initial surprise passed, I ran my hands over Jeeves's sleek head, and, looping my arms around his neck, held him firmly in place and returned his gesture in kind. It was the most unromantic spot in which I'd ever engaged in an amorous pursuit��"the air clammy and ripe with mould, the light gloomy, and the general atmosphere better suited to Dickens than Austen. I shivered from my crown to my soles all the same as the dismal quality of the setting was overcome by a certain whatsits that this kiss had, which prior ones had not. There was desperation in the intense pressure that pushed my spine back into a curve, and a bit of fear in the tremble of his lips, but also sureness in the soft motions of his jaw and steadfastness in the way his free hand rose to lightly caress my cheek. This was not a Jeeves hesitating, not a Jeeves of two minds, or a Jeeves in doubt. Not, that is to say, the Jeeves of the night before last when we first embarked upon this course. This was a Jeeves who, having jumped in with both feet, had decided that rather than climbing out and calling the whole thing off as a bad deal he would instead dive under and grow gills. It did not last long, but those few seconds carved for themselves a memorable set of initials on the tree of the Wooster psyche. There was no time to think on it further or speak on the matter, which was just as well, or I fear I would have babbled some embarrassingly soppy nonsense about moonlight and sunsets and roses. Jeeves set to work picking the lock with brisk efficiency. I suppose I ought to have been surprised that my honest and upright gentlemen's personal gentleman knew the ins and outs of lock picking, but considering the breadth and depth of knowledge and skills Jeeves has shown in the past, I would not have been shocked were I learn that he was adept at tightrope walking and lute making and knew all there was to know about particle physics besides. After a little poking and prodding, the lock clicked open. Jeeves switched out the picks for his gun and motioned for me to have my own pistol at the ready. He silently turned the knob and with a cool professionalism opened the door and aimed at the space beyond. I belatedly pointed my gun around as well, just as Jeeves was doing, but my tardiness was pardonable since there was nothing more threatening than a shelf full of boxes on the other side. The word "cavernous" springs to mind as the sort of adjective one would attach to a description of the interior of the warehouse. Although I was in a cavern once, in the south of France, and it must have been a cavern of the smaller sort, because it had in no way as high in ceiling or as expansive a breadth as this building. The dim and echoing quality was spot on, though. We left the medical bag just inside the door, so that it would not hinder us if we had to move quickly. Jeeves went first, gliding on silent feet. It had never before occurred to me to consider how the noiseless tread of a good domestic and his (or her, I suppose, if said domestic were a maid) ability to vanish at will when his (or her) services were not required would naturally lead him (or her) to be skilled in the sort of furtiveness that expeditions of this sort demanded. Jeeves, stealthy as a cat, eyes bright and alert, and pistol at the ready, could have come straight out of MI5. For my part, I took great care that I didn't trip in the darkness over any of the boxes or crates or fall into a shelf. I kept my eyes fixed on Jeeves's broad shoulders and moved when and where he did. As we manoeuvred around one aisle and slid down another, I grew aware of voices rattling about and bouncing off the walls. The words were unintelligible, too broken up from being tossed from one end of the warehouse to the other and back again, but I thought I recognized Watson's steady cadence. Jeeves picked up the pace and before long we reached the south wall. Up until that point, this building was just like any other warehouse. Unaesthetic, but not sinister. The cages changed all that. They were empty, fortunately; nevertheless, the hisses and groans of despair echoed from them just as plainly as Watson's voice echoed from the main door. I tried to imagine the people who had been trapped in those small cells, and those who will be, but even with the evidence there before me I couldn't comprehend it. It was like something out of the old, barbaric slave trade��"something that I'd thought was safely historical, and the reality of which contradicted my understanding of the world. I had no time to rethink what I had previously believed were truths about the civility of the modern world. Jeeves led us down the south wall, past cage after grim cage��"a whole row of them. A splash of light spread across the far corner, where the south wall met the west, within which two silhouetted figures stood. As we neared them, Jeeves slowed and walked with his back tight against the cage bars, one more shadow among the shadows. The men��"for that's what the figures were, two large, brutish men��"were busy looking elsewhere, their faces in sharp profile. They didn't notice Jeeves and me creeping towards them. As we got closer, I saw a third man, too, just on the other side of one of the shelves. Jeeves positioned himself behind and just around the shelf corner from that third man and gathered himself to strike. I remained by the cages, out of his way, and considered what I might do to help. Shoot one of the two silhouettes, perhaps? I'd never shot anyone before, and felt a little queasy at the thought of doing so now, but if it helped Jeeves and saved Holmes, Watson, and all those people who would otherwise be seeing the inside of those cages, I'd do my best. I raised my gun and aimed at the nearest figure. A shot exploded. For a moment, I thought that I'd pressed the trigger of my pistol without realizing it. A second later the observant part of my brain pointed out to the rest of me that as loud as the shot had been, it did not have the ear-ringing quality of the retort of a gun going off in one's hand. The second after I'd determined that, I panicked. If I hadn't fired the shot, that left open the question of who did, and more terrifying, who was being shot at. My first thought was for Jeeves, but one glance told me that he was not bleeding on the floor, pierced by a bullet. On the contrary, he was faring quite well for himself, although the same could not be said for the man he'd just pistol-whipped. From my position, I couldn't see either Watson or Roberson, nor had there yet been hide or hair from Holmes. My immediate fears, if not allayed, were slightly abated; I recalled my determination to assist and stepped forward with my revolver again at the ready. My shot was spoiled, however. Where before there'd been a clean silhouette, now there was a blob of shadow pressed against the bars of the last cage, held there by long, shadowy arms stretching out from between the bars. The second guard drew a knife and lunged forward to help his friend. I figured that it was now or never. I aimed at the knife-wielding man and pulled the trigger. I missed. I had, however, succeeding in distracting him from knifing the man in the cage, whom I deduced must be Holmes, by revealing my presence. Unfortunately, this resulted in his turning his attention to me. I raised my pistol again, but was too slow to get off another shot before the man was upon me. He hit the gun from my hand, and I watched in dismay as it skittered across the floor. Grinning, he swept his arm out in a wide arc and I barely jumped back in time to avoid being sliced open like a letter with a letter opener. As I dodged back, I heard more shots exchanged somewhere nearby, but as none of them were hitting me, I was unable to pay them much mind, my focus fixed on the more immediate matter of the man with the knife. I was not initially worried; after all, Jeeves couldn't be too far away, and I was sure that he would get me out of this tight spot just as he always did. A mad knifeman would no more stand in his way than a demanding aunt or a determined would-be fiancée. When I had to escape two more swings of the blade, and still no Jeeves came, I grew concerned. There were few things that would cause Jeeves to fail to come to my rescue in circs as dire as this. I scrambled away from my attacker as best I could, grateful that I'd always naturally tended towards fleetness of foot, and in this way kept myself safe against the onslaught. I think I could have carried on in such a manner indefinitely had not dodged just a trifle too far from an attack and crashed into one of the shelves. My balance ruined, the knifeman darted in. I twisted away and nearly fell, but despite my efforts, I was not able to escape the blow.

From the pen of Dr. John H. Watson: In which a score is settled. Chapter 14: Retribution Mr. Wooster and his man took their leave and headed for the back door of the warehouse while Cinwell and I lingered in the alley between the warehouse and the neighbouring building--an abattoir from the look and smell of it. It was not a far walk to the main entrance, and I still had ten minutes to wait for my comrades to reach their position. I was wary of Cinwell, despite his docility, so I kept my revolver close against his back as I steered us towards a dark shadow in which we could wait unobserved by any chance passer-by, however unlikely it was that anyone would be walking down this lonely road in such miserable weather so late at night. "You know," Cinwell said conversationally, "if I were to run away now, there's little you could do about it. You aren't strong enough to hold me, even tied up as I am, and between your age and your bad leg there's not a chance in hell that you'd be able to catch me, and if you shot me, Roberson would surely hear and your whole rescue mission would be ruined." I tightened my grip although I knew that he was correct in all his points. "Why aren't you running, then?" Cinwell shrugged. Tension gripped my jaw. Our whole scheme was predicated on my ability to distract Roberson, and for that I needed Cinwell's compliance if not his active cooperation. At this point, I trusted Cinwell only slightly more than I trusted Roberson himself. Roberson at least was familiar in his habits and had uncomplicated motives; Cinwell was an entirely unknown quantity in our formula. I had nine minutes before I entered the lion's den; I might as well use that time to gather what knowledge I could. "Jeeves guessed that you were an honest policeman when you started your career. Was he correct?" Cinwell might lie, but if I could get him talking enough, I might be able to shine a light on the character within. "Yes," he said, then qualified, "Well, as honest as anyone, I suppose." "What happened?" I asked. "Do you truly want to know, or are you merely passing the time?" "I'm a writer; of course I want to know. A fall from grace is the theme of some of the world's most famous literature, from Greek tragedy and the Bible down to Matthew Lewis's salacious gothic novel." "Always after the human element. I should have suspected something like that from a man who put a forty page Mormon romance in what was otherwise a good mystery." "If you say one word about ruining a classic example of logic and deduction, I will shoot you," I said. Cinwell took the threat about as seriously as I had meant it. He snickered dryly. I pressed again. "So what is your tale? Why did you do it?" He sniffed. "Debt." "Gambling?" I had seen the frenzy that came upon people at the track and had been on amiable terms with one or two obsessive gamblers in my life. The passion invoked by the risk and the sums of money involved made it a breeding ground of crime. More than one of Holmes's cases had a gambler lurking in it somewhere. "No, not gambling. I never saw the appeal." There was that tonelessness to his voice again, a forced distance as if he were putting the words, along with his anger, under lock and key so only faint traces of acrimony slipped past. "It started five years ago, when I was a sergeant. My brother-in-law was in business; I, however, knew nothing of business matters. He convinced me to invest heavily in one of his projects, a project that failed. He committed suicide in the wake of his failure and I was left financially ruined with my widowed sister and her child to support. "Superintendant Adams, who was still an inspector then, offered me a proposition��"work for him on the sly and receive a cut of his profits��"and I accepted. Within a year, I'd earned enough to pay off my debtors, but once down that path…" He trailed off, and when he resumed his story, his words were more deliberately casual, and no longer carried the whiff of suppressed rage. "Well, to hell with it, I thought. Might as well be hanged for the goose as the gander. I was taking in five times as much as I could on just my policeman's salary. I was able to afford a lifestyle I'd never had before and could pay for my nephew to attend a respectable public school besides. Furthermore, Adams intimated that anyone who tried to get out would find himself with more enemies than he knew how to handle, so there were disincentives to stop and every reason to continue as I was. And there you have it: the self-justifications of a petty criminal. I fear it's entirely prosaic; no heartfelt romance to enliven your story." "How old is your nephew?" I asked. "Thirteen." "Any children of your own? A wife?" "No. It's bad enough having my sister and nephew as dependants." Cinwell's comment hung in the silence for the space of three breaths. "You're tired of the obligation," I said with sudden insight. "You want it all to end. That's why you're not fighting me, because dead, wounded, or convicted of abetting criminals, it all means the same thing for you. It means an end to your current circumstances and that is precisely what you want." Cinwell did not reply, but I did not need his affirmation to know that I was right. "But it's not just that, is it," I continued. "You resent the obligation to your family that made you become a criminal, and yet you cannot choose to put an end to your unlawful way of life or else your sister and nephew will be left to fend for themselves. Your actions, your sins, will be rendered meaningless and you will have debased yourself in vain. So, you do not act for yourself, but passively wait for fate to make the choice for you." Cinwell was still, his limbs trembling. He snarled. "Are you using your experience of observation and deduction to reach your conclusions?" "No, I'm using my knowledge of the human heart." "Fuck you," he spat. "And your friends, and all your sanctimonious judgment." "Inspector," I said. He was struck by my mode of address, as I'd intended. I had his attention if nothing else. "I can't claim to know you and I can't say that I like you, but I have encountered many criminals in my long years working with Holmes. A few of them were near demonic in their capacity for evil, and a few were genuinely noble, who broke the law only because the law was not able to grant justice, but most were neither extreme, merely ordinary people with all the ordinary human frailties��"pettiness, anger, greed, jealousy, lust, and fear. If there's one thing I have learned, it is that anyone and everyone has the capacity to become a criminal." "Including respectable and stalwart doctors?" Cinwell replied sardonically. "More than you could know." He gave that dry, bitter chuckle that I was learning was characteristic of him. "Are you trying to save me?" "No," I replied. "I'm trying to have one less enemy. It would make my coming confrontation simpler." "I like you. You're honest. I don't know many honest people anymore. Of course, I dislike you for the same reason--honest people are smug and complacent bastards. But there you have it." He paused. "I'm not your enemy." I considered his words, then lowered my revolver. He twisted his neck to glance over his shoulder and even though the shadows were too dark to see his expression, I could feel his surprise in the quality of his silence. "As you said, you could have run away at any time and I wouldn't have been able stop you. Besides, my fingers were growing cold in all this damp." I put both revolver and hand in my coat pocket. Cinwell and I stood side by side, neither of us breaking the weighty hush that had overtaken the alley. Many minutes later, Cinwell spoke again. "Would I be pressing my luck to ask that you untie my hands?" I was not expecting such a prosaic request after such a long and thoughtful silence, but the answer was simple. "Yes, you would." "I think my arms are growing numb." "I'll loosen the binding." I picked at the tie, trying to get a bit of slack in Mr. Wooster's tight knot. I wondered if I was bestowing too much trust on Cinwell, a man who openly confessed his essentially deceitful nature. I knew, however, in ways that had nothing to do with deduction and everything to do with instinct that, whatever his motivations, Cinwell was on our side��"for now. It took a devilishly long time to pry open Wooster's knot and retie a new one. As soon as I was done, I took out my pocket watch and peered at it in the gloom. "It's time." I took out my revolver and resumed the role of captor. Prodding Inspector Cinwell before me, I walked the few steps down the pavement, which took us to our destination. I rapped on the door, unhesitatingly, acting before uncertainty could set in. A few seconds later a gruff voice with a thick Liverpudlian accent came from the other side. "Who's there?" I nudged Cinwell with the barrel of my revolver, urging him to answer. "It's Inspector Cinwell," he said. "Open the door." There was no reply, but the bolt grinded as it slid back and the key rattled, turning in the lock. The backlighting in the warehouse meant that the guard at the door did not at first notice me lurking behind Cinwell's tall form. I kept my back to the doorframe and my hostage between me and my enemies, gaining the threshold before the guard saw me, cursed under his breath, and went for his pistol. "Roberson, I want to talk," I called out. The guard's pistol rose slightly, but before he cocked the hammer, he glanced questioningly at Roberson, who was making his way around a nearby table��"a plain, wooden bit of furniture with a lamp, the only source of light, standing at the centre. "Let him in," Roberson said, his head cocked with curiosity. "I want to hear what the doctor has to say." The guard backed away and I entered the warehouse fully, sidling along the wall to prevent anyone from sneaking up from behind. "I propose an exchange," I said. "An exchange? One common Scotland Yarder for the great Sherlock Holmes? Not a very equitable exchange. I hope you've got more to offer than that." "I've got more," I replied. "Let Holmes go. Let him go and we'll go back to Sussex and never cross your path again. You can tell the world that you won, that you beat Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson and forced them to surrender. Just let him go." "Hmm, tempting offer. Would Mr. Holmes abide by it? He's in no state to be swearing oaths right now. Mens insana in corpore insano and all that." "He'll abide by whatever I decide." "He never struck me as the sort who would play the part of the obedient wife, but of course you know him far more intimately than I." Roberson was goading me, trying for a reaction, so I took care to give him none. "What is your decision? Do you agree to an exchange of prisoners and our concession of defeat?" Roberson's eyes narrowed and the edges of his full lips tilted up in a faint smile. "Your proposal has some merits, Doctor, but I'm afraid going to have to say 'No deal.'" I had not seen his pistol, but where Roberson was concerned, that meant nothing. His weapon came up in a flash of motion and I had scarcely time to register the movement before he fired. Cinwell staggered back, forcing me off balance. Letting go of my grip on him, he fell to the floor, writhing and gasping as blood poured from his chest. I put his fate from my mind and my senses narrowed to the immediate concern of survival. My revolver was aimed at Roberson without my having any memory of doing it. For the second time in a week we faced off like duellists at the ready. "Well, this is familiar." Roberson said mockingly. "Shall we give it a second go? No valet to spoil my shot this time." Roberson was faster than I, of that I had no doubt. I prayed that my aim was truer, and thanked God that my rural lifestyle shooting stoats and pheasants honed my skill even through my semi-retirement. Sweat prickled on my brow as I watched Roberson's laughing eyes, waiting for the flicker that would warn me of his intent to fire. He, in turn, appeared self-assured and utterly undaunted by my own pistol aimed at him. I could only hope that it was overconfidence that loaned him his haughty air and not some secret knowledge, some special advantage about which only he knew. "Come on, Doctor, I'm waiting," he taunted. "Or are you incapable?" I heard pistols firing to my left and spared a brief thought for Wooster and Jeeves. The retort of gunfire echoed around me, and it was as if I were in the fields of Afghanistan once more and the decades between were but a pleasant dream in the midst of a waking nightmare. It was as if two separate minds inhabited my skull, one that watched, outside the whole scenario, and one that acted with calm and methodical purpose. I aimed for his right shoulder and pulled the trigger, dropping to the floor even as Roberson fired his own pistol. I could not breathe, and for one terrifying moment I thought that I had been hit, a punctured chest the source of my breathlessness. To my intense relief, a moment later my lungs recovered from the shock of my heavy impact with the ground. I inhaled deeply once, and a second time. The warehouse was still but for a few groans of pain; all gunfire had ceased and I was unhurt. The same could not be said for Roberson. He was sprawled across the ground, dazed and squirming from the sudden injury. I ran to where he had fallen and snatched up his pistol before he could recover his senses. It was only then, with the immediate threat neutralized, that my thoughts returned to me and I became aware of my pulse pounding in my ears. Scanning my surroundings for further danger, I saw none. One man was on the ground, his glassy eyes and slack jaw combined with the broad red stain across his chest proclaiming him dead. Two more appeared to be unconscious but otherwise unharmed, and Jeeves was at this moment subduing a forth man, twisting his arm behind his back until he dropped his knife. The soldier's instincts fading, the doctor's instincts came to the fore. There were many people hurt, and as in any other battlefield, I needed to determine the best way to proceed to treat my patients efficiently and effectively. My eyes went first to Holmes, who was locked in a small cage against the wall. I desired more than anything to rush to him first, to ensure his wellbeing before all others, but other than a flush to his cheeks and an assortment of bruises, he did not appear to be in imminent danger. Holmes more than anyone would understand putting practicality above sentimentality. In fact, I suspect that had I attended him first, I would have received a tongue-lashing and a rant about romance and irrationality and orders to see to our companions first. His treatment could be delayed; others could not. Three men were bleeding: Mr. Wooster, Inspector Cinwell, and Roberson. The shot that felled Roberson shattered his scapula, but missed all major veins and arteries. His care could wait. Cinwell was curled on the floor and gasping for air. The bullet had punctured the lower left side of his chest, and must have lodged somewhere in his ribs, judging by the lack of an exit wound. Mr. Wooster was sitting on the floor, leaning back against a shelf. His left arm was coated in blood, which was spurting from his upper arm in worrying pulses, despite his hand covering the wound. Glancing between the two of them, I chose Mr. Wooster. I had no idea how long he had been haemorrhaging, but it would be the work of a few seconds to give him basic aid, and in any event I would need to retrieve my medical bag from Jeeves before I could do anything for Cinwell. I staggered over, breathing deeply to get my trembling under control and loosening my tie as I went. By the time I had reached Mr. Wooster's side, Jeeves had knocked out the last guard, and, from the look of it, knocked out a few of the man's teeth while doing so. I called to him. "Jeeves, secure Roberson, then bring me my bag." Paying no attention to his reply, I knelt where Mr. Wooster sat propped against a shelf, looped my tie around Mr. Wooster's arm, and knotted my makeshift tourniquet. Mr. Wooster himself was conscious, but pale. He winced as I cinched the tie, saying, "Did we win?" "How do you feel?" "A trifle dizzy, and my arm hurts like the dickens." I reached for his right wrist to check his pulse. It was fast, but still strong, and he appeared stable. "Put pressure on the wound and call out if the dizziness gets worse." Next I made my way to Cinwell. He was bleeding less profusely than Mr. Wooster, but air whistled through the bullet hole. I took a few seconds to untie his hands and turn him onto his back. I pushed his waistcoat and shirt aside and, plucking Cinwell's handkerchief square from his pocket and folding it up with my own staunched the wound. Jeeves returned, then, placing my black medical bag at my side. As I wrenched at the buckles, I said to Jeeves, "Keep an eye on Mr. Wooster. The tourniquet should stem the bleeding, but let me know if his condition worsens. And bring him over here if you can. It will be easier for me if we can keep the patients in roughly the same place." Cinwell, like Wooster, was conscious, although much less cognisant. All the same, I spoke to him, trusting that even if he did not understand the words, the professional tones of a doctor would be comforting. "I can't stitch your wound yet, not until you're at a hospital and have a chest tube in you to drain the blood out of your thoracic cavity, but the bandage I'm putting on should help." I dabbed away the blood and taped an airtight dressing over the hole in his chest. Cinwell choked and rasped out, trying to speak. I bent closer so I could hear his words. "Damn Roberson to hell. And Superintendent Adams. And you, too." It was not the worst thing I had ever heard from a patient in pain. "You're welcome." I stood just as Jeeves returned, carrying Mr. Wooster in his arms like a groom with his bride. He set Mr. Wooster on the ground with the tenderness of a parent putting a child to bed and removed his jacket to place under Mr. Wooster's head for a pillow. "I'll check on Holmes, then come back to finish tending to Mr. Wooster." "Very good, sir," Jeeves replied. He retrieved a key from his waistcoat pocket. "I liberated this from Roberson; it will open Mr. Holmes's cell. Roberson and his associates are currently residing in the neighbouring cages." I thanked Jeeves and took the key. At last I was able to go to the person I wished most to attend. Holmes himself was crouched near the bars, leaning against them as if they were all that were keeping him upright. I unlocked the door as fast as I could and fell to my knees at Holmes's side. "Sherlock," I said, reaching out for him and self-indulgently stroking the back of his hand with my thumb before turning his hand so I could check his pulse. I scanned his face and body for clues to what Roberson had done. My first impression was one of battered dishevelment: coat and waistcoat gone, shirt untucked and buttons missing, hair wild, lip split and swollen, cheekbone bruised, nose bloodied, and two black eyes. His face was flushed and dotted with sweat, but his eyes were bright and alert. On closer examination, however, his eyes seemed too bright and too wide and staring, the pupils dilated and shining. The flush on his face was at odds with the chill of his hand, and even though his cheeks were rosy, the tip of his nose was bone white. His pulse was thready and weak and his fingertips were the same ghostly white as his nose. That, along with Cinwell's early description, was enough to give me a diagnosis. "Damn him," I muttered, wishing for a moment that I'd aimed for Roberson's heart and not his shoulder. "John." Holmes's voice was hoarse. "Roberson...he..." His gaze and his words drifted away as if he were too exhausted to hold either a look or a conversation. "Holmes," I said, squeezing his hand to hold his attention. I could only guess at the dose or how long ago it had been given, and could not be sure what condition his mind was in. "Holmes, you have ergotism. Ergot poisoning." Holmes, staring unblinking into space and moving his lips as if speaking to himself, did not reply. I placed a hand under his jaw and gently turned his face towards me. "Holmes, are you listening?" "I'm drugged, not..." His eyes skittered as if reading words across a page. "...deaf. It's better now, it's better. I was on fire. Oh, God, John, I was burning, burnt as a witch, just like they warned me. Burning in hell…monstrous dogs gnawing…" He shook his head. "It all seemed so real. More real than this." I was chilled to the core to see dampness in his eyes and hear a stuttering quiver to his breath. I had never before in my career seen a case of ergotism, but one of my medical school lecturers had dealt with an outbreak in a small village on the coast of France and had loved to regale the students with its strange and horrifying symptoms: nausea and vomiting in the earlier stages; convulsions and hallucinations so vivid that one patient climbed to the hospital window and jumped to his death, all to escape some terror that no one else could comprehend; constriction of the capillaries causing dry gangrene in the distal limbs in the later stages; and, of course, the intense burning whence it derived its name in medieval times��"St. Anthony's Fire. What Holmes must have endured at the height of the poison's effects, I felt ill to imagine. "I'm here; I'm real." I brushed my lips against his. He sighed against my mouth and when I drew away he dropped his weary head on my shoulder. "Come," I said, draping his arm over my shoulders and wrapping my own around his too thin ribcage. We both groaned as I hauled him to his feet, my leg protesting the motion. "Let's get you out of this wretched cage." Together, we hobbled across the room to where Jeeves watched over Mr. Wooster and Inspector Cinwell. Holmes, trembling in my grip, moved with uncharacteristic clumsiness. Once I sat him down I surveyed my three patients. "Right. Holmes first, then stitches for Mr. Wooster, then I'll dress Roberson's shoulder if he'll let me." I set to work. As I took a small jar from my bag, Mr. Wooster, who was peering curiously at the proceedings in a manner entirely too cheerful for a man who'd been stabbed, asked, "What is that?" "Glyceryl trinitrate," I answered. "Glistening what?" "Glyceryl trinitrate," Jeeves said, in a voice like a school master. "It is more commonly known as nitroglycerine, although it was initially named 'pyroglycerine.' It is also sometimes known as trinitroglycerine or 1-2-3-trinioxypropane." "Good Heavens!" Mr. Wooster exclaimed, drawing back. "What if it blows up?" "It's not pure nitroglycerine. It's perfectly safe," I replied soothingly. "It dilates the blood vessels. With luck it will counteract vasoconstriction before the gangrene takes hold." I used a swab to apply the substance to Holmes's bloodlessly white fingertips and nose, then removed his socks and shoes to do the same to his toes. "It will take effect in a few minutes," I said, even though Holmes showed no sign of listening to me or to anyone, instead staring across the room to the cage where Roberson now sat favouring his shoulder. I swept a gentle hand over his head, running my fingers through his hair before turning my attention to Mr. Wooster. Cutting the fabric of his jacket and shirt from cuff to shoulder I revealed the gash, which was deep, but not terribly long. I gave him a small injection of morphine for the pain, cleaned the wound, and began stitching. I quickly learned that while Mr. Wooster had what might be called an effervescent personality under normal circumstances, when under the influence of morphine, his speech became incessant, raining out of his mouth like sparks from a fire. "I say, that's smashing stuff. My arm already feels loads better; I can hardly feel the pain at all." He giggled. "For a while there, I thought I was done for. Jeeves saved my life, you know. I suppose it's not very Wooster-like to play the damsel in distress--did you know that a Wooster fought at Agincourt? And another in the Crusades? Jolly war-like folk, the Woosters, brave and unflinching in battle--where was I?" "The Wooster family history, sir," Jeeves said. "No, before that." "Damsels in distress, sir." "Ah, yes, damsels in distress. That is to say that, as a rule, I'm not one. Certainly not a damsel, although I will owe up to getting in a bit of distress now and then. The point is, if anyone is going to play shining knight to my damsel, or, well, gentleman in distress, then let it be Jeeves. Just as the beastly villain was coming in for a second blow, Jeeves came out of nowhere and walloped him a good one across the dial." Mr. Wooster's eyes were shining and he gazed at his man with possessive pleasure as he continued to recount his tale. I smiled and let his words wash over me, concentrating on placing the stitches evenly. It was quickly done, which left only one more patient��"one whom I was, to my shame, most reluctant to treat. Repacking my bag, I said to Jeeves, "As soon as I'm done with Roberson, I'll watch over these three while you go for help. Lestrade's promised reinforcements should be here soon; you can guide them to the right warehouse." "Very good, sir," he replied. It was surreal hearing that calm and plummy tone, more suited to a drawing room, in the midst of this bleak building and the carnage therein. I looked at Holmes before I went to Roberson. It may have been my wishful imagination, but it seemed that the flush on his cheeks was receding and colour was returning to his extremities. He was drawn and exhausted, but composed, legs crossed Hindu style and eyes closed. I rose, sparing a second glance at Holmes to verify my assessment and comfort my own anxious mind, which still could hardly believe that Holmes was safe, and made my way to the cage where Roberson sat rocking back and forth in pain and cradling his arm. Roberson looked up as I approached. "Have you come to take your revenge, Doctor, on behalf of your darling nance?" "I've come to bandage your wound," I replied, filling a syringe with morphine. "if you will strip to expose your shoulder and come up to the bars where I can reach." "How do I know you won't poison me?" "If I'd wanted to kill you, I would have aimed a little further to your left." Roberson remained stonily unmoved by my answer. The morphine was not medically necessary; I could wrap the injury without it, but medical ethics compelled me not only to treat injury but to ease pain where I could. "Primum non nocere," I said. First, do no harm, the motto on the watch fob that had been used to incriminate me. "But if you don't want the analgesic, I won't force it upon you." I began to put the needle away, but Roberson stopped me with a cry. "No!" he said, and shuffled his way to the edge of the cage, wrestling off his jacket as he came. Waistcoat and shirt were soon pulled from his right side and I cleaned the wound, stitched it, and dressed it. Neither of us said a word throughout the proceedings. I, because I feared that if I spoke I would not be able to prevent the fury and abhorrence I felt from pouring out; he for reasons of his own that I did not care to fathom. Once I was finished with my task, I stood and, turning, nearly jumped out of my skin as I came nose to nose with Holmes, who had been looming over me for some unknown period of time. "Good Lord, Holmes, you startled me!" His colour was definitely much improved, and he must have been feeling more like his old self if he was once again able to sneak up on me, moving without a sound. "Holmes," Roberson said as if the words were venom. "You do know that you'll never get the charges to stick. I have money enough to buy half the police force, and you, you're just a relic of a bygone age. You don't have the friends or the influence you used to. And since your doctor insists on meddling, next time I won't be so generous in my willingness to spare him. I'll let you watch, helpless, as I slice open his veins and bleed him out like a pig in a slaughterhouse." Holmes ignored Roberson with a casual nonchalance that was calculated to offend. "Watson," he said to me. "Your revolver, if you please. I want to interrogate Roberson and find where he's hidden your indiscreet writings and I'd feel safer if I were armed." "Of course," I replied. "I have Roberson's revolver as well, so--" "Give me both." I hesitated for a moment. Holmes interrupting me or issuing demands was nothing new, but there was an edge to his intensity that worried me. Roberson continued to spit and snarl, still aiming to cause as much fear and pain as was within his power. "Afraid of me, Holmes? You should be. I know what's underneath that mask. I saw you twitching and crying and frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog. I saw your mind shattered and your body helpless. You can put me in a cage but I still have that power��"to know what you look like broken." I tried to sustain the same indifference to Roberson's taunts and threats that Holmes's did, but it was difficult to endure. I marvelled at Holmes doing so, given the brittle state he was in. "Are you sure you want to do this now?" I asked. "You're not--" Holmes scoffed. "I'm perfectly fine. The poison is completely out of my system by now." "You're not fine. You look as if you can barely stand up." "I'm just tired; my mind is as clear as it ever was." He did indeed seem lucid, but still I was reluctant. He snarled in impatience. "Hurry up, man! I won't be able to question him once he's in police custody." He held out his long, thin hand. I sighed and against my better judgment gave him the two pistols. "Would you like me to stay?" I asked. Regardless of Holmes's assurances as to his health, he was still obviously weak; but Holmes, never one to acknowledge his limitations, rebuffed my offer. "No. Go tend to your other patients. I can manage this alone." I squeezed his shoulder as I passed, both an admonition for him not to push himself too far and a gesture of support. I returned to where Mr. Wooster and Inspector Cinwell lay. It seemed that Mr. Wooster had not stopped talking from the moment I left to the moment I returned, and as Jeeves departed to flag down the police, Wooster simply redirected his conversation from his manservant to me without a hitch. "…she'd never believe a word of it, of course," Mr. Wooster was saying. "I can hear her voice now, bellowing out in that way of hers that can be heard across three counties, 'Bertie, you young blot! What are you on about now! Who would want to stab you? Are you sure it wasn't just some innocent chap who tripped on you while carrying a pair of scissors?' To which I will say, 'Assuredly not, Aunt Dahlia!' and add that I would show her the war wound if modesty did not prevent me from so exposing myself before a lady. And Aunt Agatha," Wooster shuddered melodramatically, "she'd probably use this as evidence to what depths I've sunk and the deplorable sort of people whose company I keep��"no offence to you or Holmes, of course��"and fix me with her gimlet eye, gnash her teeth, and rant on about how I need a strong-willed woman to cure me of my wild delinquency." While Mr. Wooster talked, I checked Cinwell's status. His pulse was still strong, but too fast, and his breathing was increasingly shallow and laboured. He needed the care of a hospital, quickly. I bent to check that the dressing was still properly sealed, when the explosive sound of a pistol firing thundered behind me. My stomach dropped to my boots and my breath caught in my chest as I whirled about, dreading what I would see. My heart resumed beating when I saw Holmes still standing, calm and uninjured, but the knot in my diaphragm and roiling in my stomach remained when I saw that Roberson was on the ground, blood spattered across the back wall in a spray and pooling around his head. I ran to Holmes's side and stared down in shock at Roberson's body laying on the ground, unmoving, his skull shattered. Without glancing my way, Holmes handed my revolver back to me and proceeded to methodically wipe down Roberson's pistol with a handkerchief, removing fingerprints, I realized. "He was going to escape," he said. He did not turn to look at me, so I could not see what secrets he might have held in his eyes. "It had to be done." He knelt to place the pistol in Roberson's hand and curled the dead fingers around the handle. Rising, he scanned Roberson's still form, imagining the scene as a policeman would see it--a criminal, cornered and desperate, about to shoot before being shot in self defence. Draping a gentle hand on Holmes's shoulder, I pulled him away from the body. A garnet speck of blood gleamed on his pale cheek; I stared at it in horror. "Good God, Holmes! I--Good God!" I could not stay silent and yet I was at a loss for words. Each one tripped over the lump in my throat. "We had him captured! I thought we were going hand him over to the court. What happened?" "Justice. He should have been hanged years ago." "Taking the law into your own hands?" I was trembling, whether from fury or revulsion I could not say. "It's an old habit." "You murdered someone, Holmes. Shot him in cold blood, a man who was caged, unarmed…" "People have died in our cases before." "Accidents!" I shouted. "Or in the case of Moriarty, genuine self defence! Not this…this summary execution, this vigilantism!" "I tried letting the courts deal with him once. They failed. Can't you see? This was the only way." Holmes, always so damned sure of himself, would never be convinced that his actions were in the wrong. He had deemed it necessary, and therefore the only logical option--if this atrocity could be called logic. "And how will the courts deal with you? And what about the police?" I asked. "Deserved or not, it's still murder as far as the law is concerned." "Has it not occurred to you that I seriously and thoroughly contemplated the moral and practical considerations before I acted? That I did not do this lightly?" he snarled. He looked away for a brief moment. When his focus returned, he was again calm and aloof. "I have you to attest that it was self defence, and I'm sure Mr. Wooster will corroborate my account." "He didn't see what happened." "Mr. Wooster will believe whatever he's told to believe, regardless of whether it is the truth." "And Jeeves?" I protested. "Jeeves will not be so easily misled." "Roberson nearly killed Mr. Wooster. Jeeves would have pulled the trigger himself had he been the one holding the pistol. With such reliable witnesses--a solid doctor, a solemn valet, and a mostly respectable young aristocrat--the case will be over before it has begun." I had no doubt that Holmes was correct in his assessment, for he knew well the habits of the police and the courts. I closed my eyes, wishing it would all vanish like a dream upon opening them. To my dismay, no such thing occurred. "I'll perjure myself for you, Holmes, because I love you, and it would kill me to see you hanged. But never again. Do you hear? Never again." "No," Holmes whispered. "Never again." Shortly afterwards, Jeeves returned. With him came a bevy of policemen, including a man who introduced himself as Lestrade's protégé, Inspector Shelton. The echoing quiet of the warehouse dissolved into the organized chaos of a crime scene. Cinwell was laid out in the backseat of an automobile and taken to Royal London Hospital. The surviving, unconscious criminal lackeys were shackled and carried away. When they questioned each one of us in turn, Holmes averred that as he was speaking to Roberson, the man drew a revolver that he had hidden on him, and Holmes was compelled to shoot. It was accepted without question. I said that I was tending my patients when it happened, and so was not paying particular watch, but that to the best of my knowledge events occurred exactly as Holmes said they did. Once the questioning was completed, I was able to use Mr. Wooster's injury and Holmes's recent poisoning as leverage to convince Inspector Shelton to drive us to Mr. Wooster's flat in a police car while Jeeves followed in Mr. Wooster's smaller vehicle. Mr. Wooster left his telephone number with the inspector in case further questioning was needed, and at last we were left in peace. Jeeves prepared a pot of tea and a light repast, but it was a solemn meal. Despite Mr. Wooster's irrepressible chatter, I did not engage in conversation, even though I knew it to be unforgivably rude of me to ignore my host. Holmes, too, was silent, picking unenthusiastically at his fillet. Our eyes did not once meet throughout the entire supper. It was well after midnight by the time we'd finished eating, and the last few days had been far from restful, so we all retired to our respective rooms as soon as the dishes were cleared. Holmes and I held our mutual silence through our undressing and nightly ablutions. When we lay down on the bed, it was with our backs to each other. The rift between us had never felt so vast, a chasm the other side of which I could not even see, much less reach. I wondered how Holmes could have changed so much without my noticing, or, even more distressing, if perhaps he had not changed and I had simply never known him at all. It was while I was in this state of mind that Holmes rolled over and placed a kiss on the nape of my neck. At first I ignored his attentions, but when his hand drifted around my back and over my chest, I shifted away and sat up, turning to face him. "It won't solve anything," I said. He blinked in confusion. "What do you think I'm trying to solve?" I merely sighed in disgust and settled back down on the bed. Rare as it was for Holmes to initiate any sort of physicality, it was even rarer that I rejected it. He propped himself on one elbow and said, "You're angry at me." "Of course I'm angry at you!" I exclaimed. "I would have thought you'd draw the line at murder, no matter how just you thought it to be." "Roberson's actions threatened not only me, but you as well. If he had been acquitted, as he swore he would be, he would never have stopped until one or the other of us was dead. I could not allow that." "So you weren't lashing out over the torture he'd put you through. It wasn't the ergot still poisoning your brain." Those were the two excuses I was clinging to--passion or madness. Not that either would have made the murder any less real, or less wrong, but it could render it comprehensible to me. "No," Holmes replied. He hesitated for a long moment before continuing. "Perhaps it would be better if it were, less cold-blooded. I first suspected that I would have to kill him directly after our encounter with him in Mr. Wooster's sitting room." He traced a finger above my ear, following exactly the path of the scrape where Roberson's bullet had grazed my skull. I shook my head away from his touch. "Good God," I breathed, appalled. "You'd planned to murder him all along?" "Not entirely. I still believed that I'd be able to simply expose his criminality and see him in prison for the rest of his life, and I acted in accordance with that belief. Underneath the surface, however, where less noble thoughts linger, I imagined killing him ever since I saw you lying on the ground, motionless and bleeding. When he boasted about his money, his police connections, I feared that no matter what I did, what evidence I presented, it would not be enough. All my plans of capture to the contrary, I knew all along that gaol would not hold him, and I could not risk him running free, threatening..." He trailed off, swallowing deeply before he resumed his confession. "The solution was inevitable." "You never used to say such things. You've grown harsh, Holmes." "So has the world, and all the gaiety, the music and song, is the world trying to forget the darkness it saw inside itself. After the War…nothing is as it used to be. Not even me." Holmes never spoke about what he did during the war. Aside from a few brief and impersonal letters to me, he had completely vanished from the world during that time. Those years were a black void. The hollow despair in his grey eyes undid my ire, and the horror I felt turned away from Holmes and towards the fate that had brought us to such circumstances. "Sherlock." I stroked his hairline, his sharp widow's peak to his temple and further down his narrow face to his jaw and chin. "You're dearer to me than I can express, but you frighten me sometimes." "I know." "There were moments when I wanted to kill Roberson," I confessed. "But you didn't," Holmes replied. "I didn't." "You tended his injuries, bandaged his wound, offered him Christian mercy," he said. "You're a better, nobler man than I." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm sorry." I kissed his brow. "My dear John, I don't know why you put up with me." I smiled, a little softly, a little sadly. "Neither do I." He curled into the circle of my arms and breathed deeply as I stroked the plane of his back. He was shivering ever so slightly, although his skin was warm, but I made no comment upon it, and if I had I am sure he would have denied it. "I don't consider you a bad habit," Holmes muttered into the fabric of my nightshirt. "What?" He lifted his face. "I don't consider you a bad habit, or a mere convenience. On the contrary, at times you are damnably inconvenient." I could not at first place the context for these unexpected statements. Then I recalled our argument all those nights ago in this very room and Holmes's ingenious evasion of the conversation. For him to bring it up again, now, on his own accord, brought a smile to my lips. "Inconvenient, you say?" I prodded him to elucidate. He turned his face away and looked anywhere and at anything but me. "At times. I confess, you occupy a disproportionate percentage of my thoughts. So you see, it would not be reasonable to assume that it is convenience that keeps me with you or you with me." "So what is it?" He licked his lips and darted his eyes like a nervous schoolboy. "Surely you can deduce the answer now that we have eliminated the alternatives?" It was as close as I would get to a declaration from him, and, I realized with some surprise, it would be sufficient for now. Holmes could not act otherwise, and I could not begrudge his nature, no matter how it infuriated me. That did not, however, mean that I was compelled to follow his example. I cupped his cheek in my hand and pressed my mouth gently against his. It was a simple kiss. There was no youthful fervour or lustful passion in it, just a long and abiding warmth. When our kiss ended, I brushed my lips against his ear. "I love you, too, my dear Holmes" I whispered.

From the pen of Bertram W. Wooster: In which there are consequences. Chapter 9: ...And Punishment I awoke on a bed much harder and narrower than I was accustomed. Rolling over to seek out a clock, I found myself face to spine with a pile of books on the nightstand. Pygmalion was sandwiched between some volume titled Tractatus de Intellectus Emendatione and Prufrock and Other Observations. Hiding on the bottom, as if ashamed of itself, was a copy of Rosie M. Banks's latest romance. I took a few moments to put two and two together, but when I added up to four, so to speak, a wave of euphoria swept over me. Clearly, this was Jeeves's room, and those were Jeeves's books, for who else of my acquaintance would read something with so ponderous a name as Tractatus de Intellectus Emendatione. If this was Jeeves's room, my thoughts progressed, I must be in Jeeves's bed, and if I was in Jeeves's bed, then that must mean that the actions of last night were not the product of my unconscious teasing me with vivid, wishful dreams. The only dark spot on this otherwise boomps-a-daisy morning was the lack of Jeeves himself in the room. No sooner did I have the thought than Jeeves entered with a breakfast tray balanced on his hand. "That is remarkable, Jeeves!" "Sir?" "The way you seem to know exactly what I want the very instant I think it." "I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir." His words recalled the night before; he seemed to be able to read my mind then, too. My cheeks warmed at the thought. Jeeves must have divined the source of my blush, for he smirked most wickedly as he laid the tray upon my lap. I dug into my eggs and b. with enthusiasm. "How long have you been up?" "Roughly three hours. The late night caused me to sleep through more of the morning than is my usual habit." "Three hours! That's practically the crack of dawn!" "In point of fact, sir, at this time of year, sunrise is at approximately quarter after five." "Well, eight in the ack emma seems like the crack of dawn to me. I don't suppose you could sleep longer in the future? It would be dashed pleasant to wake up next to you." "I'm afraid it is quite impossible, sir." "Oh. Well, I suppose I could wake up earlier, then." The offer was sincere, although I shuddered at the horror of it. There are some hours of the day that man was simply not meant to see, but I would do it if Jeeves wanted it, no matter how torturous it would be. "If that is what you desire. Otherwise, I see no reason why we cannot continue in our accustomed schedules. They seemed to work well for us in the past." "You have a point," I said. "I don't suppose we could sleep in my bed next time, though. There's a good deal more room. There were times last night that I thought that I'd fall right off if you weren't holding on to me." "That would be agreeable," Jeeves answered. "What suit shall I lay out for you, sir?" I frowned in thought. "Do I have anything on the schedule aside from helping to outsmart the nefarious villain who kidnapped me?" "Lady Worplesdon is expecting you for lunch at one." "Aunt Agatha?" My mood dropped like a U-boat. "Can't we tell her I was kidnapped? Surely an experience like that is enough to get a reprieve from all fire-breathing aunts for at least a week." "She enquired into your whereabouts while you were missing. I told her that you were surveying lots with a contractor, and then paying a visit to Brinkley Court. It seemed the wisest course of action." "Surveying lots? Why would I be surveying lots?" Jeeves filled me in on the whole deception--namely that I was intending to build a home for my soon-to-be wife and children. I felt a thread of panic just thinking about the thing. "What am I going to tell Aunt Agatha?" I asked. "She thinks I'm going to be proposing to some girl any day now." "Tell her that you proposed this morning and were rebuffed. It would help if you were to intimate that the young lady in question were a waitress or perhaps a chorus girl." "I see what you're getting at. She'll be so relieved that I'm not getting hooked to some waitress that she'll be glad that my proposal was a bum deal." "Exactly." "Jeeves, you're brilliant." "Thank you, sir." I took a sip of joyful tea. My relaxing breakfast was interrupted, however, by the sound of some sort of banging emanating from the sitting room. I had no idea what could be causing the noise, but since Jeeves was here and I was here, I had some idea of whom. "I take it our guests are up and about?" A lesser man would have rolled his eyes, but Jeeves expressed his dismay in a much more subtle fashion, with a mere lowering of his eyelids and twitch of his mouth. "Mr. Holmes has been awake for some hours now." "Oh dear." "Indeed, sir." "Some people just don't know when to settle down, smell the roses, take it slow." Jeeves expression brightened. "He has, however, been useful in clearing out some space in your wardrobe." "What?" I said with alarm. "This morning he approached me with a request for any cast-off clothes we could spare. He explained that he intended to carry out some undercover reconnaissance and needed clothing with which to construct a few disguises. I told him that I would be happy to accommodate him." My alarm grew to a panic and sprouted wings, ready to fly into complete horror. I pushed the breakfast tray aside, leapt from the bed, hurriedly put on my pyjamas, and rushed to the sitting room, hardly noticing or caring how it would look to have a pyjama-ed Wooster emerging from Jeeves's bedroom. Holmes was there, as expected, doing unspeakably cruel things to my cobalt blue trilby. Already it looked as though it had been trampled by horses, washed in a mud puddle, and used as a flowerpot. Now, as if the poor thing hadn't suffered enough, Holmes was subjecting it to a violent beating with my cane. My shoulders slumped. I was too late to save it; my hat was doomed. I crossed the sitting room, meandering widely around Holmes to avoid suffering the same sort of beating that he was inflicting on the trilby, and entered my bedroom, anxious to see what clothes Jeeves and Holmes had seen fit to leave me. The damage was not as bad as I'd feared, though it was certainly bad enough. Gone were my cheerful yellow and green tie, my apricot-coloured shirt, and brass-buttoned jacket. Jeeves drifted in. "I think the grey pinstripe would be an excellent choice for today, sir." Well, after seeing all my favourite clothes torn apart in so a treacherous a manner, I was not about to give in to Jeeves's every sartorial whim. "No. I'm going to wear the navy. And don't even think of trying to dissuade me. I know that it's difficult, for we are both men of strong will and do not like to let go of things easily--" There was a snort of derision from the doorway. I turned to see Holmes leaning on the doorframe. "Mr. Wooster, you've many admirable qualities, I'm sure, but you've about as much strength of will as a jelly." With that astonishing statement he turned to Jeeves and said, "I need a hat brush and a bit of beeswax," and left again as quickly as he'd come. Jeeves closed the door to prevent any more interruptions. My mouth opened and shut many times before I could get any words out. "Why, of all the...Jeeves! You don't agree with him, do you?" "It is not my place to say, sir." "Dash it all, of course it's your place to say! You're not just my valet now. In truth, you haven't been for a long time, long before last night." "I think the navy would be a splendid choice, sir." Now I thought he was just humouring me, and I wouldn't have that. "I've changed my mind. I want to wear the grey pinstripe." "Very good, sir." Jeeves laid out the grey pinstripe suit while I stepped out of my pyjamas, feeling quite smug about having won that argument and proving to myself and to Jeeves that no matter how much I loved him, I was still my own man. By the time I'd dressed and emerged from my room, Holmes was finished with his brutal assault on my hat and now appeared engaged in the nigh impossible task of setting it back to rights. Dr. Watson had joined him in the sitting room. Jeeves glided over to where Watson sat. "Would you like some tea and breakfast, sir?" Watson replied, "Breakfast would be splendid, but no tea, please." He met Holmes's eyes and raised his voice. "I've had quite enough of tea for a while." Jeeves raised an eyebrow one eighth of an inch and biffed off to the kitchen. I was left feeling like I'd missed something, like someone forgot to give Bertram the secret code, which would unlock the meaning of the conversation. "I hardly thought it was possible to have too much tea. Well, I suppose one could." I chuckled as a memory drifted up to the forefront of my mind. "Biffy--he's one of my chums at the Drones Club--once drank ten cups of strong tea in immediate succession on a dare. He was miserable for a few hours and shaking like a leaf, but had forgotten clean about it by the next day. Of course, Biffy can't remember his own name one day to the next, so that's really not surprising. But as for just getting tired of tea, I for one have never heard of it. No one to my knowledge has ever said, 'Blast it, tea with breakfast again? I won't stand for it anymore.' Well, not until now, at least." Watson coughed. "It's not exactly like that." "Watson is making a needlessly dramatic gesture to express his feelings on a certain private matter," Holmes explained acerbically. "Oh," I said, and left it at that. If they were going to be at odds again, then I would stay well out of it. There was a long and awkward silence, broken only by the sound of Holmes tearing a small rip in the seam out of one of the sleeves of my brass-buttoned jacket. More to fill the silence than curiosity, I asked, "So, what sort of disguise are you making?" "A man with little money, but pretensions of grandeur, and poor taste. Just the sort of person who lingers in the places Roberson frequents." Holmes continued, "The fine quality of clothes indicate the pretensions of wealth, but the clothes will have the appearance of being used cast-offs, a bit tatty, and not tailored to his form. Thus, he has little money himself but would like people to think that he does. The lack of taste--" Watson interrupted before Holmes could finish, "Do you get the newspaper, Mr Wooster? I wouldn't mind catching up on what's happened in the world these past few days." I was grateful for the change of subject, for I had the rummy feeling that I wouldn't have liked where the prior conversation was going. "Jeeves always brings in the paper with my breakfast tray. If you'll hang on just a tick, I'll go get it." I instinctively marched towards my room before I remembered that I'd abandoned my breakfast in Jeeves's room, and he'd probably already cleared it away. I about-faced and popped into the kitchen to ask Jeeves about the paper's whereabouts. He directed me to my breakfast tray, which was sitting on the kitchen table. I expressed my thanks, snatched up the paper, and wandered back to the sitting room, skimming over the headlines as I entered. One in particular caught my eye. "Oh, look! You're in the paper, see?" I pointed to the headline SCOTLAND YARD INVESTIGATES THEFT OF PRICELESS ANTIQUITIES. Just as I was about to start reading, Holmes leapt up and snatched the paper from my hands. He surveyed the front page before handing the paper over to Watson. "If you please, my dear Watson." Watson cleared his throat, and then recited: Yesterday morning a break-in was discovered at the house of Sir Ronald de Glanville in Highgate. A thorough search of the house was conducted, during the course of which it was found that the burglars had absconded with the famous Jewels of Tarpeia, estimated to be worth over twenty thousand pounds. No other valuables were missing from the house. Lady Elizabeth de Glanville's grandfather, the noted explorer and archaeologist Sir Arthur Grainger, discovered The Jewels of Tarpeia in the Tuscany region of Italy in 1847. Watson interrupted his narrative, "It then goes on to talk about the history of the jewels, and a bit of nonsense about a curse��"" "A curse?" I said, with some apprehension. I'd not touched the jewels myself, but they'd been brought into my home and used to ransom my person. I might very well fall into the sphere of their malevolent influence. "It's nothing much; merely that all those who touch the jewels will either commit a grave betrayal or have one committed upon them. Then it gives some lurid details of romantic affairs as evidence. Ah, here we are, back to the investigation." He continued. The investigation is being carried out by Detective Inspector James Cinwell of Scotland Yard, who recently received much acclaim for his sharp deductions and swift action in the Streatham murders case. "It was a clean job," the Inspector revealed during yesterday's interview. "Either a seasoned professional, or someone who has a great deal of knowledge of crime and the criminal method at his disposal." When asked if he had any leads on a suspect, the Inspector replied, "I'm not at liberty to give out names at this time." "Then it concludes with a summary of some of Inspector Cinwell's successes," Watson finished. "Well, Holmes, what do you think? Are we in any danger from this Inspector Cinwell?" Holmes shook his head. "I shouldn't think so. His record��"what little I know of it��"is erratic, sometimes brilliant, at other times amazingly inept. This particular crime is remarkably commonplace, no different from the actions of any other contemptible sneak-thief," he said bitingly. "We left no fingerprints to trace, no marks, save our footsteps in the grass outside the window. Even if he notices those��"and given the observational skills of the average Scotland Yard detective he may very well not��"he could hardly investigate the shoes of seven million Londoners, hoping he will find a match." "Yes, I suppose you're right. Still, that phrase, what was it? 'A great deal of knowledge of crime and the criminal method.' It gives me chills." "It's a very basic bit of deduction. The crime was well done, ergo, the criminal had either experience or knowledge. Granted, it is remarkable to see anything resembling deductive reasoning from the official police, but even they can't be entirely hopeless all the time." I cleared my throat in what I'd intended to be an elegant, Jeeves-like manner, but instead of sounding like the subtle cough of a grazing thoroughbred, it came out more like the wheeze of an asthmatic pony. Clearly, it was an acquired skill. All the same, it had the desired effect of breaking up the conversation so that I could speak. "Investigations and such aside, is there anything on the table today? That is to say, will my indispensable services be needed for the next few hours? Jeeves tells me I've got an appointment with the dreaded Aunt Agatha, and I've a mind to stop by my club to get myself a fortifying drink and give the lads there a 'What ho.'" "Yes, yes," Holmes gave a dismissive wave. "Remember, however, not to say a word to anyone about me or Roberson or anything that has happened." "Right ho. Jeeves has already given me the whole ala...ali...dash it all, Jeeves, what's the word? Something Latin, means you're in one place instead of another." "Alibi, sir." "Yes, that's the one. Alibi. Jeeves has already given me the alibi of the viewing of lots and the failed marriage proposal. I have everything well in hand." With my good-byes said, Jeeves handed me my stick and hat--a staid grey fedora since my cheerful, cobalt blue trilby had been so recklessly commandeered--and off I went. It was a short and agreeable walk to the Drones Club. A mild breeze blew, sending puffy white clouds scattering over the sun, rendering the world bright and warm one minute and tenebrous the next. The club was loud and boisterous as usual, and for a moment it seemed difficult to believe that so much could have happened in my life these past few days, that so much could change and yet the Drones could remain exactly the same as ever. I ducked to avoid being conked in the head with a dinner roll and made my way to the bar where I saw a familiar form sitting. "Tuppy, old chap, long time no see." I sat down beside him. "Bertie! Where have you been, old bean!" Tuppy knew me too well to ever believe that I intended to marry a chorus girl, so I went for the second half of Jeeves's fib. "Oh, here and there. I visited Brinkley Court. Aunt Dahlia had a problem come up that could only be solved through the wits and wisdom of yours truly." "No you didn't." "Didn't I?" "No. I received a telegram from your cousin Angela not three hours ago telling me how frightfully boring it's been these past few days." "Well, I didn't say the problem was an exciting one." Inspiration struck. "In fact, once I arrived and set my mind to work, the whole thing cleared up in no time. Angela probably never even noticed that there was a problem, thanks to my quick thinking." "You mean Jeeves's quick thinking, I'm sure." It went without saying that Jeeves went with me on this fictitious journey. "Jeeves may have offered a crumb or two of advice." "A crumb. More like a whole cake." "A slice," I countered. "But it was Bertram Wooster who carried out the deed." I summoned the bar tender. Although few things were more deserving of a fortifying drink than an incipient meeting with Aunt Agatha, who was the very worst sort of aunt, the sort who, while gnashing teeth and breathing fire, would harangue long and wide about one's manner, lifestyle, and overall comportment, I decided against it. If the aged relative caught one whiff of alcohol on the breath, I'd really be in for it and with Aunt Agatha that was saying something. So it was with regret that chose to imbibe nothing stronger than a glass of orange juice, as if I were Gussie Fink-Nottle, the most hopeless poop of my acquaintance. Tuppy meanwhile grumbled on for a bit about Angela, working himself into a passion about the breezy tone of her telegram. "It's like she could take me or leave me, all the same to her. Well, I don't need to put up with it. There are other girls who would be thrilled to be my fiancée, none of this 'Don't bother coming to visit this weekend; I'll be busy entertaining guests' rot. I should tell her that if she feels that way, she should just call the whole wedding off." I recognized my cue. "You don't mean that. You love Angela, after all. And she, you." "Hah!" "'Hah?' What you mean by 'hah?'" "I mean 'hah!'" Thus encouraged, he ranted on about Angela's faults. I heard none of it. Here in the Drones Club, nothing had changed, and yet for me everything was different. I had looked down the barrel of a gun. I had kissed and more than kissed Jeeves. A warm feeling spread through my chest and I smiled what was, I confess, probably a soppy sort of smile, but love does strange things to a man, making him contemplate doing outrageous things like writing poetry dedicated to his beloved's beautiful azure eyes. Tuppy, fixated on his own problems, noticed neither my lack of response nor my drippy expression. I finished my juice and stood, clapping Tuppy on the shoulder. "Cheer up, old man. If you love each other, and it was meant to be, you'll find a way through all adversities. Something something amor, you know." Tuppy's broad face crinkled in confusion. "What are you blathering about, Bertie?" I waved a hand, magnanimously ignoring his hostile tone, for I was in too good a mood to let it be spoilt. "Can't stay and chat, I'm afraid. I'm expected for lunch with Aunt Agatha. Toodle-pip! And good luck with Angela." Tuppy gave a desultory wave and returned to his drink while I skipped out of the club. The walk wasn't long, although with each step I felt my feet growing heavier and heavier as reluctance clamped its iron chains about my ankles. I arrived at the hotel where my aged relation was staying sooner than I'd hoped and was immediately ushered into the dining room. Aunt Agatha was perched at one end of a long table, like a vulture on a dry branch of a dead oak tree. I claimed the seat to her right, sitting at the very edge of the chair, ready to make a break for it at first opportunity. Lunch was already set out and awaited only my arrival. "What-ho, old relation!" I said, plastering a polite smile on my face as I reached for the fork. Family is family, after all, and it wouldn't do to be rude. "How many times must I ask you to speak like a civilized person, Bertie?" "Oh, sorry," I avoided meeting her disapproving gaze. I cleared my throat and began again. "How do you do, Aunt Agatha?" "Abysmal. There are tradesmen running about the house everywhere, wreaking havoc, tracking mud about the floors. It is an utter mess. I shall be extending my stay here until they finish the job and leave." "Tradesmen? Did a pipe break?" "Nothing of the sort. Percy and I decided to have a new burglar alarm installed, on account of the wretched goings on." "Goings on?" At first I couldn't fathom to what she was referring, news of the outside world having passed me by for those few days I was Roberson's guest, but the reference to a burglar alarm put my mind on the right track. "Oh, you mean the theft of the Jewels of Whatsit." "Of course I mean the theft!" She sighed piteously. "A priceless heirloom stolen right from the de Glanville home. What is this country coming to?" "Well I--" "Hush, Bertie. Whatever idiotic thing you were going to say, refrain from saying it." I nodded silently and took another bite, thinking of one of Jeeves's little quips, something about discretion being the better part of valour. "Lady Elizabeth is naturally distraught," Aunt Agatha continued. "The thieves must have passed right by her bedroom door! She could have been murdered in her sleep!" "I don't think--" "Don't interrupt. It's people like you who are the cause of this." I choked on my fish. "Me?" I squeaked out, wondering if Aunt Agatha had somehow divined my role in the affair. "Yes, you. If you and your hooligan friends weren't off stealing policemen's helmets and swimming in public fountains and engaging in other such nonsense, the police wouldn't be wasting their time dealing with the likes of you and letting hardened criminals like these jewel thieves dance about England." I blinked away the peculiar image of Holmes and Watson doing a tango in Berkeley Square. "Dancing is not the word I would--" "Quiet, Bertie, I'm trying to make a point that you would do well to listen to." I nodded, but said nothing. Aunt Agatha spoke, "This recent yearning of yours to settle down in a house and raise a family is all well and good, but frankly, I don't trust you to pick out a tie, much less a wife. You need someone of strong will and good character to temper your wayward manner, someone who will convince you to make something of yourself." I nodded again, although it was hesitant and convulsive, a nod offered more out of self-preservation than agreement. Aunt Agatha continued, "Jeeves informed me that you have been stepping out with a girl and were planning to propose." There was a grim silence, the sort of silence that comes just before the executioner's axe falls. "Who is she?" I thought of Jeeves and his advice, namely, to tell Aunt Agatha that I'd asked the filly but she refused and wedding bells would not be ringing. The image of Jeeves, however, called to mind the declarations of the previous night. For the second time that day, inspiration came upon me. Clearly, the Muse of Prevaricating-to-friends-and-relations was with me today. Thus, I leapt in with both feet to weave my story. "A servant," I said. "A servant?" Aunt Agatha echoed in disgust. "Yes. But this person is quite the smartest, cleverest, most attractive domestic that ever there was. I declared my love last night and to my good fortune, my regard was returned." "Bertram Wilberforce Wooster," she roared. I quailed in my seat. It was not often that Aunt Agatha felt need to resort to middle names. "Of all the absurd, cracked-headed things you've done in your life, and there have been more than can be counted, this is the worst!" "Really?" I mused that she must be more ignorant of the antics of the last few years than I'd thought to warrant making such a statement. Certainly, stealing Sir Watkyn Bassett's cow creamer was a far wilder endeavour than courting a servant. Or pretending to be Rosie M. Banks, romance author extraordinaire, surely deserved more of a raised eyebrow than a cross-class understanding. "I don't care how charming you think she is. You will break off the affair immediately." "I can't do that," I retorted. "I have a Code. It would be a breach of promise." "You've ended engagements in the past. More than can be counted." "Well, technically, I didn't end them; the female half of the contract always let me off the hook." Aunt Agatha's wrinkles sagged in a fierce frown. "I know that you have ways of slipping out of engagements when it suits you. Don't think I haven't noticed. Either get her to end it or do it yourself. It doesn't matter which, so long as there is no marriage. Give her fifty pounds to keep her quiet and send her on her way." "If such is your will, aged aunt, I can promise you that there will be no wedding." I let that sink in, feeling very pleased with myself. As much as I might wish to marry Jeeves before God and all the rest, we'd have to settle for a gentlemen's agreement. I was happier than lunch with Aunt Agatha had ever before been known to warrant. The supposed close brush with the horror of having a maidservant for a niece-in-law would, with luck, prevent my aunt from bringing up the dreaded "m" word for a while. Perhaps I would get a nice little house after all, and Jeeves would ensure that it remained wife-free. We would then live out our days in conjugal bliss. Not even Aunt Agatha could spoil the joy such daydreams inspired. And so the luncheon passed without further grief. Nevertheless, I was pleased when I was dismissed. Even for one in the best of moods, Aunt Agatha's company is a bitter pill to swallow, and furthermore, I was eager to return home to Jeeves. I bought a bottle of Château d'Yquem on the way home and had some notion of presenting it to him and then inviting him to go take in a show if there was nothing interesting happening on the Roberson front. Instead, I returned to mayhem. The front door was open and four bobbies were packed in my sitting room. An inspector with grizzled hair, a thin, wolfish sort of face, and clad in a rumpled suit was putting Dr. Watson in handcuffs while Jeeves attempted to curb the madness. "What the devil is going on?" I asked, setting the wine on the sideboard. The inspector passed the manacled Dr. Watson into the care of a police sergeant. He approached me with a slow and steady tread. "My name is Inspector Cinwell, Scotland Yard. You must be Mr. Wooster," he spoke in a flat and jaded tone. "Were you aware that you were harbouring a dangerous criminal?" "Harbouring a--" I chuckled in confusion. "You must be joking. Dr. Watson? A dangerous criminal? Why, he's the kindest, most decent chap I've ever met." "You've been taken in, I'm afraid. The good doctor here is a master thief." "Master thief?" "He's under arrest for breaking into the de Glanville residence and stealing the famous Jewels of Tarpeia." I sputtered. "But that's--How--? What about Mr. Holmes?" Cinwell raised his brows in puzzled inquiry. "What about him?" "Is he in trouble, too?" If Watson, who only accompanied Holmes on the heist was headed for the magistrate, then it seemed reasonable to me to assume that he who planned and carried out the bulk of the crime would likewise be facing the judge's bench. Inspector Cinwell's reply was therefore baffling. "Mr. Holmes is an old friend of the police," the inspector said without a trace of irony��"a little too sincere, if you know what I mean. "He can hardly be blamed if his colleague strayed from the straight and narrow. Now if you'll excuse me, Mr. Wooster, I really must get on with my job. We may have questions for you later, so don't leave town." The police began to drag Watson from the room. All remaining traces of my earlier joy vanished utterly when I saw the hopeless and despairing look on his face. As he passed by, he muttered to me, "Tell Holmes what happened." Soft though his words were they were not soft enough to escape the sharp hearing of Inspector Cinwell. He stood before me and said, "Yes, by all means, Mr. Wooster, tell Holmes what happened. Leave out no detail, no matter how unimportant." He fixed me with a brief but piercing gaze from his heavy-lidded, pale eyes and a chill trickled down my spine like drops of water sliding down a melting icicle. With that, he tipped his hat and left, leaving the flat quiet and empty but for Jeeves and me. Jeeves poured me a stiff one before I even needed to ask. I gulped it down without pause. Despite the fact that the arrest had just happened before my very eyes, I couldn't imagine how it could have come to pass. I expressed my uncertainty to Jeeves. "How did they know? Holmes said they left no clues behind, and if anyone would know about clues, you'd think it would be Sherlock Holmes." "It is more troubling than that, sir. Consider, even if some sort of clue were found that incriminated Dr. Watson, who, other than you or I would know that he was temporarily residing here. It should have taken many days for the police to track Dr. Watson down, not hours." When the answer came to me, my jaw dropped. "Good heavens! I say, Jeeves, good heavens! You think that Roberson put the police on Dr. Watson's scent?" "Holmes himself intimated that Roberson had connections in law enforcement whom he bribed to escape capital punishment. It would appear that at least some of those connections are still in place." "So Roberson arranged for Watson to be arrested?" "I think it likely, sir." "But why not Holmes while he was at it? Why all that 'friend of the police' whatsit?" "If Roberson's prior modus operandi is any evidence, I would surmise that Roberson wishes to make another exchange and has made Dr. Watson his new hostage." I lit a gasper and paced up and down the sitting room. Things were getting decidedly beyond rummy and all the way towards disastrous. Every time one of us turned around, there was Roberson, chipping away at our fortifications. We needed a plan. "Jeeves, we need a plan." "I concur. There's little we can do, however, until Mr. Holmes arrives." "Where is he?" "He left shortly after you did to gather information on Roberson. He has not yet returned." "He's going to blow his lid when he finds out what's happened. I know I would if it were you who was locked up." I yearned to put my hand on Jeeves's shoulder, to feel his strong arm underneath my palm and gain reassurance from it, but the whole notion was so awkward now in the bright mid-afternoon and in the relative public of the sitting room. What happened under the fire of ardour in the bedroom was one thing but I wasn't sure that Jeeves would approve of such casual touches in the daylight. I'd crossed the line between master and valet last night, and now when I turned around and looked back, I couldn't be sure where it was anymore, what was appropriate and what was not. I settled for standing close enough to him that my sleeve brushed against his. He did not object to my invasion of his space; in fact, he reached out and ran his fingers down my lapels, as if straightening them out, even though I knew with some certainty that they were in no need of adjustment. I, heartened by this action, brushed a mote of non-existent dust from Jeeves's impeccable shoulder with a slow and firm stroke. He did not draw away or seem impatient with my touch, and my heart rallied at the novelty of touching Jeeves in my sitting room in such an intimate manner. A speck of the hopelessness which had gripped me broke off and drifted away, leaving my mind just a little bit lighter. Thus bolstered, I waited for Holmes's return and prepared myself for the unenviable task of breaking the news to him. When Holmes arrived, he swept into my quiet flat like a whirlwind, bringing chaos to Jeeves's order, tossing scuffed cobalt blue hat on the sofa and frayed jacket over the lampshade. He spoke quickly and wandered the room incessantly, not pausing even while lighting up a cigarette. "Roberson has been busy. He's re-established many of his old contacts--those who aren't dead or in prison--and has been forging new connections with the local gangs near the docks. It all suggests that he has already started up his old business again. Indeed, I suspect that, although it may have slowed after his arrest, it never entirely died. He had subordinates to look after his legitimate shipping interests while incarcerated; in all likelihood, he had similar arrangements made for his illegitimate merchandise." The last word of Holmes's speech was spoken with a bitter curl of his lip. He stopped and looked at us for the first time since he'd entered. A frown deepened the hollows of his face and I quailed. He asked, "Where's Watson?" I shuffled my feet. "Well, you see, the police were here when I returned��"returned from my visit to Aunt Agatha, if you recall whom I was going to visit. After I visited her." I licked my lips and rocked on my heels, putting off saying what needed to be said. Holmes's icy gaze, which seemed to drop by degrees with each word I spoke, wasn't making my difficult task any easier. "Everything seemed oojah-cum-spiff when I left the house, what? Not a trouble to be seen in the immediate future. So you can imagine my surprise when I come home to find an invasion in progress, bobbies every which where and a Scotland Yard inspector and the works. And Dr. Watson there right in the middle of the commotion. He--that is to say, Dr. Watson--he was...in a state of...the process of being..." I paused, mouth open, hoping the necessary words would make themselves known, but no sound emerged. Jeeves, as always, came to my rescue. "Dr. Watson was arrested, sir," Jeeves said. I watched Holmes with the uncomfortable look a rabbit might give upon finding himself face to face with a lean and hungry fox, that is to say, my shoulders hunched and I braced myself for whatever sort of scathing attack might be forthcoming. I could see the muscles of Holmes's jaw roll under the skin of his thin face as his teeth clenched. "Tell me what happened, and omit no detail, no matter how trivial it may seem to you." I shivered at the feeling of déjà vu--or would it be déjà entendu --that came over me. "That's exactly what he said! Inspector Cinwell, he said that I was to tell you what happened and spare no detail." Holmes's mien, which had been grim before, became downright sepulchral. "Tell me," he repeated, his voice flat and low. I related the story as precisely as I could remember it, Jeeves filling in details now and again. Holmes was utterly still and silent throughout. His cigarette burnt down, forgotten, until it singed his fingers, and even then he showed little distress, merely flicking the offending stub into a nearby brandy snifter. When I'd finished my tale, I did not move or speak, waiting for Jeeves or Holmes or someone to come up with a fruity scheme to break Watson out of gaol, a file-baked-in-the-cake sort of deal or well-placed explosives by the wall, for we could not in good conscience simply leave him to his fate. Jeeves did not disappoint. "We would be best served by first discovering what sort of evidence they have against Dr. Watson. If it is merely circumstantial--" Whereas I was hanging on Jeeves's every word, as sure of his good sense and acumen as I am sure that the sun rises in the east, Holmes harboured no such appreciation. Retrieving neither hat nor jacket, he left the flat without a word.

From the pen of Dr. John H. Watson: In which Holmes and Watson play fast and loose with the laws of the land. Chapter 6: The Jewels of Tarpeia "He wishes me to steal the Jewels of Tarpeia," Holmes said. Jeeves inhaled sharply through his nose. The name clearly had meaning to him, although it had none for me. The provenance of these mysterious jewels, however, was of less concern to me than the risky action Holmes was planning to take to acquire them. "Good Heavens, Holmes, you agreed?" I asked, horrified. I could scarce credit it, but Holmes's affirmation at the end of the telephone conversation could hardly imply anything else. "I agreed, but that does not mean that I must follow through. I agreed in order to buy us time." He curled up on the settee and stared into the distance. "I need to consider my options." "What of Mr. Wooster?" Jeeves queried, breaking into Holmes's reverie. Indeed, the question was a most pertinent one, as I didn't doubt that Mr. Wooster would come to harm if Holmes tried to renege on his deal with Roberson. "What of him?" Holmes replied. Jeeves's face took on a countenance as stiff and blank as marble. I, too, was aghast at Holmes's display of callousness. As much as I feared for Holmes, I knew that he was made of stern stuff and possessed ample skills of self-preservation. Mr. Wooster, however, with his easy nature and general trust in the basic goodness of mankind, had all the self-preservatory instincts of a naïve child. The idea of leaving him in Roberson's clutches to fend for himself was intolerable. I said as much to Holmes. "Mr. Wooster's life is at stake! Surely we must take that into consideration." "I am considering all the variables." "He's not a variable, Holmes. He's an innocent young man who has never faced this sort of danger before. We have a duty to protect him." "What would you have me do?" Holmes snarled. "Become Roberson's lackey? If I play his game, dance to his tune, then he wins." Jeeves cleared his throat with a delicate cough. His voice was smooth and his expression unreadable save for a glitter in his eyes. "Would you allow your client to be murdered, sir? Surely such an event would be a blot on your record." "Mr. Wooster is not my client." "Then I will employ you on his behalf." "I'm retired. I no longer accept clients." I perceived Jeeves's strategy, and threw my lot in with him. "You know that's not entirely true, Holmes. You cleared up the death of that science master." "He died right in front of me; what else was I to do?" "There was also the affair of Mr. Wiseman's missing painting just last year." "A favour for a close neighbour." "'Close neighbour?'" I scoffed. "His house is ten miles away and he's even more unsociable than you are! You yourself admitted that you knew little about him; before the incident you'd only spoken to him once in all the years you've lived in the district." "A neighbour regardless," Holmes waved his delicate hand dismissively, as if he were swatting away a gnat. "And don't forget the time you saved that poor girl from the cruelty of her step-father." "It was a heinous thing to do to a child. Any man with a shred of decency would have acted as I did under the circumstances." "Nobody else could have acted as you did, Holmes. You barely slept for two weeks, gathering evidence and concocting a method to put him in gaol where he belonged without bringing shame on the mother or child. And there were the Rhondda Valley murders that were all over the press in '07. Then there was that hideous time you dragged us both to Scotland in January to assist the Edinburgh police. And that government fraud case that Mycroft brought to your attention. And the outlandish experience with the travelling carnival, which still gives me nightmares upon occasion. And-" "Enough, Watson." He raised his hands, whether in surrender or to hold off the onslaught I was not sure. Either way, I had made my point. I settled into silence, knowing well after my many years with him when to push and when to retreat. As I expected, my patience was rewarded. When he spoke, it was quietly but with more candour than I had heard from him in a long time. "I have always valued justice; more than anything else in this world, justice is what makes existence bearable. One can live-perhaps happily, perhaps not-without faith, without temperance, without love, without freedom, but take away justice and all falls into disorder and the world tears itself apart. If ever I broke the letter of the law, it was because justice is more important than any man-made decree. What Roberson asks of me is nothing less than a perversion of my skills, using them to betray what I hold dear. What justice is there in violating the home of an innocent person? What justice is there in abetting a criminal in amassing ill-gotten wealth?" I sat beside him on the settee and laid my hand upon his shoulder. It was hard as steel beneath my grip. It grieved me to see his distress, all the more for my own part in causing it. If I had not written those private accounts, if I had argued on Mr. Wooster's behalf and convinced him to flee to safety and leave Roberson to us, if I had been able to shoot Roberson before his shot clipped my head and left me in a daze…fault after fault stretched out behind me like footprints. Weighed down with sorrow, I could not speak. Jeeves, however, had no such guilt to contend with, nor concern for Holmes's comfort of mind. "What justice is there, sir, in allowing Mr. Wooster to suffer for the sake of your pride?" he asked. Holmes flinched under my hand, although his face did not show the sting that I knew Jeeves's words had evoked. Cutting as the remark was, it roused Holmes from his introspection. After Holmes's initial shock, he gathered his resolve, straightening in his seat, his cool grey eyes sharpening their focus as his thoughts returned from whatever disquieting inner landscapes they had been wandering. "Just so," Holmes said. Once the matter was decided, Holmes threw himself into the task whole-heartedly, as was his wont. He sprang from the settee and fluttered about the room, punctuating his words with graceful gestures of his fine hands. "I shall need information and I shall need it quickly. Roberson has given me until Monday night to accomplish the task-a woefully inadequate amount of time, but I must make do with what I have. I shall require both of you to assist in the preliminary research." "I am more than happy to assist you, as always, but if I'm to help, I'll first need some information myself." I gathered my thoughts in order. "First, the Jewels of Tarpeia. I confess, I've never heard of them. What are they? Gemstones of some sort?" "The Jewels of Tarpeia are pieces of ancient Etruscan jewellery," Holmes answered, "a diadem and collar set, made of gold and inlaid with cabochons of black garnet. The set is priceless, not only for its material value but its antiquity." Jeeves added, "They are owned by Lady Elizabeth de Glanville, and she considers them to be among her prize possessions, wearing them for only the most extravagant of occasions and otherwise keeping them locked away in a safe." Now that Holmes was following the desired course of action, Jeeves's mask was less cold, and he was once again the epitome of the helpful valet. The shift was smooth and near imperceptible and I was forced to reassess my initial opinions of the man. His intelligence and devotion were self-evident, but I had hitherto failed to recognize his talent for manipulation. Never before had I seen Holmes so skilfully turned from his initial course with merely a few words, and apparently without Holmes aware that he was being herded. "You are familiar with the lady's habits?" Holmes asked, fixing his rapt attention on Jeeves. "Yes, sir. One of my second cousins was a footman for the household for many years until he recently married. At that point, he decided to take a position in the country as he believed it would be better for the prospective children." "Go on," Holmes waved for Jeeves to continue. "What else can you tell me?" "Very little, sir. Only that the family keeps two dogs loose in the yard at night-large, black brutes-and that the house itself is fitted with electric burglar alarms at all the doors and windows. The safe in which Lady Elizabeth keeps her jewels is in her boudoir, which is directly adjacent to her bedroom. It is hidden in the wall behind a small Rembrandt." "Good Lord," I said. "you know everything but the combination of the safe!" "Alas, I cannot help you there, sir." "No matter," Holmes replied. "Cracking the safe will be the easiest part of my task. I will need tools, however. Mr. Jeeves, would you be so kind as to have our luggage sent here from the James Hotel near Victoria Station?" "Yes, sir." Jeeves left the flat to make the arrangements with the doorman. I gave Holmes a quizzical look. "You brought safe cracking equipment with you?" "I anticipated the possibility that I'd be required to break into Roberson's rooms to retrieve the papers. I certainly didn't expect to use them for common crime." "I dare say there's nothing 'common' about this whole affair." Holmes's lips tightened in a grim smile. "I plan to make this business appear as common and ordinary as can be, so that there is no clue, no irregularity, which can be traced. The investigative powers of the Metropolitan police may not be much, but it's better not to take unnecessary risks." Jeeves returned. "A man has been sent to fetch the luggage. Shall I prepare a bedroom for you, gentlemen?" "For Watson, perhaps, but not for me. I'm going out." Holmes said. "I don't expect I'll be back before breakfast." "What can I do?" I asked. "For now, nothing. Rest. Tomorrow, first, go directly to Cox and Co. and find out if Roberson does indeed have the papers or is merely bluffing. If the papers are still in your dispatch box, retrieve them, bring them back here and burn them immediately. After you have accomplished that, go to the surveyors' office and get me as many blueprints for the house and its surrounds that you can. Oh, and stop by the chemist's and purchase some morphine." My jaw slackened and my eyebrows shot up. After many years of effort, I had for the most part weaned him from his addictions, although there were still the occasional slips. But even during those times when he was most captivated by the poison, he had never once succumbed to the temptation of the needle while on a case. Holmes rolled his eyes. "For the dogs, Watson, for the dogs." With that final statement, Holmes slipped into his coat, dropped his homburg on his head and whisked himself away out the door and onto the London streets. Jeeves led me to the guest room and saw me settled in for the night. After a few scant hours of lonely and restless sleep, I rose early to face what was sure to be a busy day. The wet, smoky scent of bacon and the sweetness of buttered toast wafted through the air. No sooner had I taken my seat in the dining room than Jeeves arrived with a cup of tea and a marvellous breakfast. Although I'd always lived comfortably enough and had little to complain about regarding the state of my finances, the services of a valet were a bit of a novelty. Mrs. Hudson, God rest her soul, had never been so smooth and efficient in her housekeeping or quiet in her comings and goings. Jeeves, on the other hand, was so silent that it was easy to forget that he was there, a remarkable feat for a man who was broad in the shoulder and taller even than Holmes. His face rarely betrayed a hint of emotion, yet it was clear from his actions last night that he was deeply devoted to his master, the kind-hearted Mr. Wooster, and that encouraged me to be well disposed towards him despite the fact that I knew little of him. I thought of the distress that had slipped out last night from under his professional mask when Mr. Wooster's safety was on the line. I understood well the sort of emotions that must be stirring beneath, having witnessed them in many a client and having experienced such fear myself. Sympathy compelled me to offer hope. "Holmes will get him back, you'll see. He'll get the jewels, make the exchange, and Mr. Wooster will be returned safe and sound before you know it." "As you say, sir," Jeeves replied, his face as still and unmoving as before. He showed no flicker of either concern or confidence. I didn't know what I expected-a visible relaxation of features, a glint of optimism in the eyes-but there was no sign that my words had affected him in the least manner. Jeeves's expression was completely impenetrable. Either he cared less about his master than I supposed, although my memory of last night dismissed that possibility, or else his feelings were even more obfuscated than Holmes's. I left him to his privacy, then, and said no more. As soon as I finished my tea, I left to carry out the errands with which Holmes had tasked me the night before. Jeeves offered to take care of the matter of the surveyors' office, arguing that the task required a great deal of discretion, lest it be tracked to the soon-to-be burglary, and that he had certain connections that would help him. I was at the doors of Cox and Co. the moment they opened for the day. My dispatch box was still in the vault, but the compromising papers themselves were no longer inside. I could not report the theft, for the ruckus that would incite would prompt difficult questions and, furthermore, would interfere with Holmes's plans. Nevertheless, I casually probed the staff and discovered that jokes about the bank being haunted had been bandied about over the last few weeks. It started when a clerk swore that he had seen a shadow in the dark corridor to the vault. He went to investigate, but no intruder was found, and nothing was ever reported missing, so the whole event was dismissed as a young man's overactive imagination and the Tale of the Haunted Vault was born. After I had completed my business with the bank, I dropped by the chemist's on my way back to Berkeley Square. Acquiring the drug was a simple task, made doubly so by my medical credentials. By eleven o'clock, a bottle of morphine sat on the table next to the flower vase, and a neat stack of blueprints competed for space with the morning Times. Despite Holmes's assurances that he would be back after breakfast, there was still no sign of him and I began to worry. It had been many years since he had spent much time in London, and there were a thousand ways an elderly gentleman walking the streets alone at night might come to peril. Although Holmes still possessed his wiry strength and kept himself fit with long walks and frequent swims in the ocean when the weather permitted, he was not as robust as he had been in his younger years, loath though he was to admit it. The image of a young hooligan with a knife murdering Holmes for his pocketbook lodged itself in my mind and refused to be shaken out. When the telephone rang, I started, roused from my unpleasant reverie. Jeeves answered the phone. "Mr. Wooster's residence...No, Lady Worplesdon, I regret to say that he is not available...No, he is not sleeping off the effects of too much drink...He has left the house for the day...Yes, Lady Worplesdon." The call ended. I raised my brows in inquiry. Jeeves replied. "That was one of Mr. Wooster's relatives. She was hoping to have a word with him today." "You didn't tell her the truth?" "I thought it highly imprudent to do so, sir. Roberson was quite explicit in his views regarding police involvement, and Lady Worplesdon is not one to sit idly by while strangers manage affairs. She would insist on calling Scotland Yard." "It still seems a bit unfair that she remain ignorant of the danger her own kin is facing. If she knew the truth, she'd be worried sick." Jeeves's mouth twitched in scepticism. From this I gathered that there was no love lost between Mr. Wooster and this relative of his, nor did Jeeves think highly of her. We spoke no more to each other through lunch, save for idle pleasantries. Just as Jeeves was clearing the luncheon plates, Holmes burst into the flat. He looked every inch like a man who had spent the night prowling the backstreets of London, all stubbled cheek, wrinkled clothes, dishevelled hair and red, sunken eyes. His palms of his hands were scraped raw and his fingernails cracked and filthy. "Where in heaven's name have you been, Holmes? And what have you been doing to put yourself in such a state?" Holmes ignored my questions. "Damn Roberson and his unreasonable demands! A clever burglar would observe the house for weeks before making a move. He would learn the house and its routine; he would take note of the layout; he would determine the obstacles and prepare methods for overcoming each one in turn; he would-" "Court the maidservant?" I said tartly. "Are you still bitter about that old deception?" Holmes was not the only one who could ignore direct questions. "You were at the de Glanville house, then." "For part of the night, yes," Holmes replied. "It is just as Mr. Jeeves said. Two dogs, a lawn girded by a stone wall about seven feet high. There are twelve servants in all. The lady, her husband, and their three young children are all currently staying in the house." Holmes sighed. "This is not going to be easy. Did you get the blueprints?" "Jeeves did." I pointed to the stack. Holmes snatched them up and rifled through them, nodding his approval. "Excellent." He strew them about the sitting room floor with seeming abandon. Jeeves shuddered at the chaos. "The street." He waved his hand over one section of paper-covered floor. "The house." His hand fluttered again in the opposite direction. He sat down Indian-style on the rug and shuffled through the blueprints, occasionally marking them up with a short pencil. When the doorbell rang, Holmes did not appear to notice, so thoroughly engrossed he was in his task. My first thought was that the police were back, and I instinctively hurried to where Holmes sat, thinking to hide the blueprints, although there were far too many, and too scattered to gather them all up quickly enough to do any good. When reason reasserted itself, I reckoned that it was something quite innocuous, a friend of Mr. Wooster's, or a delivery. Either way, standing in the middle of the room looking shifty was not the ideal action to take. I settled myself on the chair, mimicking Holmes's lack of concern. Jeeves glided to the door. On the other side was a formidable looking woman of near my own age. "Lady Worplesdon," Jeeves began. She burst past him and into the sitting room. "I will accept no excuses, Jeeves. Where is that good-for-nothing nephew of mine? And don't tell me he is 'unavailable'; I know an evasion when I hear one." She stopped in her tracks when her eyes fell on the scene before her. She frowned at me as I politely rose to my feet, but when she saw Holmes her expression turned to open distaste as she took in his unkempt guise. "Who the devil are you?" She looked at Holmes. Holmes opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted before he could speak. "Don't bother to answer. I can see clearly that you're one of those bohemian dilettantes-some sort of so-called 'artist' or 'philosopher'. I know your type, parasites always sniffing about well-off gentlemen, grasping for handouts, decrying money one second then gleefully snatching it up the next. You've been filling Bertie's head with all kinds of silly nonsense, no doubt. Well, I'll have none of it. Where is my nephew?" Holmes was shocked into silence. It wasn't often that a person-and a woman, at that-dismissed him so thoroughly and completely. Even the mildest of women left him unsettled, although he always took great pains to conceal it. This mortal Tisiphone was far from the mildest of women. "Lady Worplesdon," Jeeves tried again. "Where is Bertie, Jeeves?" she asked. "And who are these men?" "Well, you see, my lady-" I began, hardly knowing what I was going to say, but sure that one of us ought to say something and Holmes was not volunteering for the task. "Mr. Wooster is considering building a house," Jeeves interrupted. "He is with the contractor now, examining possible lots. Mr. Williams here is a surveyor, and Mr. Harris an architect. You have undoubtedly heard of Mr. Harris's work, mostly neo-Georgian inspired Art Nouveau designs. He is in high demand on the continent and Mr. Wooster was very fortunate to catch him between commissions." "Of course I've heard of him! Who has not?" Despite her protestations, her eyes betrayed the nervousness of one who does not wish to be caught ignorant. "But why would Bertie need a house? He has no wife, no children; what does he plan to do with it?" Jeeves gave a discreet cough. "Lady Worplesdon, I have reason to believe that Mr. Wooster hopes that his domestic circumstances will soon change." Lady Worplesdon frowned in bewilderment. "Do you mean to say he's engaged? And he has not told me?" "He is not yet affianced, my lady, but it is my impression that he plans to offer his pledge soon." "Well, what kind of girl is she? And why hasn't he introduced her to the family? It's some frightfully unsuitable match, isn't it��"a waitress, or, heaven help us, a chorus girl, some uncultured, shrill female without a speck of good breeding in her, a gold-digging, dim-witted trollop. Bertie never did have good sense or taste. That must be why he's keeping it a great secret. Well, I shall put a stop to that." "When he hears of your disapproval, my lady, I am sure he will abandon the idea." Holmes broke into the conversation, his voice high-pitched and reedy with a hint of a Scottish accent. "I hope Mr. Wooster hasn't been wasting my time. I do have other clients." Lady Worplesdon looked down her sharp nose at Holmes. "Mr. Harris, I assure you that far more esteemed people than you have had their time wasted by my nephew." "My time is worth money. I expect to be compensated." "I fail to see that you have done anything that warrants payment. Surely you don't expect to be paid for," she sneered, "sprawling about the ground like a heathen and looking at drawings. My young step-son could do that free of charge." Holmes's lips tightened. I could not tell if his annoyance was part of the role he was playing or genuine. "How like a nob to clutch at your pocketbook as if you were destitute the second someone mentions money." "How like a wastrel to demand a salary for lazing about." I decided that the squabble had gone on for long enough, and would only get worse if I allowed it to continue. "Lady Worplesdon," I bowed. "We're very sorry for any inconvenience that Mr. Wooster may have caused by engaging our services. As soon as he returns we'll sort the matter out." "Well," she sniffed, eyeing me up and down. "You at least have respectable manners. You might consider teaching them to your vulgar colleague." Lady Worplesdon allowed herself a slight softening of the lips that might have been a smile. Holmes snorted at the implication but thankfully said nothing. As she was gathering herself to leave Jeeves spoke, "I shall tell Mr. Wooster that you inquired after him, my lady. He will be most distressed to have missed your visit." "Tell him that I will expect to see him tomorrow," Lady Worplesdon stated. "My lady, I'm afraid that Mr. Wooster is going to be in the country tomorrow. He has already made all the arrangements and cannot cancel on such short notice." "Nevertheless, cancel it he will. I shall not be put off so my dolt of a nephew can waste time playing golf with his friends." "It is a rather more serious matter than that, my lady. Your sister, Mrs. Travers, personally commanded Mr. Wooster to present himself at Brinkley Court tomorrow." "What could Dahlia want with a dunce like Bertie?" Lady Worplesdon asked. She shook her greyed head. "I suppose they are well suited to each other. She's nearly as foolish as Bertie is. Very well. He is to take luncheon with me at my hotel the day after tomorrow, and not a second later." "I will ensure that he does, Lady Worplesdon." Jeeves herded her out the door. Once she was gone, Holmes barked out a sharp laugh. "I'm compelled to wonder if Mr. Wooster wouldn't rather remain kidnapped," he said. "She wasn't as bad as all that. You're just upset that she was not in the least bit intimidated by you," I said, returning Holmes's jibe. "You and the women," Holmes grumbled. The remaining hours of the afternoon and evening passed in rapid planning. Receiving invaluable input from Jeeves regarding the location of Lady Elizabeth's boudoir, Holmes set himself to memorising the layout of the building and determining the best point of entrance. Supper came and went, of which Holmes, predictably, did not partake. He did nap on the couch for a few hours, much to my relief. He had not slept at all the last two nights, and I did not care for the idea of him carrying out such a dangerous and delicate task while frayed from exhaustion. Although the hour was growing late, I remained in my dinner jacket. When Holmes woke shortly after midnight, he must have noticed my attire, but he did not say a word. Instead, he retreated to the lavatory and shaved off two days worth of stubble. By the time he finished his ablutions, it was a few minutes before one in the morning. "Freshening up for your night on the town?" I teased him, darkly amused by Holmes's priorities when he was about to embark on burglary. "I will appear less suspicious on the streets, going to and from the house, if I am clean-shaven and respectably dressed." "Ah, I should have known there was a sensible reason for it," I replied. He glanced at the clock. "It's time," he said. "Jeeves?" Jeeves nodded once and vanished into the kitchen, reappearing seconds later with packages of meat wrapped in butcher paper. These Holmes stuffed into his satchel, along with the bottle of morphine, his lock picks and other burglar's tools, one of my old stethoscopes, a length of rope, and a torch modified to give off a dark red light instead of the usual white. "If I'm not back by dawn, assume the worst," he said. I stood before him and crossed my arms over my chest. "Holmes. I'm going with you." "Watson-" I raised one hand to halt Holmes's words before he spoke them. "You are about to make a very logical argument illustrating why I should not accompany you." "Naturally." "I will then ignore everything you say, logic be damned, and insist on staying at your side." Holmes raised one brow. "Given the historical evidence, it is very likely." "In the interest of saving time, let us skip the intermediate steps and progress straight to the moment when I remain resolute and you, at last, relent." Holmes chuckled. "Oh, my dear Watson, who am I to refuse you?" The mirth vanished from his face. "It will be dangerous." "I expect nothing less when I'm with you," I retorted. The satisfied smile that spread across Holmes's lips and the smugness in his narrowed eyes made me glad that I had stubbornly held my position. I would have stepped forward to take him in my arms, but Jeeves's light cough reminded me that we were not alone and neither Jeeves nor Holmes would appreciate the impropriety. Holmes turned to Jeeves. "If we don't return, Roberson's arranged meeting place is at the docks, in the Falmouth Shipping Company vault, tomorrow night. Do what you can to negotiate Mr. Wooster's release." "I will, sir, though I hope that it will not be necessary." Holmes nodded once in acknowledgement before darting out of the flat. I followed close at his heels, trusting that Holmes knew what he was doing or else all our attempts to escape Roberson's persecution would come to naught and we would end our days in a prison cell. The maximum penalty for burglary was harsher than that for sodomy. It we were caught, Roberson would not need to bother making my papers public to see us imprisoned, although spite and the added bonus of turning us into social pariahs would undoubtedly drive him to do so anyway. I wondered if Holmes would have taken the risk had Mr. Wooster's life not been on the line. Holmes and I took a cab as far as Hampstead Heath, and from there made our way on foot to the grand residence of the de Glanville family. The night was grey and damp, a chill drizzle turning the buildings on either side of the street into shapeless masses in the haze. I turned up my collar, pulled my bowler more firmly down upon my head, and hunched against the light rain. Once we were at the wall that girded the de Glanville house, Holmes snatched the hat off my head, relieving me of even that small guard against the wet. He doffed his homburg as well and tucked it, along with my bowler, behind a small bush. "It wouldn't do to have them fall off in the middle of our burglary," he murmured. His grey hair grew slick and dark from the rain. With the dim light from a far away streetlamp erasing the lines and hollows of his face he looked just as he had thirty years ago. I couldn't help but to smile. If he noticed my amusement, he didn't question it. "I'll be the vanguard, opening locks and leading us to the lady's boudoir. You will be my lookout. If you see anything, any movement, any light, don't say a word, simply tap my shoulder twice, like this." He demonstrated with two firm taps. "And follow my lead. Understood?" "Understood." I suppressed the urge to give a sharp, military salute. I wondered if there was some magic in the air that stripped away the years, for just as Holmes seemed to me to be young again, so too I felt like an excitable youth seduced by the promise of adventure. I watched the street with sharp eyes, ready to warn Holmes should I see any passers-by, while he swiftly and efficiently dosed the packaged meat with the morphine I had supplied. Once this was accomplished, he rewrapped the cutlets and placed them back in the satchel. "There will undoubtedly be some barking," he said, "but it can't be helped. The drugs should silence them quickly enough, and with luck the noise will be dismissed as excitement over a stray cat or another such innocuous interloper." His eyes were darting here and there, taking in whatever part of the grounds there was to be seen over the wall. He took particular note of a nearby tree, going so far as to point a long, white finger at it. "I'll go over first and subdue the dogs; you follow when I give the signal." "Do be careful, Holmes. It would be a shame if you were to end your life by pasteurellosis brought on by a dog bite." Holmes chuckled. "That would be an ignominious sort of death, wouldn't it? Have no fear, Doctor. I plan to perish in a manner far more extraordinary than by a mere infection." With those less than reassuring parting words, he sprung into the air and clambered over the wall. I waited, straining my ears to catch any sound of growling or snuffling that would indicate that the hounds had found Holmes. I need not have bothered to exert my senses, for when the dogs came they came with a racket that must have been heard a block away. Amongst the barking and howling there was a rustle of leaves and snapping of twigs, and then Holmes was sitting safely in the branches of the nearby tree, visible over the wall. The barking stopped as abruptly as it had begun, and I could only assume that the dogs had found and begun to devour the meat, as it would take some moments for the consumed drug to take affect. We waited patiently, Holmes in the tree and I by the kerb. A few minutes later, Holmes descended and then reappeared perched on the top of the wall, one hand reaching down to me. I grasped his wrist and quickly scaled the partition. The instant my feet were firmly on the ground once more, Holmes laid his gloved hand against my lips. His meaning was plain: no speaking from here until the mission's end. The ends of his fingers stroked against my moustache as he slowly drew his hand away and my lips tingled at the absence of his touch. Holmes, however, was utterly unaffected and wholly professional. He motioned me to follow and crept across the lawn. Two enormous black mounds, the sleeping dogs, broke the monotony of the smooth, flat turf. Trees dotted the grounds here and there, and Holmes kept to the long shadows they cast. As we drew closer, I could see that it was a beautiful residence, two stories high, with elegant Corinthian columns by the main doors and large windows that glistened in the misty rain. He took us to one of these windows, which looked in on the dining room, and swung the satchel off his shoulder. I cast my eyes over the area, watching for any sign of trouble while Holmes retrieved his burglar kit. Half the tools inside looked more fit for an electrician than a criminal, but I had no doubt that they served some purpose. First, he took out the torch with the red light and with it he made a careful examination of the whole perimeter of the window frame. Next, he retrieved the glass cutter and cut away a portion of the window right up against the sill. He slid both hands into the hole and felt along the inside wall, the glass gouging long lines into his leather gloves. Finding whatever it was he was looking for, he withdrew his hands and took up the electrician's tools��"a spool of thin copper wire, wire cutters and a pair of needle-nose pliers. He cut off a section of wire, and armed with this and the pliers, once against slipped his hands through the window. I couldn't see what he was doing, but it was clearly taking every ounce of his concentration. His mouth was firmly set and every small motion careful and deliberate. After standing outside and exposed for what felt like an age but couldn't have been more than a few minutes, Holmes breathed out a small sound of satisfaction. He repacked his tools and opened the window with a proud flourish. No alarm sounded and I let myself sigh in relief. I climbed in after Holmes. A sharp stinging awareness, the nervous crackle that one feels when one is in peril, ran through me. While we were out on the lawn, there was still a chance that we could run and escape if were we caught. Trapped in the house, our position was far more precarious. Even when faced with the prospect of capture and arrest, however, I could not keep the exhilarated smile from my face, for I had always found enjoyment in adventure, just as Holmes thrilled when faced with a challenge. Criminal, dishonourable, and in terrible danger, yet at this moment we were more alive than ever. Holmes took my hand and led me along as we padded our way through the hallway and up the stairs to the first floor, his keen eyes picking out obstacles, even those lost to my sight in the shadows. At the next to last door at the end of the corridor he stopped and put his ear to the keyhole. He must have heard only the sounds of deep sleep, for a few seconds later he nodded once in satisfaction and drew me to the next door over. Holmes took a bit of oil from his bag and greased the hinges so it opened without a sound. We stepped inside and closed the door behind us so that a wandering servant or family member passing by would not notice anything amiss. The modified torch came out from the satchel again. Holmes thrust it into my hands and I dutifully turned it on, casting an eerie, blood-red circle of light. The Rembrandt that Jeeves had mentioned was simple to pick out, even to my artistically untrained eyes. Holmes plucked it from the wall and, just as Jeeves had promised, behind it was Lady Elizabeth de Glanville's safe. Holmes motioned me closer. I pressed up against his side and held the light still and close by the safe's lock. It was a basic steel box with a combination lock rather than a keyhole. Holmes took out the stethoscope and set to cracking the safe, cool and methodical as any practiced thief. He was fixed on his work and was likely hearing nothing but the click of the dial, so I kept my eyes and ears alert to any movement in the house. It seemed to take an interminable length of time. My nerves stretched every second into hours and rankled at the enforced stillness at a moment when every animal instinct was screaming for action. I envied Holmes his focus and control. At last the safe opened. Holmes reached in and pulled out a massive, twisted rope of gold. I had time for only the briefest glance before Holmes tucked it and his stethoscope back in the bag. The deed was done. No mere trespassers, we had now taken by stealth what was not ours to take. We moved quickly to finish our work. Holmes closed the safe while I fetched the Rembrandt to re-hang on the wall. Once the room was put back to rights and we stood at the door to the hall, Holmes retrieved the torch and dropped it in the satchel as well. He listened at the door for signs of life in the corridor, and when he heard none he took my hand again and led us through the darkness. We were almost to the stairs when my hindbrain noticed a flicker of light at the edge of my vision before my conscious self realised what it was. There was no time to warn Holmes. I acted on instinct, grabbing him around the waist and pulling him back against me behind an armoire. Holmes did not question or protest, but remained perfectly still in my grip, his only movement the expanding and contracting of his ribs with each breath. The light grew closer, jumping and flashing across the floor��"a candle, then, guttering with each step the bearer took. I peered over Holmes's shoulder, scarcely daring to breathe and wondering what we would do if we were caught. Then the late-night pedestrian was upon us, shuffling by with sleepy steps. It was a boy of no more than ten, eyes half-closed and looking neither left nor right as he made his way down the hallway. He passed us without a glance and continued on his way. I did not hear Holmes's silent, relieved laugh, but I felt it in the shudder of his lanky frame. As soon as the boy had taken himself and his candle into a room and out of sight, Holmes and I hastened down the stairs and to the dining room. We met with no more surprises inside the house and climbed out the window. Once outside, Holmes shifted his satchel more securely on his shoulder and whispered against my ear. "Quickly now." He dashed off across the wet lawn and I followed as swiftly as I could, cursing the stiffness in my leg that the damp air exacerbated. I reached the wall many seconds after Holmes. He, making a stirrup with his hands, gave me a boost up. Crouching on the top of the wall, I reached down to assist him in turn. We leapt down to the pavement in unison. Holmes was breathing heavily from the mad sprint across the lawn, but his mouth was open in a wide grin and he was laughing between pants. "Good Lord, when that child walked by I thought we were finished!" I rifled through the bushes, trying to find where Holmes had stuffed our hats. "There were moments I was sure my heart would burst from anticipation. I'm getting too old for this sort of thing." In truth, however, I'd not felt younger in years. Perhaps it was the excitement, the adventure. Perhaps it was the sight of Holmes's outrageous merriment. Whatever the reason, I wished to hold it close before it slipped away. "Too old? Nonsense, my dear Watson." Holmes was recovering quickly from the earlier exertion and spoke with barely a hitch. He stepped over and found the hats in a second, dropping his homburg on his head before placing my bowler on mine, straightening the brim with care. "You did admirably. Now, let us complete our getaway." He took my arm in his and we walked away from the scene of the crime. We took no more than a few steps, however, when I stopped Holmes with a command. "Wait," I said. It was a night for risks and audacious exploits and the bold spirit of adventure was not gone from me yet. I took his face in my hands and pulled him into a deep kiss, there on the empty street, almost daring a passer-by to come and catch us. I took him by surprise, which was such a rare thing that I enjoyed the kiss all the more for it. The curl of his laughter still lingered as the drizzle of rain rolled off his hat brim and slid down his face, dripping past his lips and chilling the heat of his mouth. Even when the kiss broke, we stayed close, our cheeks touching. Holmes was once again breathless. He raised his hand and placed his fingers on my mouth for the second time that night. This time he did not draw away immediately, but allowed his touch to linger until I could taste the leather of his glove. All too soon, however, he dropped his hand and the moment ended. He took a small step back, re-establishing a respectable distance between us. Holmes's hat was cocked back on his crown, dislodged from its proper place by my enthusiasm, so I straightened it for him. He coughed and licked his lips, finding his equilibrium once more. I smiled with pride at ruffling him so. Alas, it was not to last. When next he spoke, it was as if nothing untoward or remarkable had happened. "We should press on," he said. "We're going to have a devil of a time finding a cab at this time of night." He was, of course, correct. We walked for nearly three-quarters of an hour and were soaked to the bone before we chanced upon a cab driving the Highgate streets in the wee hours of the morning. It was not far to Mr. Wooster's flat and before long we were standing at his threshold dripping rainwater in front of his door. I rapped on the wood, hoping that Jeeves had not fallen asleep. I need not have worried, for when Jeeves answered the door, he was as pressed and clean and alert as if it were three in the afternoon instead of three in the morning. I felt twice as clammy and ragged in comparison. He had anticipated our needs marvellously, carrying a pair of soft towels draped over his arms. I accepted one with gratitude and wiped the rain off my face. "You were successful, I gather?" Jeeves asked while he helped Holmes peel himself out of his wet coat and jacket. "Quite so," Holmes replied. "I confess I was a bit concerned about the electric alarm as I'd never seen one of that design firsthand before, but as it happened it was simplicity itself to jump the circuit." He took up the satchel and wandered into the sitting room, ignoring the water dripping from the hem of his trousers. Jeeves eyebrow twitched when Holmes dropped his still wet self onto the settee. While Holmes rummaged though the bag, I dried myself with the towel as best I could. I dearly wished to change into dry clothes, and began to take myself off to the guestroom to do just that when I was interrupted. "Watson!" Holmes called out. "Come here." Summoned, I came, though not without some resentment. "Holmes, can't it wait five minutes? I'd like to get into something a little less drenched. You could do with a change of clothes yourself." He dismissed my concerns with a flick of his hand. "Time for that soon enough. Look." He raised our stolen loot, these Jewels of Tarpeia, for my admiration, like a little boy showing off a mouse he'd captured. The jewels were indeed most impressive. The diadem was not, as I had imagined, a small circlet, but a broad headdress with a fall of golden chains. The collar was likewise massive, yet with a delicate aesthetic for all its size, filigreed in intricate patterns around each perfect, black stone. "See the granulation? This sort of skill and artistry was lost for thousands of years. Only in the last few decades have jewellers been able to recreate this sort of detail." Jeeves had hung our coats to dry and now joined us in the sitting room. "From the graceful design and the soldering technique I would speculate that it dates from the late sixth century B.C. It is a truly magnificent piece." "A fit ransom for Mr. Wooster?" Holmes slyly cocked one eyebrow. Jeeves did not rise to the bait. His face remained impassive and he spoke without inflection. "Indeed, sir. May I fetch you some tea to ward off the chill?" Holmes shrugged indifferently, but I thought hot tea sounded splendid and told Jeeves so, thanking him for the offer. Jeeves glided off to the kitchen, leaving us to our own devices. Holmes gently cradled the golden collar in his hands. He smoothed his thumb over one of the cabochons, staring into the gem as if enthralled by the dark and distorted reflection it cast back. In a wholly unexpected move, he lowered his head and draped the collar on his shoulders. The gold was bright against the black cloth of his waistcoat. There was something both outlandish and absurd about Holmes donning ill-gotten priceless antiques over his damp and old-fashioned set of evening clothes. "It doesn't suit you at all," I said. "Ah well," Holmes replied with an affected air of regret. He removed the collar and placed it next to the diadem. He was silent then, staring off into the distance, thinking about Mr. Wooster and tomorrow's exchange, perhaps, or else about the very professional crime he had committed this night. Or he might have been dwelling on the flight patterns of bees, for all I could tell from his vacant expression. So many times he had seemed to read my mind simply by using his wonderful skills of observation and deduction. I wished so often I possessed the same talent where he was concerned. Although I am no detective, I am a moderately skilled doctor, and although I could not read Holmes's thoughts on his face, I could read the drawn and pale face and shadowed eyes. Holmes had been running himself ragged and was in sore need of food and rest even if he would not admit it nor was even likely aware of it. I interrupted his reverie. "I'm going to have a word with Jeeves. Why don't you get some dry clothes?" He nodded vaguely in reply. It was enough to know that he heard me, whether he'd take the suggestion or not was another matter. I found my way to the kitchen where Jeeves was just arranging the tea set on the tray. "I'm sorry to bother you, Jeeves, but Holmes has barely eaten these last two days. Can I trouble you to make up something simple? A bit of toast would be fine, so long as he gets something in him." "Of course, sir. We have some pasties left from lunch, would that do?" "That would be perfect." Jeeves fetched an extra plate, placed two pasties on it and arranged it all on the tea tray. When we returned to the sitting room, however, Holmes was stretched out on the settee fast asleep. I sighed, ruing the sheer impossibility of inducing the man to eat. "Shall I offer him the use of the guestroom, sir?" Jeeves asked. It was the room I'd slept in last night. My clothes were hung in the wardrobe. I understood what Jeeves was subtly asking, and it was an attractive thought, to have Holmes sleeping at my side again for the first time in nearly a week. When I looked at Holmes's peaceful form, however, I knew that I could not accept the offer. "No. He has such a terrible time falling asleep sometimes that I don't dare wake him now. He needs the rest too much." "Very well, sir." "If you have some spare blankets, though, I think he could use them." Fond exasperation coloured my voice. "The reckless fool is still in his wet clothes and I don't want him to catch a chill." "I shall fetch a duvet immediately." When the blankets were brought out, I took them from Jeeves's arms and spread them out over Holmes's sleeping form. I tried not to think about tomorrow's headlines and the burglary they were sure to report. I also tried not to think about seeing Roberson again, although I knew we could hardly make the exchange otherwise, for he was sure to use the opportunity to taunt Holmes. As I brushed his damp and tangled hair away from his forehead, I tried not to think about his hand on my lips, there and then gone, like a swift break of light amidst dark clouds, swallowed up by the gloom as quickly as it had come.

Nancy had never really thought about it. She knew other children scorned their parents' careers, even went as far as they could in the other direction, but she had always been incredibly proud of her father and what he did. In a way her entire life had seemed to lead up to this, all her cases and the contacts she'd made and the experiences she'd had, all the late-night conversations with her father over hot chocolate, everything. Almost everything. In the morning she was going to graduate from law school. Then came law review and sitting for the bar and officially accepting one of the offers on the table, but this, at least this, would be done, another step so close to the real beginning of her life. Nancy lay on her back in the darkness, her gaze fixed on an unremarkable square of ceiling in her guest bedroom at her Aunt Eloise's house. She wasn't aware that her hand had snaked up under her nightgown until she felt the familiar ridge of the scar under her fingertips. It looked like an unexpected and unnatural fold in her flesh, lined in a livid pink, and though she had been assured by the few people who had seen it that it was nearly invisible, Nancy hadn't been able to bring herself to wear a two-piece bathing suit or a midriff-baring top since the knife had slashed through her side. She was always aware of it; it felt like a thread through her skin pulled tight, sometimes aching with cold or pulsing with heat, but more often just a breathless sense of weightless loss. She had other scars, but even the light line that marked a bullet graze across her upper arm hadn't done this much to her. Her Aunt Eloise and Eloise's husband Seth had set up the barbecue on their patio and they, along with Nancy's father and Hannah and best friends Bess and George, had made their way through three bottles of wine, laughing and reminiscing about Nancy's cases in the dim starlight reflecting off the waves. Bess and George had gone to the beach for a late swim, still loose and giggly from the wine, but Nancy had begged off. Just before she headed up to bed, her father had stopped her with a brief hug. "I'm proud of you, Nan." Nancy's hand stilled, her fingertips lightly pressed against the seam of the scar. Her father was proud of her. With a sigh she rolled over onto her side and closed her eyes. She couldn't have cold feet; it was done, she had the degree, and whether she showed up for the ceremony or not, she would have her diploma. The hard part was over. The hard part was just beginning. -- Nancy had been through her share of graduation ceremonies. The only thing different about this one was her outfit and the person waiting to shake her hand and pass over the diploma. When Nancy glanced back during the interminable drone of the speaker's address, Bess was staring at her phone and George was engaged in hushed conversation with Nancy's father, but they both waved encouragingly at her when she caught their gazes. When they were finally dismissed, Nancy's stomach was growling. She had been too keyed up to eat breakfast. Her father had invited practically everyone Nancy had ever known and as they tried to maneuver through the crush and get to the parking lot, Nancy was pressed to countless shoulders, enveloped in secondhand clouds of perfume and aftershave, given well-wishes and cards and small gifts until she was overloaded and had to hand most of them over to Bess. Half the people asked Nancy jokingly if she was going to join her father's firm, but she knew it was what everyone expected; even if she stayed in New York and took a position in one of the city firms, everyone would expect her to come back sooner or later, take over when her father finally decided to retire. "Sure you don't want to go ahead and start a family?" Nancy had been expecting that question, steeling herself for it, but that didn't make it any easier. It was asked by one of her Aunt Eloise's friends, a woman who only looked vaguely familiar, and Nancy faked a smile and murmured some noncommittal reply, sighing in relief when someone else snaked an arm around her waist and drew her in for another hug. She wasn't allowed personal space today, or boundaries, apparently. En masse they headed to a nearby restaurant, an Italian bistro already overpowered by the graduation day crowd, and over sweating pitchers of water and the first uncorked wine bottle of the day their conversation was so loud it seemed to vibrate in Nancy's bones. Her seat felt like the center of a hurricane, if only because she seemed to mentally switch off when no one was speaking directly to her. She had been waiting, the entire ceremony, for something that hadn't happened. For someone. After lunch they took pictures, out on the beach; they had led a caravan out into the Hamptons and Eloise and Seth's house was overflowing, trays of sandwiches and bowls of chips and various tiny perfect confections in paper cups in the kitchen, coolers full of beer and wine coolers on the patio. While Bess and George changed into bikinis and started a beach volleyball game, Nancy, still in her gown and hood and cap, wrapped her arm around her father's shoulder and beamed into the camera as the wind split the tassel into individual strands beside her cheek. The wind tugged the hood and she felt it press against the base of her throat, and her skin was sheened in sweat, gleaming under the harsh sun as the waves crashed behind them. Soon after she caught Bess grinning wickedly at her cell phone, a grey van pulled in and Joe Hardy emerged, laughing as Bess launched herself into his arms. He gave Nancy a sincere congratulations with his bright eyes sparkling and grabbed a beer and Nancy, for the first time, felt the years weighing on her. She remembered when Joe had been sixteen and Frank had been exasperated by him half the time and they had all been years away from being able to legally drink. Now Bess made a wicked margarita and Nancy could practically assemble long island iced teas in her sleep. "You did it." "I did," Nancy smiled, smiling as Joe wrapped his arm around her shoulders for a half-hug. "Let me guess, wherever Frank is, it's highly confidential." "Frank?" Joe gave Nancy a carefully schooled blank look. "Who's that?" George tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Hey cowboy. I think you and I had a bet going." "Look, I don't know who this Frank character is, or any bet... maybe I'm at the wrong party." "Sure you are." Bess crossed her arms. "I remember something about that bet. And once the grown-ups go to bed, Hardy, your ass is grass." Joe backed away, palms up in a mock protective gesture, but the gleam in his eyes gave him away. "I'm afraid. Or I would be. If I had any clue what you two were talking about." Nancy opened the gifts and cards, alternating between feigned and genuine enthusiasm at the cash, gift cards, porcelain figurines, books of legal humor and anecdotes and quotes for graduates. The crowd's murmur rose and fell around her, all laughter and champagne, and she felt her mood rise, but then she went upstairs to change for dinner. The dress she had chosen to wear for dinner was ivory with a sage green satin sash, and she laid it out on the bed and took off her doctoral gown, running her fingers over the velvet strips on the sleeves, wondering if she would ever wear it again. She stepped out of the light dress she had been wearing beneath, and though she often avoided looking at her own reflection in the mirror, her gaze went immediately to her reflection and then to the scar. They ordered endless rounds of pizzas from a delivery place in the Hamptons and Nancy kept waiting for someone to say "One word, Benjamin, plastics," but it never came. Bess started calling Nancy "Lawyer Barbie" and in retaliation Nancy left her three-inch black stilettos in the sand. George mixed up a pitcher of strawberry daiquiris and found a box of tiny paper umbrellas and Joe drank one with his pinky raised and his eyebrows raised higher. No more school. No more school ever again. "Did you always think you'd be here?" They were around a bonfire, the four of them, and the few friends Nancy had made in the Hamptons, Emily Terner and a few of her friends, all glowing and happy at the unofficial beginning of the summer. The water was still too cold, really, and the night was cool. Nancy sat with the skirt of her ivory dress spread out in the sand and propped her chin on her hand. She'd never thought about it, really. "No," she admitted. "And yes." Bess, smiling, tilted her head, and her sun-bleached curls trailed down her shoulder as she toyed with a red tumbler of daiquiri. "Okay, you have to explain that." "I thought I'd have my own detective agency. I thought I'd be with the FBI or CIA taking down corrupt governments and trading secrets." Nancy shrugged. "I don't know. But this, I think this is going to be pretty great." "You kidding?" Joe took another swig of his beer. "You were practically genetically engineered for this. You'll be the DA in three years." "Care to make a bet?" George's eyes were sparkling. There was always an end. Nancy had almost always been able to focus on the beginning, the fresh start, the way things would be different, but she felt out of her depth, now. For so long each decision had seemed to proceed logically from the last, but now she had five formal offers on the table and choices to make, whether she wanted to go back to Illinois or stay in New York or somewhere else in New England, to strike out for the coast, either coast, to practice estate law or do pro bono work or become a towering inferno of righteous rage as a criminal lawyer, but she could feel a tug and she didn't know what to do about it. The party took hours to die down, and in a way it never did. The stream of guests left Nancy with handshakes and hugs and parting advice, asking when she would be moving back, when she would be settling down and starting a family, her father's golf buddies and partners in the firm and Ann Granger and almost everyone she'd ever met, it seemed. She felt like she was on some candid camera show, that the night would end with an unexpected and dramatic entrance, maybe Frank Hardy parachuting in wearing a tux, but the few guests who would be in the Hamptons in the morning arranged to meet for brunch and Nancy joined Hannah in the kitchen to help clean up, and the champagne had left a pleasant buzz in Nancy's head as she swept the last few plastic cups into a trash bag and sighed. She was graduated. When she woke up in the morning she would be a JD. Nancy picked up her cell phone and checked it for missed calls, found a few assorted well-wishes from the couple of people who hadn't been able to make it, and walked out to the beach with the phone still in her hand. Her feet were still stubbornly bare, and the sounds of Bess, George, Joe and Emily laughing over their card game faded as the roar of the sea grew. Nancy walked out until the water barely lapped over her toes and gasped in shock at the cold. The moon was full, pale as her dress, and Nancy gazed up at it, giving herself over to what she had been feeling over the past few days. With the approach of commencement something akin to panic had grown in her. She didn't know what to do or where to go. She had to decide before she sat for her boards, but she had time. She just couldn't imagine that the choice would become easier. Nancy jumped a little when her phone rang, jittering against her palm. She barely had time to register the name in the ID on the screen before her thumb was pressing the answer call button. "Congratulations, Nan." Nancy's knees went weak, and with a sigh she let herself fall to the sand, her heels still in the water. The sound of his voice set her heart to racing, and the disappointment she'd barely acknowledged feeling drained out of her. "Thanks." "I would've called you earlier, but I was sure you were partying hard. And it's been a damn busy day here. UC's graduation was today too." The moon. The moon had been full that night too. Nancy placed the flat of her palm over the scar and fixed her gaze on the pale orb and the deep familiar sound of Ned's voice seemed to resonate in her veins. "It's all right." She dug her heels into the sand, a little. "It's really nice to hear from you." "Listen, you wouldn't be coming back to Chicago anytime soon? I really need to take you out for dinner. Miss Nancy Drew, lawyer." Nancy chuckled. "Anytime soon? As in, how soon?" "I would say tonight but I don't think there are any more trains this late." "I'll meet you tomorrow for dinner." "Fantastic." The genuine warmth in his voice made her shut her eyes in happiness. "Do you want to talk to him? He just went to sleep but I can wake him up." "I'd love to." Ned put the phone down and Nancy shivered as the wave lapped over her calves, pushing herself back until she was on dry sand again. She sat up just as the receiver rattled in her ear. "Hi Mommy." "Hi honey," Nancy said, a smile in her voice. -- Ten years ago, Nancy had been sure that she'd be with Ned now. Probably settled down, but still with him. They'd have a sunny house with a big backyard for the children. Ned would toss the football around with his friends. It was the kind of mental image she never talked about, not to her friends, not even to Ned. Ned proposed to her when she was still an undergrad at Emerson, when he was finishing his degree in business management, and she had said yes. They had planned to get married a month after she finished her bachelor's, and she had already picked her color, a pale sage, when she found out she was pregnant. She never knew which one of the sessions in his dorm room or her dorm room had been the one, but they had only slept together once they were engaged, once she had the ring on her finger, and all it meant was a shift in their schedule, a choice she had to make, a choice she found she had already made. She would keep the baby. His stubble brushing her cheeks, his mouth in that slow easy grin as the sheets pooled around them, the last fading rays of sunlight on his chest. Ned. The only man she would ever love, the man who had sworn to love her until the day he died. She hadn't known that coming so close would unknit them, would undo them. It was a case, on campus. Slashed tires, and she was looking for the pattern in the victims, the locations, anything. She had been playing a hunch when the culprit had caught her off guard and only by twisting away, in a sudden breathless panic over the baby, had Nancy been able to avoid being gutted. Even so, all the blood, so much blood, shining under the light of that full moon, had scared Nancy and the man who had attacked her, and on the way to the hospital Nancy had waited for it, waited for it. You're losing the baby. There's nothing we can do. She became so agitated by her fear over the child that she started sobbing, hyperventilating, shaking, and they had to drug her. They stitched her up and the baby was fine, she stayed in the hospital overnight with a pale stricken Ned and her father and Hannah by her side, and by the morning she knew. She wasn't supposed to have a baby. Not really. It had been too close. "Ned," she had told him, her face already wet with tears, "I can't do this. I can't— I can't have a baby. I can't. I can't." Ned's face went white as chalk. "What are you saying?" She shook her head and her throat started to close up. She hated that she felt relieved when he called their engagement off, that he found the strength to say the words she had all but said, paralyzed by her fear. She hated that she felt relieved when he came to the hospital on the day she had their child, a boy, a boy she named after him, hated that she felt relieved when she signed the papers giving Ned full parental rights and waiving her own. But, for the most part, she had felt empty. She wanted to be someone else, wanted to be the person Ned needed, a wife and mother, someone who wouldn't leave them. Her son needed a father; Ned was that man, would be the perfect father, would be a great father. She was happy that he wanted to be that father. She hated that she wouldn't be there with them. The occasional photos and phone calls just made her miss them both all the more. She wanted to see them again so much that it hurt. -- "How many?" The hostess beamed at Nancy, her hand already on the menus. Nancy shifted her weight, feeling suddenly almost shy. "I'm meeting someone here, actually... Mr. Nickerson." The hostess's eyes widened slightly. "This way." He had proposed to her in a restaurant much like this one, with fine expensive tablecloths and no hint of denim in sight. The hotel had two dining rooms; the one downstairs made the bacon cheeseburgers and curly fries for the Chicago tourists, but this restaurant operated by reservation only and served a far upscale clientele. Nancy wore a cocktail dress in rich sleek coffee-colored satin, smoothing the fabric over her thighs as she took a seat at the table. It was an open secret that almost no one knew, thanks to Nancy's careful wardrobe choices and the summer birth. Ned had a son with his last name and no one really questioned it; she hadn't been so public a personality that the tabloids had picked it up, and soon it all faded into obscurity. But when Ned walked in, their son walking beside him, holding his hand, Nancy couldn't help but trace his features, finding what in him belonged to Ned, what belonged to her. It had to be clear to anyone with eyes who his parents were. "Mommy!" "Hey Nicky," Nancy said, holding her arms open to him, and when he climbed into her lap and hugged her Nancy found herself blinking back tears. Her son. Letting him go felt like dying, a little. "So how does it feel?" Nancy opened her eyes and looked at Ned. "To be finished with it all?" Nancy shrugged, sorting through the rote replies, rejecting them all. "Like I don't know what to do now." "You could always move back here." Nancy smiled. "Of course I could." Ned managed three hotels in the city, and kept their son with him on the night shift, when he had to be there. His parents took care of Nick otherwise. She knew all that, just like she knew how Ned took his coffee and that he hated olives and that he still loved her. Keeping him in her thoughts, like this, had made her feel like she'd never really let go. She and Ned had never kept in anything like regular contact, and they hadn't spoken in the three months before her graduation. She imagined that he'd say he was trying not to distract her from finals, but not hearing from him had been far more distracting than anything else. She had thought he'd forgotten about her graduation, that maybe he was finally letting her go. She had not seen either of them in over a year. She was always shocked by how much Nick changed in her absence, the length of his hair, the lines of his face. Ned had chicken nuggets brought up from the regular kitchen for Nick, and he ordered for Nancy without asking; she would never have chosen the risotto but the difficult dish was perfect, and the bite he offered of his filet mignon practically melted in her mouth. Nick scrawled on the back of a paper menu while he told her about his friends in preschool and the puppy he would get for his next birthday if he was a very good boy and that he wanted to be an Eagle Scout when he grew up. "Daddy was a Eagle Scout." "I know, baby." She smiled. "He learned a lot of good things, being an Eagle Scout." They split a slice of cheesecake, though Nick made a face when Nancy let him taste it. Ned talked in generalities, pausing before she mentally filled in each curse word he was skipping in front of their son, and Nancy smiled as he described the extravagant demands of the film crew that had been shooting on location outside, the dinosaur toy infestation at another hotel's pool, Nick's insistence that he wear a full fireman costume to his first day of preschool. Nancy took a glass of the celebratory champagne Ned ordered for them and felt it rise gloriously to her head, fizzing just as warmly as his presence made her feel. Ned took her hand, across the table. "I have a suite upstairs," he said softly. "If you're too tired to go home for the night." Nancy held his gaze for a moment and poured herself another glass of champagne. "I will be." -- Ned offered to pick Nick up when they got on the elevator, but Nick stubbornly refused, opting to take his father's hand as he gazed up at his mother. "Which PJs tonight, Nick?" The disproportionately serious look on her son's face almost made Nancy laugh. "Fire trucks," he told his father, then glanced over at Nancy. "Not Barbie pajamas?" she teased him. "Uck!" he pronounced, rubbing a hand over his hair. "Uck! I don't have Barbie pajamas!" He laughed at the suggestion. "I do." Nancy kept her face straight, watching Nick consider the idea. "That's okay." "It's okay with you that I have Barbie pajamas?" He nodded. As Nick ran off the elevator and ahead to the hotel room Ned had claimed for them for the night, Ned leaned over and murmured, "I must've missed that particular set." "I didn't say they still fit," Nancy laughed at him, swiping at his shoulder and almost falling off balance, her palm catching on the jamb to hold herself upright. Finishing off the bottle of champagne probably hadn't been the best idea. Even so, when Ned opened the door to their room, a room service tray was already waiting with a bottle of water and a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket of ice. Nancy laughed as she touched the wire over the cork. "You really are making sure I can't go home, aren't you." "You're a lightweight," Ned teased her, as Nick ran into one of the smaller rooms. He came out with a set of pajama bottoms in his hand, one shoe off, his hair mussed. "All right, Nicky, bathtime?" "Ugh, no!" Nick giggled. "No bath!" Ned gave Nancy an apologetic glance. "This won't take long. We'll be right back." He swept Nick up into his arms, and Nick kicked the entire way, chanting "No bath, no bath." Nancy laughed, but only when Nick couldn't see her; she had a feeling that half of what he was doing was just a performance for her, and she thought of the soft baby powder and milk smell of him when they had been in the hospital, when he was unthinkably small, all tiny fingers and miniature fingernails and a breathless wail she forgave with every blink of his dark eyes. She had been terrified, terrified he would break, terrified of anything that would ever touch him. That feeling had nearly faded a week after she had given him up. For Ned, she was sure it never had. Absently Nancy opened the bottle of champagne, but poured herself a glass of water before she filled a flute with the bubbly wine. The rare times she was with Ned, she felt like she had opened a door and crept into a secret place in her own life. He was too comfortable, even with the past constantly playing like a tape in the back of her head. He had been hurt when she'd left. He had never imagined raising their child alone, and even that suspicious hiss of a whisper she kept hearing, that she had been selfish to leave him and Nick behind, couldn't stop her from remembering the horror that had left her slashed and bleeding and terrified on a hospital bed. Ned was safe. She wasn't. She never had been. (She could be, maybe. She could be.) "Oh no you don't—" Nick burst out of the bathroom with his wet hair up in spikes, Ned close behind with a towel in his hand, and he chased their son into the bedroom, Nick laughing maniacally the entire way. Nancy followed them, walking in just in time to see Ned dive and attack Nick with the towel, briskly rubbing his damp hair until Nick squirmed away. Finally he was in his fire-truck pajamas, fighting sleep, in a bedroom that wasn't really his. Nancy wondered what his bedroom looked like, whether it was filled with dinosaurs or army men or styrofoam planets, fire trucks or building blocks. She wondered if he had a night light and what Ned had told him about her and whether there had been other mommies in the interim. "Let's play a game, Ned." Ned raised an eyebrow. "You have my attention." Nancy smiled. "You really need to drink some more, I think." They had to keep quiet, because every time they moved Nancy found herself holding her breath, listening for a creak from Nick's bed. They finished the champagne, and when Nancy suggested a game of truth or dare, Ned laughed and said that if he dared Nancy to do anything, she would probably fall over and throw up. "Guess you'll have to take all the dares, then." Ned took a long sip of water. "Can I dare myself?" "Depends," she said, dropping her voice. His brown eyes kept straying to hers, and Nancy licked her lips, a tingle tripping its way down her spine. "Truth," he said, and she fought the urge to taste his mouth, the hazy line of stubble along his jaw. "Are you still mad at me?" Ned looked down at his hands. "Sometimes," he admitted. "Now?" He shook his head. "Not your round anymore." "Truth," she replied, and had to focus hard to put her glass down without spilling it. "Will you even think about coming back here? To Chicago?" Nancy dragged a hand through her hair, letting it fall down her back. "I want to," she said softly. "But." She tilted backward until her shoulder blades were touching the back of the couch and focused on the open collar of his button-down shirt, the few strands of light brown hair she could see there. Her breasts were straining at the fabric and she could feel his gaze lingering there without bothering to look. "Why did I leave, if I was just going to come back," she said, and closed her eyes. Her fingers started to drift up to her belly, but she stilled her hand at the hem of her dress. "I'm terrified of this." "Of what, Nan?" She shook her head and felt the room spin around her. "That you'll never feel the same about me. That I'll just put him in danger again. That I'll be a terrible mother. That I can't do this." "But you want to come back anyway." She lazily rolled her head to the side and peered at him from under her lashes. "I feel safe with you," she whispered. "I want that to be enough." Ned's gaze searched hers. "You look like you're about to fall asleep, Nan. I think it's time for you to turn in." -- Nancy was awake as soon as she crossed the threshold into one of the other bedrooms. "I... didn't bring anything with me," she told Ned, and saw him smile. "I'll be right back." It took her three tries to unhook her dress and slip out of it. Her underthings were the color of milky coffee, and she stood in them after kicking her heels off, but clutched her dress back against her chest when the door opened. Ned's mouth quirked. "Just me," he said, holding up a white undershirt as he shut the door behind him. "It's okay, he's out cold. I looked in on him." Nancy nodded. "Sorry." Ned began to nod, but then Nancy unconsciously let the dress slide down to the floor, and his gaze slid down and stayed there. "Nan," he breathed. With a jolt Nancy glanced down, her hand already coming up to cover the scar. He hadn't seen it before, not really, not like this, and Nancy's stomach roiled in sympathy with the revulsion he must feel. Ned stepped in close to her, quicker than she could comprehend, and touched her side. She glanced up at him and resisted for a moment when he urged her hand away, but gave in, letting out a slow breath. When his fingertips found the very edge of the scar she shrank back, a little, and he carefully felt his way down the pale skin, over its entire length. "You have to stop blaming yourself for this," he told her softly. "It was my fault and he—" Ned put his thumb over her lips. "But he's fine, Nan," he said, cutting her off. "Doesn't matter how guilty you feel, you aren't going to change that. He's fine. The only thing that would be better for him is having his mother around more than a couple of times a year." He was close to her, too close to her, and his shirt was halfway open and he exuded an undeniable masculinity, cologne and soap and that hint of sweat and just him. She felt like she was dreaming, dreaming or drowning. "Do you still want me," she whispered with her eyes closed. "What was your first clue," he said just as softly. Her breath came out in a soundless whisper as their lips met. -- It was like sympathetic vibration, how attuned she was to him. Her every nerve felt oversensitive, as he traced his thumb over the delicate veins on the inside of her wrist, as he lightly brushed a bra strap from her shoulder. She hesitated before she let her hands rest at his waist, to unfasten his pants and pull them apart to reveal his boxers. A soft stroke of her hand down the front revealed his erection, and he chuckled as he bent in to her, slipping his hand into her bra, stroking her nipple to a point before he shoved the cup down and followed his touch with his lips. She moaned a little, tilting her head back, boneless as he scraped his teeth over the sensitive tip of her breast. The lean lines of him were firm against her as he stepped close, backing her against the mattress, and as she arched against him she hooked one thumb into his pants and pulled them down. "Do you still taste the same, Nan?" She pulled back, meeting his low-lidded gaze. "I think you'd better find out, Ned," she said, and when he bent to her again she laughed as she grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it up over his head. When his gaze met hers again, his mouth was twisted in something like humor. "I have some condoms in the other room, if you want me to go get them." Nancy raised an eyebrow. "I hope you have a lot." Ned grinned. "Fresh box. Wait right here. If you feel like getting naked, please don't hesitate." "Same to you." As soon as he was out of the room, Nancy paused with her hands on the band of her panties. She was trying to figure out if sleeping with him was a good idea, but just the mere thought of him trailing kisses down her belly... The scar. When Ned walked back in, Nancy was under the covers and watching him as he put the condoms on the bedside table and stripped off the rest of his clothes. "You'd better be naked under there," he said. "Turn the light off." Ned stopped with one hand on the coverlet. He shook his head. "Do you really think that after not seeing you for so long, I'm going to do this in the dark like some scared high schooler?" "Please." He studied her face for a moment, then went to the door and turned the overhead light off, but turned on the lamp on. "Ned..." He shook his head, drawing the cover down, and she shivered at the sudden wave of cold air as it found her bare skin. "I love you," he said softly. "Every bit of you. Stop hiding." She hated that his lips brushed the scar as he made his way down her body, but soon he was trailing kisses over her inner thighs and she was bunching the sheet in her fist, tensing as he parted her inner lips and his tongue found her clit. With a soft cry she tilted her knees back, and when he urged her feet over his shoulders, she wrapped her legs around him, shivering as he lashed her clit with his tongue. His long fingers plunged between her thighs and she arched up off the bed, whimpering as she writhed under him. "Stop, I—" It had been too long. He thrust his fingers into her one more time and she came, hard, her wet inner flesh pulsing against his fingertips as she rotated her hips, grinding into him. A hot burst of anguish went through her when he pulled back before she was finished. "Oh..." He pushed forward on his knees and when he moved just-so the length of his cock was pressed against the seam of her wet inner lips and she ground against him, letting out a high squeal when the head of his cock brushed the very tip of her clit, the underside of his shaft rubbing against her sensitive flesh. He closed his eyes and made a pleased grumble, shoving her knees apart and holding them down, and when she began to jerk and shiver underneath him, he pulled back, and then— "Oh God," she whimpered, at the smooth thrust of his cock as he buried himself inside her. She raked her nails against his shoulders, gritting her teeth. Her inner flesh was so sensitive that every thrust ran like fire deep between her thighs. He only lasted a few thrusts before he pulled out, his mouth sucking hard at her breast, and while she sank, boneless with relief, to the mattress, her eyes going drowsily half-lidded, she heard him ripping open the box of condoms. Ripping open. Her eyes flew open. "Ned—" He shook his head. "Here," he said, and his voice was rough. Dazedly she nodded as he pulled her over him, straddling his hips, holding his cock for her. "Now," he said urgently, and she gave in to a liquidly full-body shiver as she took him again, slick and tight with years of desire, let gravity claim her as she slid her knees apart and he filled her, impossibly huge inside her. She tossed her hair out of her face and began to rock, very lightly, against him, the wet sound of their joining bringing a prickly flush to her cheeks as Ned cupped her breasts, shifting her angle over him. "Harder," he begged, jerking under her, and she nodded lazily, sucking in a sharp breath as she planted her palms above his shoulders and fucked him until her orgasm blossomed and bloomed and tore through her, and she rode it out, rode him as he came with her, his fingers digging urgently into her soft tender flesh. He pinched her nipples and she juddered against him, an answering slick gush of arousal flooding between her legs. She opened her eyes. Her inner thighs were flush against his hips and he was panting under her, still squeezing her breasts. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. "Yes," she whispered, pushing her shoulders back so her breasts pressed more firmly into his palms. "God, that was it." He nodded, finally opening his eyes. The words rose to her lips. The terrible timing wasn't lost on her, given everything, but she didn't stop herself. "Marry me," she whispered. "Marry me, Ned." She had never seen that happen behind his eyes before, a sudden veil where all had been clear. "Nan," he said, in a sigh, releasing one breast to stroke her hair away from her flushed cheek. Her lips were trembling. "Please," she said softly. "I need time," he said, sounding like every word took monumental effort. "We need time, Nan." She nodded, and swung off him. "I'm sorry." "Me too," she whispered, shivering as she slid under the covers. She had been warm as a furnace. Now she felt like she'd never be warm again. He touched her face. "It was really good for me, too," he said, trying to draw a smile from her. When her only reply was a wan turn of her lips, he slid over the bed to her, pulling her into his embrace. "I love you." She nodded. "But I know better than anyone that sometimes that isn't enough." -- "What is that?" Nancy turned at Bess's exclamation, shading her eyes. A figure was falling through the sky, drifting on the hot July wind with a black and white parachute trailing behind. "A bird," Nancy said, her face lighting with a sarcastic smile. Twenty minutes later, Nancy was utterly unsurprised to see Frank Hardy walk through the back door of her father's house. He wore an immaculately tailored summer suit and had only the hint of windblown blush in his cheeks to tip off his method of arrival. "Just decide to drop in?" Frank chuckled. "It was a shame to miss the beach party, so how could I turn this down." She still hadn't taken it off. The strapless ivory silk gown pooled in heavy folds around her chair, her slender bare arms glowing with a light summer tan. The engagement ring Ned's parents had known would be hers since she was sixteen was sparkling on her left hand; her husband was gently stroking the ball of his thumb back and forth over it. Their wedding had been the opposite of what they had planned before Nick came along. It was a morning affair at the courthouse, with her father and his parents alone to witness it, although she hadn't been able to resist the lure of the ivory silk, the sight of Ned in his classic black suit. Nick had watched, with his usual patience and restraint, from his grandparents' laps. The reception, though, what they'd been calling the afterparty, had spilled out into the yard, through the garden. The head table was out in the backyard, under a massive white tent, and when she moved just-so Nancy could feel the sunlight on her face, and she thought that if she could just stay here with Ned, his hand in hers, until the moon took the sky and everyone left and they could just lie in the grass staring up at the stars, she would be more content than she had ever been. "So how was the bar?" "Oh, that old thing." Nancy waved a hand. "She only made the highest score in state history," Bess put in, deftly picking the leaves from a strawberry. "Not... not quite. Second best." George scoffed. "Only because the top guy cheated." "Always so modest," Frank shook his head. "Congratulations. On the test and on finally getting hitched." "Thanks," Ned said, and for a moment Nancy tried to read the look that passed between them, but let it go. She was content, more content than she had been in a very long time, and Ned didn't have to put a possessive arm around her, didn't have to mark his territory in front of Frank, not anymore. "Mommy—" Nick patted at her arm. Nancy turned and swung him up onto her lap, and he giggled, his skin sun-warmed under her touch. "Yeah, baby?" "Aunt Hannah says I can't have any more punch." He fidgeted as he said it, and she noticed a wet ring around his mouth. "More punch!" Nancy touched his baby-round cheek. "You know those apple juice boxes we brought along for you? Man, those sound so delicious right now. I can't wait to go inside and drink one right down to the bottom. It would be so yummy—" "Juice box!" he howled in answer, squirming, and with a laugh and a kiss on his forehead she set him back down, watching as he pinballed through the legs of the adults toward the house, where Hannah waited for him, an indulgent smile on her face. Frank shook his head. "You're better at keeping secrets than I ever gave you credit for." That was when Ned slipped a hand around her waist, and with a contented sigh Nancy leaned her head on his shoulder, taking in the sea of happy faces around them. The day had been blessedly cool in the midst of an unprecedented hot spell, although whenever Ned leaned close to whisper something in her ear, his fingertips drifting against the small of her back or down to gently brush her elbow, she found herself shivering in the high sun, a heat rising that she found deliciously familiar. When she really let herself think about it, she found herself marveling, blown away. She didn't deserve him, didn't deserve this, but she had wanted it so fiercely that it scared her. She hadn't understood the next step because she had almost taken it, and the choice had somehow been there again, there for her to rectify. She wasn't working at her father's firm, but they would be in Chicago, the two of them and Nick, and he would be able to see his grandparents on the weekends, and he had made her promise that she wouldn't leave, not ever again. Her eyes had been glistening when she promised. The sight of him never failed to warm her heart. Just as Ned's touch brought her nothing so much as a nearly painful joy. "I don't think this has ever really been a secret," she said, sliding her arm around her husband's waist. As Frank, Bess, and George chuckled, Ned brushed her earlobe with the tip of his nose and whispered, "Maybe only from yourself, Nan." When his lips brushed the point of her jaw, Nancy's eyelids fluttered down. Maybe next time they'd have a little girl.

Part 1 - My Dinner with Ethan You know you've been in Los Angeles too long when you start to believe that the smog makes the sunsets prettier. Mother Nature and the fossil fuel industry had outdone themselves on this particular June night, Robert thought. The yellow and purple striations swirled over Venice Beach, reminding him that Hollywood had more to offer than down payment on an actor's soul. Either that or Ethan's vegan cook was slipping hashish into the stir-fry. Ethan came back onto the deck with two more beers. He gave Robert a friendly pat on the shoulder to shake him out of his sunset-induced reverie. The past several months had found them trading places in their whirlwind schedules. Ethan had been in New York doing "Hurly-burly" on Broadway, while Robert found himself firmly ensconced in the land of the palm trees because a pilot he'd done on a whim (and a word from Ethan that Bryan Singer was a genius) had turned into a bona fide hit. After sunset, they went into the house and Ethan brought out a pair of guitars. They sat on the floor of the living room strumming and singing the same songs they'd been playing together for fifteen years, since they first became friends while filming "Dead Poet's Society". Beatles songs, Simon and Garfunkel and, of course, their special double guitar arrangement of Bob Marley's "Redemption Song". Robert played Ethan part of a ballad he was working on. Then they sat down to some serious shit-shooting. Ethan's travels, new projects, kids. The painful demise of Robert's theater company, negotiations for a much hoped for summer project, and finally the question Robert had been anticipating and dreading at the same time. "What's it like working with him?" Robert started with the usual. "It's amazing. He's a total professional and just the nicest guy ever." "Dude, you're talking to me, not Entertainment Tonight." "OK, OK. Well, he is all that stuff. And he's so good, it's scary. You can barely believe it's the same guy from those TV shows we used to watch on channel 13. He's doing the accent, which has to be a bitch, and he's doing the limp. He's got to rattle off pages of that medical bullshit and he makes it look so damn easy. There was this one scene…did you see the episode where he's detoxing from the Vicodin?" Ethan nodded. "The scene where he has to smash this pestle thing into his hand? It's totally intense. He was on the phone with somebody about ten minutes before they shot it. He talked to the director, they blocked it out, rehearsed it once. First take, perfect. Angle change. Second take, perfect. Fucking amazing. The crew was applauding. I thought Jen was going to cry. And then he breaks character, does a little "tada" and a dance step. Everyone cracks up. If that were me, I'd be Monroe on the set of "The Misfits." I'd want my acting coach and a closed set." "Not everyone's a method prima donna." "But check this out. A week later, he's going on Leno and he gets really nervous. He already knew he was going to talk about his motorcycle and about drivers in LA and how bad they are because they don't look through the windows. He tried the bit out on everybody. Me, Jesse, Omar, and every extra in a pair of scrubs. I heard at least 10 different inflections of the "Wow." Like he can't do that take in his sleep?" "What do they say? Dying is easy; comedy is hard." Robert agreed. Comedy had never been his forte. He was actually surprised at how funny some of his scenes with Hugh turned out. He took a swig of Sierra Nevada. "You know what's really hard? Feeling like I'm wasting my time out here." "Don't knock it. You're in a hit." "You don't care about that shit. I'm not supposed to either. Mr. Young Serious Actor," he said, mocking the pretensions of his youth. "I get the scripts and half the time I have less dialogue than anyone but Lisa and a couple of extras. The patients get more dialogue than I do." "No small parts, Bobby. Only small actors." "I keep telling myself the "Streetcar" story." "Brando boxing between scenes to keep his energy up?" "The guy who played the doctor at the end of the play. Before opening night someone asked him what the play was about. He said it was about a doctor who comes to take a crazy lady to a mental hospital." "So the Tony-winning actor has a serious ego problem?" "Yeah. Exactly. And the guy who should definitely win an Emmy seems to have no ego whatsoever. You want to hear something really weird?" "Definitely." "I don't want to see this on E-online tomorrow." "Very funny." E-online had been a particular nemesis during the Ethan/Uma breakup. "OK, I may be crazy, but I could swear he's flirting with me." "Flirting? Like wink, wink, nudge, nudge, let's do the horizontal mambo in my trailer?" "More like a wink and a nod and here's my trailer with pictures of my wife and kids everywhere, but I'm still giving you those looks that go on too long and if you catch me I make one of those self-deprecating comments about being surrounded by the most attractive cast on television except for Desperate Housewives." "Maybe he's just being British?" "British doesn't mean gay. Just ask Jude Law." "Maybe he's method acting?" "Huh?" "Well, you know. Some people think those two characters are a little too friendly." "Who thinks that?" "Well, Uma for one." "Uma watches the show?" "Uma loves the show. She came to New York so we could all be together with the kids for a few months." "You guys are OK together?" "As long as we don't talk too much. Anyway, she's nuts about the show. She really likes the Aussie kid. And she thinks you two guys are…you know." "Oh, great." "And you know Bryan…" "Bryan hasn't said anything to me, except that Wilson is supposed to be House's conscience. We did one scene where I'm feeling hurt and betrayed and I was having a really hard time finding it. The director, Bill Johnson, came over and just whispered in my ear "lover's quarrel", and I caught Hugh giving me one of those looks." "Did you find it?" "Yeah. Next take." "If it's working, just lie back and enjoy it. Take the money and run." "Remind me to come over more often for your fortune cookie wisdom." "You gonna be around next week for Roan's birthday?" "If the Joe Papp thing goes through, I'll be in New York." "I hope it works out." "Me too. I need to get home. I need to get back onstage." "Hey, you want to get high? I've got some killer stuff." "How come you get to act like you're still 25 and I'm turning into a grown-up?" "You should get high more." "Gotta pass. Early call." "Your loss. I got this stuff from Keanu's guy and he really knows some people." "Tell ya what. Give me some for the road. We're finishing up the season tomorrow and we're supposed to have a wrap party afterwards. Maybe I can tempt Mr. Laurie with some of your primo weed. Get him fucked up and find out what's really going on." "Cool. Let me know what happens." "Will do." Part 2 - I've Been to a Marvelous Party It had been a long day. Or a bloody long day, as Hugh had allowed as shooting crawled on. The last scene involved all major cast members along with Sela Ward and Currie Graham. Currie had the easy part, being unconscious. Hugh and Sela were front and center. Robert was on the sidelines trying to decide why he didn't like Sela. Either it was because she had incredible chemistry with Hugh or because she had none whatsoever. By the eighth, ninth and tenth takes, he had decided it was because she couldn't remember her damn lines and was making everybody work late. Finally came the blessed words, "That's a wrap. We're done, people," followed by applause, cheers and mass hugging. Season one of House MD was over. They'd been picked up for another season. It was time to party. ***** The dancing was on sound stage 2, the food and booze were set up in the House office set and the cool kids were hanging out in the kitchen. In this case, the "kitchen" meant the House apartment set and the "cool kids" were Lisa Edelstein, Gerrit Van de Meer and David Shore, who were all huddled together on the couch laughing at something on David's laptop. The coolest kid of all, Hugh Laurie, was playing piano, seemingly lost to the world, but he managed to acknowledge Robert's entrance with one of those "us against the world" glances. The glances had become so familiar that Robert could no longer tell if they belonged to the characters or the actors. Parisian Pierrot, Society's hero, The lord of the day, The Rue de la Paix is under your sway. Robert was bursting to tell Hugh and the others his good news, but he held back. He didn't want Hugh to stop singing. Besides, the Noel Coward songs usually meant that Mr. Laurie was in one of his darker moods. Robert empathized with any actor's demons of self-doubt and insecurity. In Hugh's case, add the dislocation and loneliness of being away from home and family for months at a time. It was amazing he didn't get gloomy more often. "Do sit down, dear boy," Hugh said in his arch imitation of Noel Coward and patted the piano bench. He stopped playing and moved his hands up the keyboard to a new position. I've been to a marvelous party. I must say the fun was intense. We all had to do what the people we knew might be doing a hundred years hence. "Tell me, dear boy, do you think this outrageous shindig will land us all in the jailhouse or on front pages by morning?" "Only if they get pictures of Jennifer trying to dance. It was like Elaine on Seinfeld. Jesse looked horrified. If anything breaks them up, that'll be it. He managed to stop her just before Bryan showed up with Hugh Jackman." "One Hugh too many." "I think they're still doing the Electric Slide." "We shall stay here then. They'll never find us." He segued into Mad Dogs and Englishmen. Robert wished he didn't have those weird thoughts running around in his head so he could just enjoy the moment. "Do you want him to be flirting with you?" Ethan had asked, handing him three joints in a baggie. "I don't know," he'd said truthfully. He looked over his shoulder at the couch. Lisa had left. Gerrit and David were deep in conversation. Maybe they were planning a plotline for next season that would deal with whatever it was that Uma thought she saw between House and Wilson. There are bad times just around the corner, there are dark clouds hurtling through the sky. And it's no good whining about a silver lining for we know from experience that they won't pass by. "Are you OK?" Robert said, and immediately felt like a jerk. "Hollywood friendship" bore the same relationship to a real human connection as Asian/Latin/Fusion bore to anything edible. Hugh could pick up a phone and call his friend Stephen or his pal Emma or his wife Jo. Robert pressed on."I've noticed that Mr. Coward only makes an appearance when something's bothering you. If you want to talk about it…" Hugh was now looking at him with all the intensity those gray-blue eyes were capable of. Robert suddenly wished he'd never been born, or at least never learned how to talk. "Very perceptive. And nice of you. I'm sorry, Bobby. I do get into my moods, don't I?" "We all do." "This one is pretty petty." "Season 1 post-partum depression?" "Hardly." "You're flying home tomorrow?" "Indeed. Ten hours with my lovely friends at BA. I do miss the Concorde. Not so comfortable, but it was fast." "Are Jo and the kids going to meet you at the airport?" Hugh sighed deeply and ran a hand over his face, which was still covered with House's trademark stubble. Robert had heard Hugh mention that the growth was uncomfortable. "When are you going to come out…" Hugh raised his eyebrows, "from behind the mask?" "Ah, yes." He ran his hand over it again, a gesture Robert had seen on several of Hugh's talk show appearances. He used it to buy a few seconds of sanity before actually dealing with the witlessness of Jay Leno or (shudder) Regis and Kelly. "My lovely Jo prefers me smooth. I'll just wait till I get to Heathrow and have a shower and shave in the arrivals lounge. Then I greet wife and children in barefaced glory." "Rebecca must be ecstatic that her dad's coming home." "Actually she's a bit ecstatic about something else. And that," he said, deliberately hitting an ugly chord," is why I find myself down in the proverbial dumps." "Your daughter has a boyfriend?" "Not precisely. My daughter is mad for a singer named Robbie Williams. You've heard of him?" Robert shook his head. "Thus far, America remains uninfected, but he's insanely popular in Europe for reasons that elude me. It turns out that young Robbie is giving a concert at Wembly this very Wednesday night. Rebecca went to Jo, who got my so-called best friend involved. Stephen managed to get VIP tickets including back-stage passes for the whole lot of us." "So now you have to go?" "Or come up with a plausible excuse, but that's not the point. I'm here doing this while my family is getting on quite well without me. If someone was going to make this dream come true, it should have been me, her father. Plus I would have hoped that I'd exposed her to enough good music that she'd have better taste than that. The boys have their band and they play loud, noisy, angry rock, exactly as it should be, but this is just tripe." "She's a teenager. It's her job to piss you off, especially if she can do it with her taste in music." "I suppose it's what I get for giving the kids a fairy godfather. Frankly I think Stephen fancies the lad himself and he's just encouraging my daughter so he has an excuse to get backstage himself." "Really?" "I think he's rubbish as a singer and just a lout as a human being, but he is a strapping fellow with a vast array of tattoos. He used to be in a truly loathsome boy band and he's the only one to come out with any kind of career." "Like Justin Timberlake?" Hugh looked puzzled. Robert was embarrassed for knowing who Justin Timberlake was, but not having heard of Robbie Williams. Meanwhile another authority on pop music chimed in with an Australian accent. "Robbie's the bomb. Take That was the best make-out music ever." Jesse Spencer felt obliged to follow too much information with too much singing. Actually, any singing would have been too much. I just want you back for good, want you back, want you back, I want you back for goooood. The performance sent Gerrit and David running, presumably for the bar. The couch was now occupied by the kids who thought they were cool just because they were popular. Jennifer somehow managed to convince Jesse to stop singing. Omar just rolled his eyes over how goofy white people could be when they were tipsy. "So," said Robert, trying not to feel like the chaperone at a middle school mixer, "what's everybody doing with our two months of freedom?" Jen was doing a Lifetime made-for-TV movie. She's not getting enough abuse on our show? Jesse was going to Melbourne to see his family and take in some cricket games. And be chased by screaming teenage girls. Omar was heading home to New York, followed by some time chillin' in the Islands. I have nothing snippy to think about that. Hugh shook his head. "Once this shindig ends I shall be incommunicado until I reappear in two months." Unless I track you down at a Robbie Williams concert. "Well then," Robert said coyly. "At the risk of sounding horribly smug..." "Spit it out already," said Omar. "I'm doing Henry IV parts one and two in repertory for Shakespeare in the Park." "Whoo-hoo. That is some cool shit." He'd managed to impress Omar. "And check this out. Falstaff? It's going to be—you'll like this, Hugh—Robbie Coltrane." That even got Jennifer and Jesse's attention. What could be cooler than doing Shakespeare with Hagrid from the Harry Potter movies? Robert waited for hearty congratulations from Hugh. Maybe a suggestion to say "hi" to the big fellow or some vulgar joke going back to their Alfresco days. "Are you mad?" No "dear boy", no camp, not the hint of a joke. "Bobby, I respect you immensely as a person, as an actor, but you are in no way ready to go against Big Robbie in Shakespeare. The night before your first rehearsal he will take you out for a friendly drink. The next day you will not remember your name, much less your lines. He'll eat you alive." He looked at Jen, Jesse and Omar to make sure he wasn't losing his mind. They appeared to be as stunned as he felt. If Hugh was joking, nobody else was in on it. None of them had ever seen Hugh Laurie act this way. Moody, sure, but out and out rude? Never. Robert had heard enough. This party sucks, he thought, getting up. He found he could actually walk despite feeling like he'd been pole-axed. The party at the end of shooting "Swing Kids" had been amazing. Over two hundred cast and crew-members on one of England's biggest soundstages and a full big band. They had literally danced all night. He had been in great shape then. Now it was all he could do to hit Crunch a few times a week. Working on autopilot, he threw out random "good nights", "goodbyes", and "good lucks" to anybody who might interfere with his leaving. He made his way out of the Fox studios and into the parking lot, which was illuminated by the surrounding lights of Century City. All he wanted to do was find his car and drive home so he could pack. He'd be flying out on a red-eye the next night. Alone in the parking lot, he realized that he hadn't driven to work. Fox had sent over a car service. He'd been planning to grab a ride with Jen and Jesse. That would require going back inside and facing everybody. Shit, shit, shit. He had his cell phone. He could call a cab. "Hi, can you pick me up in the middle of the Fox Studios parking lot?" Where the hell am I, anyway? Next to a trailer. Hugh Laurie's trailer. With Hugh's motorcycle parked next to it. And guess who was coming after him in the darkness? "Bobby…Bobby…I want to talk to you." Shit, shit, shit. He turned around to see Hugh striding toward him, quickly covering the distance with those long legs. "Bobby. Please. Let me explain myself." "I got it the first time. Maybe you don't know that I played Romeo when I was 16. Maybe you didn't see me do "Much Ado" with your buddies Ken and Emma. You don't think I'm up to Shakespeare and you don't think I can hold my own with a guy who's making the big bucks playing a giant in the Harry Potter movies. If you think that, fine! I just can't believe you'd say it in front of the others." I thought we were closer than that. He'd felt that the ten years in age that separated Hugh from him were less important than the 20 years or so separating Hugh from the rest of the cast. He'd believed that their roles on the show made them natural allies. Furthermore, if that flirting thing wasn't just his imagination, then Hugh's behavior was even more unfathomable. "I'm sorry. I was just taking the piss. I didn't mean a word of it." Robert shook his head. If his understanding of "taking the piss" was accurate, this wasn't anything close. He was tempted to just drop the subject and pretend it didn't matter. That would allow him to save enough face to go back inside and bum a lift back to his apartment. "Are Jesse and Jennifer still in there?" "I assume so. For one of those rough and tumble Aussies, Mr. Spencer can't hold his liquor very well. I think he might be trying to start a brawl with Mr. Jackman and that can only end in tears." "Maybe Jen can give me a lift." "I'd say she has enough to deal with. I've got the bike here." "Don't you want to go back to the party?" "You call that a party?" "No. Not really. " "Then let me take you for a ride." "Another one," said Robert pointedly. Part 3 - Hollywood Nights "I'll be just a minute," said Hugh, using an electronic key card to get into his trailer. There was just enough spillover light to see the Triumph Bonneville in all its bad-ass black glory. The powers that be at Fox were known to disapprove, simply because they didn't want their star to get hurt and hold up production. Hugh came out of the trailer wearing a bomber-style leather jacket and riding gloves. He carried two helmets and handed one to Robert. "I thought the producers weren't crazy about you riding." "To which I say, with full respect for their authority, that's tough. I can't imagine why they'd be the least concerned with my face. Yours, on the other hand, would be a loss. Don't worry. I shall get you home safely. You'll have to hold on tightly. No sissy bar. You're all right with that, aren't you?" "Sure," said Robert, nonchalantly, taking off his glasses to put on the helmet. Great. Now I'm putting my life in his hands. He'd ridden "bitch" on Ethan's Harley plenty of times. That bike had a raised seat, making it simple to be a passenger without actually touching the driver. The Triumph put Robert in much closer proximity, upper and lower body. The whole arrangement felt incredibly intimate. As the bike purred out on to the road, it occurred to him that the guy he had his arms around hadn't asked where "home" was. He'd gotten an apartment in Woodland Hills, but there was no particular reason for Hugh to know that. Robert's night vision was poor and he hadn't put his glasses back on so the world went by in a blur. There was nothing to do but close his eyes and try not to be too aware of being so close. He lost track of time and direction. At that hour, it was possible to cover miles quickly, unimpeded by the famous Los Angeles traffic. Robert didn't feel angry anymore. Maybe a little disappointed. Plus the temperature had dropped. They must be heading north. Bob Seger's "Hollywood Nights" started running though his head. In those big city nights. In those high rolling hills. Above all the lights. With a passion that kills. Or something like that. Hugh clearly knew his way around the cul de sacs and hairpin turns of Mulholland Drive and Laurel Canyon. He eventually parked on a shoulder. They got off the bike and took off the helmets. Robert inhaled the quintessential LA aroma of smog and gingko trees. The lights of the Valley spread out in a vast shimmering blur. "Sometimes I actually like this town," he admitted to himself and the only other person who might be listening, not bothering to mention that this was supposed to be a ride home and that he did not live in Beverly Hills. "That's the beginning of the slippery slope," said Hugh, reaching into his jacket for cigarettes and lighter. Robert put up a hand to stop him. "Oh come on, Bobby," Hugh said in exasperation. "You're going to give me the smoking lecture? Out here?" "No," Robert replied, reaching into the pocket of his windbreaker for the baggie he'd gotten from Ethan. "I was just going to suggest a different smoke." Hugh looked surprised, then amused, then pleased. "All right," he said, accepting a joint. Robert suddenly had qualms. "This may be pretty strong stuff. I don't know what you're used to, if anything." "I think I'll be able to handle it," Hugh said, putting the marijuana cigarette to his lips and lighting it. He took a deep drag and held it with practiced authority before letting it go. He handed the joint back to Robert with aplomb. Robert blinked. "Do you do this a lot?" Hugh shook his head. "I'm a father. I'm supposed to tell my kids not to…Wow! That is quite a bit…hmmmm." Hugh's eyes went wide followed by a smile that was equal parts toothy and goofy. Robert took his first hit, somewhat gratified to see Hugh Laurie knocked for a momentary loop. Farther off the road was a low stone wall. Hugh ambled towards it with Robert following. Hugh took back the joint for another deep drag. "Shall I tell you," he gasped after releasing the lungful and handing the joint back, "why I behaved in such a beastly fashion?" Robert could feel himself starting to get giggly, but tried to keep a serious demeanor. "Yeah. Actually. Please do. I can't believe you really don't think I can do it." "Of course you can do it. It's just…Robbie." "I'm sure I've worked with bigger egos." "Yes, of course. With Ken twice even. But Robbie is…damn it. Did you ever see "Cracker"? "The band? No wait, you mean the TV show? I don't think so. Maybe once. On PBS? Oh, with Robbie. He was like a shrink, right?" Robert offered Hugh the joint back. Hugh shook his head. Robert took a last puff and ground the roach out in the dirt. "Forensic psychiatrist. He was bloody brilliant. You can watch any episode and you're just blown away." "OK. He's a good actor and I need to take him seriously. Got it." "It's not just that. Think about it. Actor known for fluff and comedy takes on serious character. Fitz is addicted to cigarettes and gambling. He's rude, he's damaged, he brutally analyzes people and he always solves the mystery in the end. Sound familiar?" "Slightly, but so what? You didn't steal anything from him. David and Paul and everybody came up with this totally original idea." "I saw Robbie at the last Harry Potter opening. He sidled up to me and said, 'Welcome to the brilliant, cranky bastard club.'" Hugh imitated Coltrane's broad Scottish accent. "But just remember, boyo, I was a bigger bastard and I was there first.'" "And that's what this is about? A slight similarity in characters? That's ridiculous." Robert was struggling to stay serious, but the ganja giggles were starting to well up. "Just silly." "I overreacted. I could just see him treating you to a Cracker highlight reel of his biting wit and addictive behavior and maybe you wouldn't have as much respect for what I'm doing." Hugh leaned back again the wall. "You care what I think that much." Hugh dug his hands deep in the jacket pockets. "I guess so." "Are you even the least bit high?" said Robert still trying to stifle laughter and suppress the unbidden thought that Hugh looked absolutely adorable with his slightly rueful smile. "Oh, yes. This is your costar on drugs. Em would always beg people at parties not to get me high. I'd turn introspective and then start telling people the truth whether they wanted to hear it or not. You should have heard me at Ken and Em's engagement party." "Have you been flirting with me?" "Tonight?" "All season. Since the first read-through. Every time we have a scene together. All those looks and innuendos. Is it all my imagination? Tell me, Hugh. While I'm fucked up and you're telling the truth. What the hell is going on?" Robert realized he was getting loud. He also remembered why he had more or less stopped using weed. After the giggles and before the munchies came the sexual aggression. The monster-from-the-id Robert who lived behind Bobby's nerdy glasses and soft-spoken demeanor. He'd been seriously high the first time he had the nerve to put moves on the seemingly unapproachable Gwyneth. He was starting to feel it now, with no willowy blondes in sight. Hugh looked at him with a mocking, almost wolfish grin, which combined with the stubble to make Robert worry about the full moon. "I was starting to think you hadn't noticed." "I noticed." "Does it bother you?" "I don't know. I'm flattered, I guess. Why me?" "I like you, Bobby. You're smart, funny, and a damn good actor. I'm sure you know that you're attractive." Not really, he wanted to say, but stopped himself. "Jesse's cuter." "I'm not a pedophile." "Jen's a woman." "And I'm a married man," Hugh said, feigning moral outrage. "So it's safer to flirt with guys? And not to be pushy or anything, but is it just flirting? Is it a game? Do you want something to happen?" Down, boy, he told the monster who was starting to make his presence a physical reality. "You know what's great about everyone thinking you're a big poofy Englishman? You can get away with just about anything." "What's my excuse? I'm not English. I've always liked girls. I'm nearly forty and until you started looking at me with those eyes of yours, nothing else ever occurred to me." "Never?" Hugh looked mildly surprised. "No." "Casting couch? Avid fans?" "I've had offers. After "Dead Poet's Society" I got more fan mail and naked pictures from boys than you can imagine. You don't even want to know what I got after "Swing Kids." I just haven't been interested." "And now?" "Now I think I'm interested." "Then I should be flattered." "Good for you and your ego. What the hell am I going to do?" he asked somewhat desperately. He felt overwhelmed by sensations. The night air, the lights of Hollywood, his pounding heart, his dry mouth, and most of all incredible arousal. He couldn't deny it. He was hot for a man, this man. Normally, he would have spent time analyzing the fact and wondering why it didn't bother him beyond the frustration of the moment, but that frustration was becoming all-encompassing. Analysis would have to wait. "You'd better do something," Hugh said, still leaning against the wall. "Because if I don't, you won't, right?" Hugh's only answer was another attempt to take out his cigarette case. Robert couldn't hold back any longer. He reached out with a swift motion, grabbing the back of Hugh's neck and pulling the taller man to him. He spread his fingers to cover as much of Hugh's head as possible to prevent any escape. None was attempted. From the minute their lips met, there was no hesitation. Teeth nibbled, tongues explored. Hugh tasted like the tang of a gin and tonic with the slight aftertaste of smoke. Robert, the vehement nonsmoker, couldn't get enough. He was completely enveloped in heat and moisture and suction and the danger of being caught. He used his other arm to pull Hugh even closer. He barely felt the whiskers scratching his face, except as another sensation among so many, including the fleeting realization that even though he'd made the move, it was the man in his arms who had control of the situation. Their tongues and lips stayed locked in combat until Robert felt dizzy. At that moment Hugh pulled his head away slightly, sucking hard on Robert's lower lip before breaking contact so they could both take an oxygen break. Robert didn't know what to say. He didn't want to babble like some teenage girl and blurt out "Oh my god, that was fantastic," even though it was exactly what he was feeling. Instead he heard himself say something equally ridiculous. "You've done this before." "Yes. Sad to say, I've been kissing for years. It's a filthy habit. I should get help." As far as Robert was concerned, Hugh needed no help at all. Either through luck or intuition, he had now found the single most sensitive spot on Robert's neck and was launching a sustained attack. At the same time, he'd stealthily moved his hands downward and around the back of his co-star's slacks. There was no way for Robert to pretend this wasn't happening. He could hear himself moaning as the neck nibbling continued. He knew he was hard and could feel equal pressure through Hugh's jeans. This was real. This could go beyond flirting. Something could happen. Tonight. Robert wasn't doing a great job of forming coherent thoughts, much less verbalizing them, but he had to get the words out at the risk of being a buzz killer. "What about your wife?" Hugh stopped driving Robert crazy by kissing his neck and started driving him crazy by fixing him with the hottest, sexiest, you-know-you-want-me-so-bad-you-can-taste-it look. "It's like those adverts I see all the time. What happens in Hollywood stays in Hollywood." "No. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. What happens in Hollywood ends up in the National Enquirer. TV docs busted in drug-crazed tryst." "Then we should go to Las Vegas immediately." Hugh removed his hands from Robert's ass and headed back to the bike leaving his friend confused and very frustrated. "Are you OK to drive yet?" "Are you?" "Hell no. I'm still stoned, I can't see very well in the dark, and if you don't mind my saying, I'm not even sure I can walk right now. Oh, and I don't know how to drive a motorcycle." "Then I guess I'll have to do it. Now which way is that airport?" Part 4 - The Morning After Robert woke up to the smell of coffee, followed by the voice of Hugh Laurie imitating a Brooklyn bartender. "Closing time, gents. I don't care where you go, but you can't stay here." Then a bit of Abfab: "Rise and shine, sweetie darling. Coffee and your glasses on the night table." The coffee tasted as good as it smelled. His glasses made him face reality. He was naked except for his socks. He spotted different articles of his clothing in and around the bed. Sunlight streamed in through a window but it didn't appear to be the desert sun of Las Vegas, nor did the room look like a hotel. "We didn't make it to Vegas." "Nope. I didn't have my passport. Couldn't get out of town." They were clearly in Hugh's West Hollywood apartment. He was packing two large trunks. Noel Coward sang plaintively from the CD player. I'll see you again, whenever spring breaks through again. Time may lie heavy between, but what has been is past forgetting. "What happens in West Hollywood ends up in The Advocate," he said, trying not to sound worried. "Feel free to claim a blackout." "No. I remember everything," he said firmly and set about retrieving his clothing. "Everything" had meant hands. Hugh's hands pulling his clothing off. Hugh's long, deft, knowledgeable fingers. Hugh's mouth finding every vulnerable spot. Robert remembered thinking he should have taken up some of those previous offers, then doubting they could have been this good. Some experience might have made him feel less awkward, though. Having a dick doesn't necessarily mean you know what to do with someone else's. Hugh had known exactly what to do and had done it expertly with his hands and mouth. Luckily, he wouldn't be seeing Hugh for a while. Watching him methodically folding sweaters was bad enough. If he had to go to the set and do one of those scenes that made Uma think House and Wilson were kind of gay, he'd be in trouble. Give me Robbie Coltrane with Shakespeare on his side. That I can handle. He found his slacks and boxers under the bed and went looking for the shirt. It had ended up under a pillow. Then he remembered what "everything" had not included. Hugh was still focused on packing. Maybe a little too focused. "Hugh?" "Yes?" "Last night…uh…how come…this is…why didn't we…?" "I'm not a total cad. No shagging on the first date." "We've been dating for nine months." "No. That was flirting, and you made me do all the heavy lifting while you were being obtuse." "Excuse me for not guessing that my married male co-star wanted to hit on me." "You're excused, but you'll need to re-button that shirt." "Damn. Will there be a second date?" "I should think so." "Should we talk about this?" "More than you're already talking? Not right now. I have a plane to catch. You have a red-eye tonight?" "Jetblue out of Long Beach. Can't beat it. Five hours to brush up my Shakespeare." "Give Robbie my regards. But do watch out. If he can't mess with your head by getting you falling down drunk, he just might try to fuck you up the arse." "On the first date?" "On the first rehearsal. You'll be staggering instead of swaggering. One way or another, he will try and screw you. He's a lovely man but an absolutely ruthless actor. The other shoe is near the door." "Thanks." "Next time do manage to take your socks off. " Robert found himself grinning. "Because only sluts have sex with their socks on. Ethan used to say that about some of his groupies." "Funny. I got it from Stephen." Robert finished tying his shoes. Stephen Fry, he thought. Hugh's best friend, long-time writing partner, costar, fairy godfather to the kids. He couldn't ask. It was none of his business. He was dying to know. Hugh slammed down the lid on the first trunk and gave him a knowing look. "Tell you what, Bobby. Let's save the lists for another time. I'd hate for you to be disillusioned." "Yeah. Me too." "Do you want to call a cab?" "I can get one outside." "The Advocate may be lurking by the door." "I never get recognized," said Robert, zipping up his windbreaker. They said good-bye with a hug, which became a kiss. The kiss was warm and sweet and sad. Hugh was wearing a bespoke suit. He was getting ready to fly home on British Airways, have a shave at Heathrow and be Jo's husband and the kids' dad and Stephen's friend. In the meantime, Robert had Shakespeare and a brawny Scotsman to deal with. This time he noticed a sting from the stubble. "Get me Robbie Williams's autograph, OK?" "Righto", he replied with a headshake, clearly resigned to the ordeal. Robert was expecting a sarcastic comment, but Hugh seemed subdued, probably part of the transition. "Wait a minute. Let me give you something." He went to the CD player and ejected the disc. He put it into a jewel box and gave it to Robert. "Wouldn't want you to forget me while you're wowing Central Park." Robert was touched. Clearly this had all meant something, although finding out exactly what would have to wait. He walked out of the condominium building on Sweetzer and made a right onto Santa Monica. As expected, he found a taxi easily and gave the driver his address in Woodland Hills. The driver was a younger man, probably an aspiring actor who chose not to go the waiter route. "You're on that show, right? In the hospital." "Yeah. That's me," said Robert casually, but inwardly pleased. "Grey's Anatomy, right? That show rocks." Robert closed his eyes, then opened them quickly, remembering that he owed a friend a report. What the hell am I going to tell Ethan?

Lack of Recognition Everyone: knights, royal councillors, courtiers and their ladies, even the servants: in the great hall was in high spirits tonight. There were no limits to the celebration of the rescue of Camelot and the reinstating of its rightful King. Everyone still in good health had helped to make this a memorable feast. The kitchens had mastered both venison and boar with different gravies, and the new crop from the harvest season, which had begun filling the vegetable store rooms with carrots, parsnips, cabbage and turnips, as well as several different beans, had been almost emptied as they were all baked and cooked with fresh herbs and served from well filled trays by smiling maids and footmen. Merlin didn´t have to fetch any heavy trays from the kitchens, or walk from one guest to another, waiting tables. He was positioned by the wall, supposedly ready to serve his Prince with wine or ale or water, whatever his royalty required. So far, Merlin had filled his glass once at the start of dinner. Now the idleness was making him fidgety. He shifted his weight on his feet, he leaned slightly on the wall, he shifted the decanter from one hand to the other. Every one of his friends was seated at one of the tables. Letting his eyes wander, he could see Lance - oh, Sir Lancelot now - and Sir Gwaine, sitting next to each other, heads bent together, talking and laughing while eating from the full plates in front of them. At another table Sir Elyan sat next to Gwen, or maybe it should be Lady Guinevere now, Merlin wasn´t sure about anything anymore. Leon and Percival were there as well, although, he couldn´t see them at the moment. He tried to catch Arthur´s eye instead, but with no luck what so ever. Merlin was beginning to think he was deliberately avoiding his services, a suspicion only strengthened when he saw a wide smiling, high busted maid filling the Prince´s glass to the brink. The sight had him scowling. The main courses were coming to an end, speeches were over and dinner participants had begun to move from the tables when he was startled by a soft touch to his elbow. “Almost like the old days.” Gwen stood next to him, with beaming eyes and a wide smile as her gaze wandered over the great hall and then on to him. He looked back at her, face blank, and her happy expression faded away. “Of course, I didn´t mean it like that.” The old insecurity was back in her voice, as she tried to rephrase, to get it right again. “Not after everything that’s happened, of course, what with Morgana, and Morgause and …” She shook her head and glanced sideways at him. “But still, you must agree on it being a great celebration. Arthur looking more like a king than ever”, her eyes had turned to the Prince at the high table, beaming, her happy expression back. “He has shown himself worthy too, all honorable and brave. It was a marvellous act he performed. Unexpected of course, but admirable no less.” Merlin must have looked uncomprehending, because she added with great emphasis: “The knighting! Finally, skill meaning more than birthright. It means so much to Lancelot, and Elyan of course, but for Lance especially. You can´t possibly understand.” She had turned her gaze towards the table where Lance and Gwaine still sat, but averted it quickly. “I think I do understand what it means for Lancelot, Gwen.” “Oh, I had completely forgotten it was you, who …” She blushed ferociously. Had it been in the old days as Gwen put it, Merlin would have done anything possible to make her feel more at ease. As it was anything she said seemed to gall him to the extreme. She was his oldest friend in Camelot, the first person, with the exception of Gaius, to show him any genuine kindness when he had first arrived, and he did like her, he did still like her. What was there not to like? Kind, warmhearted, caring. Still he could barely stand her company or endure her amiable chatter, especially about Arthur. It was sickening. He clenched his grip around the decanter and kept silent, wishing with all his heart that she would go away. When she remained by his side, the situation all awkward and uncomfortable, he added: “I´m still on duty, Gwen, if you hadn´t noticed.” His voice sounded unnecessarily harsh even to him, but at least she got the message and couldn´t excuse herself fast enough. When she was gone he deflated, leaning against the wall, not bothering if anyone saw his less than respectful posture. It had been an awful couple of days since that moment he had seen Gwen and the knights riding in to the courtyard. Silly, really, he tried to tell himself, when nothing actually had changed. And that was Merlin´s problem. He no longer wanted everything to be work as usual. He had been as big a part as the others in the rescue of Camelot, hell, even bigger on occasion. All feelings of resentment suppressed during four years serving Prince Arthur had come to the surface with Arthur kissing and holding Gwen for everyone to see. The very thought still made his eyes burn with tears. You´re such a girl, Merlin! He could hear Arthur mocking him in his head. Since then he had resumed his daily chores, but not once spoken to Arthur. He had been up and out by the time Merlin had arrived in his chambers with his breakfast no matter how early he was there. This morning a tray with bread crumbs and some other leftovers stood deserted on the table, and when he had gone to clear it away, a young maid had hurried in to the chamber excusing herself for having been delayed before gathering everything up and rushing back to where she had come from. The same pattern had repeated itself over the past few days. Someone else helped Arthur with his armour, though Merlin was still trusted enough to clean it, as well as muck out the stables and cleans his chambers. In the evenings Arthur ate with Uther or his knights in the common hall making sure never to return to his own chambers before Merlin had left. All in all this celebration was the most Merlin had seen of Arthur since the day in the courtyard, and still they had not talked. King Uther bid those gathered good night and left for his own chambers shortly after the last of the main courses were taken back to the kitchens. As a result the good mood among the guests increased even more, and most people rearranged themselves into less formal groups. “You´re doing just fine, Merlin.” Lance clapped Merlin´s shoulder. “You and I both know you were the one he should have knighted. But he´ll come around, you just wait and see. “ Merlin forced an unwilling smile, but did not get a chance to respond before Lance was summoned by a load holler from Percival, now seated at the main table. Lance twisted his mouth and Merlin shrugged. He understood. The rest of the knights had gathered at the main table as well. Merlin saw how Gwen accompanying Elyan was seated next to Arthur in Uther´s empty seat, Arthur himself holding out her chair. They sat like a king and a queen and the realization hit Merlin hard. He had helped Arthur woo Gwen, he was the one who had talked about love as the only logical reason for marriage. He had been so utterly stupid. Now it was torture watching Arthur´s hand slip behind her back resting around her waist, see him pay attention to her every word and gesture. Sweet, friendly, kind-hearted Gwen, her beaming, happy, loving face focused on Arthur, her eyes wide open, mouth smiling, body leaning in, hands holding his in her lap. Merlin pulled back from the wall he was leant against. With all the main courses finished, only sweets and drinks remaining for present guests, the servants were allowed to participate in the celebrations. His services were no longer required, not that they had been required before for that matter. He could join the other servants celebrating in the furthermost corners of the great hall, and not in the servants´ quarters as was customary. He could see most of the waiters gather around the plainer tables and other castle staff actually joining in, which was unusual too, but this clearly wasn´t an ordinary celebration. Everyone had reason to celebrate. Merlin grabbed a cup of ale from the closest table, and emptied its strong, bitter contents in a few gulps, then reached for another. His arms shook slightly, jaw clenched, posture rigid as he tried to catch the prince´s eye again. Every time all he caught was Arthur´s head turning in another direction. He ought to leave before he got too inebriated, but couldn´t make himself leave the hall. Instead, he downed the second cup of ale. Immediately searching for and finding a third one, which contained burgundy wine, he then leant against the tapestry-covered wall, letting his gaze slip back to the main table. Instead of Arthur´s blue eyes, he met Gwaine´s warm and smiling face across the hall. Gwaine stood behind the high table, an arm improperly swung around the shoulders of a not quite so young lady. He wiggled an eyebrow insinuatingly at Merlin, who shook his head. For the first time this evening he almost felt like smiling. Leon and Percival were drinking, talking and gesticulating, wilder and merrier with the increasing number of drinks. Their conversation was probably anecdotes about personal heroic achievements and perilous hardship, the ordinary drunken bragging, Merlin assumed. Lancelot sat in their company looking pretty much how Merlin felt: crestfallen, listless, despairing. He looked glumly at Gwen and Arthur between absent nods every now and then at something Percival said and then drank his cup of something, probably wine, in silence. Leon leant forward, mouth moving and hand clapping his shoulder. Lance force a laugh in response. Elyan sat next to Gwen when one of the kitchen girls, a curvaceous redhead, put her hand on his upper arm offering him a refill of wine which he accepted willingly. Next thing Merlin saw, the maid was in his lap, laughing and flirting, but it did not last for long. Soon enough the girl had grabbed Elyan by his wrist and pulled him over the stone floor to the corner of the hall where a man played a flute, another sang some popular ballads, and younger men and women, servants and nobles alike, danced. The elders stamped their feet and everybody joined in loudly for the well-known refrains. Elyan and the maid were swept up in the fast growing circle of dancers. Merlin downed some more wine and tore his eyes from the happy dancers. During his first year in Camelot, he had tried to participate in the servants´ social life: after all he had been part of Ealdor´s. A couple of serving girls, as well as a laundry girl, had flirted with him, and he really had made an effort of flirting back, it just never worked out. Kissing felt awkward and when a girl´s hand sneaked under his tunic he went stiff all over except for the one body part that remained soft and uncooperative. When the girls realized he wasn´t worth the effort they left him alone and rumor must have spread because the other girls ceased their attempts to seduce him. Castle boys and men were too risky, in his opinion. He didn´t dare jeopardize a new position in the royal household when that was why he had come to Camelot in the first place, that and his mother´s constant worry about his magic. And boy prostitutes were too expensive for his meager wages. And then of course there was Arthur! Once he had set eyes on him no one else seemed to suffice. The cup in his hand was empty again, and he searched around for something, anything to drink. Most cups still standing on the tables were empty, most pitchers and decanters as well. While passing the tables in search of more alcoholic drinks he lifted his gaze to the high table. Arthur still had one arm wrapped around Gwen, with the other he played with a dark curl of hair resting on her bare collar-bone. Even from this distance Merlin saw the lingering touch, fingers stroking not only hair but warm, soft skin. His vision blurred and he had to force himself to look away. His breath came in jerks and the lump in his throat threatened to suffocate him. “You are two sides of the same coin.” The dragon had had him fooled. But he had wanted to believe, had wanted to think Arthur would change, would see that Merlin was good for him and loved him like no one else ever would. Why didn´t Arthur know they were destined for each other? He was willing to die for Arthur - no, he corrected himself, he had been willing to do that, while he still had believed there eventually would be some kind of recognition for him. He felt nauseated and flushed with anger. If he unleashed his powers … would Arthur see him then? Talk to him and treat him as a friend like he did the others? The magic buzzed under his skin. He bent his neck and glared at the stone floor, now covered with the sticky residue of spilled ale and wine, discarded food, spit and … worse. If he didn´t stop drinking, he wouldn´t be able to control it soon. He needed an outlet or he´d be a danger to himself and others. When he looked back up he found Gwaine looking right back at him, now in the company of two ladies, of which both had probably been married for a decade or more, and flirting with the proficiency only experienced women would. Still the look Merlin got was overflown with innuendo obviously directed at him. Merlin´s jaw dropped and his tongue darted out over his dry lips. Magic fell obediently back into core and Merlin rested his gaze in those cheeky, brown eyes. Gwaine´s crooked smile provoked something deep down and for the first time since his very first months in Camelot Merlin felt he didn´t have to wait for Arthur, when Arthur didn´t wait for him, did not even have the feeling he should be waiting. He cast one quick glare towards the high seat, and noticed again how Arthur quickly turned away from Merlin´s direction to focus on Gwen. He locked eyes with Gwaine again, raised his eyebrow purposely and nodded towards one of the hall doors, and without waiting for the answer he headed for the nearest exit. The hallway lay semi-silent, no people to be seen and only the festive sounds seeped through thick oak doors. Wall torches provided only dim light. He steadied himself with one hand on the wall, while he staggered further away to the almost compact darkness he knew held an alcove. It wasn´t as dark as he had estimated though, and he leant with his back against the wall outside the alcove when he heard smooth steps coming his direction and soon enough Gwaine, impressive and broad-shouldered, approached. “Oi, there you are! Thought I lost you for a moment …” Gwaine reached out to ruffle Merlin´s short hair a bit before steadying himself with one hand against the wall next to Merlin´s head and he chuckled low. “What do you want, Merlin?” He licked his lips mischievously.” I´m at your service, my friend. But as you could see for yourself, I left two, more than willing, ladies for your sake.” There was a clear hint of amusement in his voice, accompanied by a lewd smile. The complaints weren´t really complaints and it was not the first time Gwaine had made attempts to seduce him, this was however the first time Merlin had accepted. He grabbed Gwaine´s arm and pulled them inside the alcove, away from casual passers-by, not that anyone would care anymore. This late in the evening no one was sober enough to take notice of who did what with whom, and Merlin was determined to use that to his advantage. He stroked a hand along Gwaine´s cheek and beard. “I´m tired of waiting.” The words came out thick. “I want … I want … something … now. I deserve more than being his dogsbody. I want to feel special, recognized for what I do. He never sees me! ” “Shush, Merlin, not so loud, we don´t want anyone hear you, … shush.” Gwaine put a finger to Merlin´s lips. With the other hand Gwaine stroked his crown, and his fingers played with straggly hair, then continued down to lightly stubbled cheeks, thumb caressing a high cheekbone and sharp chin and found their way under the neckerchief to the soft skin of Merlin´s neck. “You´re my friend, Merlin, I like you, I´ve always have and I think you are beautiful, strong and brave and … desirable. You don´t need him now.” Merlin shook his head and grabbed hold of Gwaine´s shoulders with both hands. It felt nice holding on to something steady and he pulled their chests together and rested his head against the base of the other man´s throat. The somewhat unfamiliar smell of Gwaine´s sweat mixed with lavender soap and something darker and undefined increased the intoxication he was already feeling from too much ale and wine. He closed his eyes and let his lips gently touch the little hollow at the end of the neck. It wasn’t a kiss, just a feather-light touch, it felt and smelled so good. The darkness and Gwaine hid him from the world, all disturbing thoughts of Arthur or Gwen together, which had tormented him the last couple of days, were dispatched for the moment to some inaccessible place in the back of his mind. He separated his lips and let the tip of tongue sweep over that hollow. He heard Gwaine mumble some assurances and felt hands move over his thin frame, pressing against his chest, sliding along the side of his body and stopping at his hips, where the grip hardened, waiting. “Are you sure … about this?” Gwaine´s voice was low and hoarse. He was as sure as he ever could be, although somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he wouldn´t even consider doing anything at all without alcohol in his body. With the good help of the inebriation, self-pity, the silent roaring anger and, above all, plain old lust, old logic had disappeared completely. Right now he wanted Gwaine all over him. He groped Gwaine wherever he could reach and what never worked with kitchen girls and laundry maids definitely worked now. He pressed his hips and crotch against a hard well-defined thigh, head swimming with want. The pressure felt good, so good, and he let out a brief groan, that almost instantly was matched by Gwaine lifting his thigh up and rubbing it against Merlin´s crotch and he could feel Gwaine´s hard length pressing against his hipbone, and what little sense he had still possessed up till this moment left. It was so long, too long, since he had been with another man. For more than three years it had been only him, his right hand and lonely, pathetic fantasies about Arthur in the narrow bunk in his room. This wasn´t Arthur, it wasn´t his dream, but that dream wasn´t ever attainable, and Gwaine was right here in his arms. Merlin was still young, he had needs and lust, he wasn´t doing anything wrong. What he and Gwaine were about to do wouldn´t harm anyone. Besides, Gwaine was wonderful, all brawn, with strong legs, firm stomach and chest muscles that made Merlin short of breath. He was male beauty personified, and very eager if judged by the way he was touching Merlin. The smell of fresh sweat filled his nostrils as he first nibbled an earlobe and then sucked at it lightly. He hooked his leg around a calf and rubbed back and forth. Everything he did was reflected by Gwaine without one single word uttered between them. That was a relief: had he been forced to express in words what he desired, he wasn´t sure he could have. Now he worked on instincts, and maybe Gwaine did the same. Gwaine had always liked him, and always shown it willingly no matter who saw. He had the reputation as quite a ladies‘ man but if his behaviour now was anything to go by he had had his fair share of men as well, not that it came as a surprise to Merlin. Hands tugged at tunic hemlines and sneaked under linen fabric. God, the man´s smooth chest felt incredible to the palms of his hands. He wanted more naked skin. Why had he never allowed himself to do this before? Surely some courtship would not have lost him his position in the royal household? After all it was buggery, not magic. The thought made him smother a sob into soft, sweat damp skin. He had denied himself all carnal pleasures, for what? For Arthur? But no more, no more! Suddenly Gwaine was untying the drawstring holding his braies up and giving room for fingers trailing along the coarse hair from navel and down, forcing out an unwilling pant from him at the contact between the other man´s fingers and the top of his cock. He trembled with anticipation and moaned when the same hand shifted its grip and grabbed his full length and started moving back and forth. “Oh, gods, yes!” he cried out and his mouth was instantly covered by Gwaine´s to shut him up, tongue willing his lips open and he kissed back, tasting ale and onions and saliva. Oh, it was lovely like this. He licked and lapped and sucked, and thrust his hips forward into that tight grip. And then Gwaine let go and got down on his knees. He pushed down Merlin´s braies and buried the face between his thighs, slow breath brushing against the delicate skin of his inner thighs and sac. Merlin squirmed and panted loudly. A pleasure filled shriek escaped him when Gwaine licked along the underside of his length a couple of times, before finally closing those smiling lips around him. It was impossible to stand still but he was held against the wall by strong hands on his hips. He buried his hands in long brown hair and when the pressure against the hips loosened he started fucking that warm, sucking, wet mouth. It felt fabulous, hot and sexy, and he was so close, so very close it was impossible to keep silent. “Oh, yes, like that, yes,… good, feels so good, …” He closed his eyes and moaned, letting himself enjoy the moment fully. He had waited too long for this: hot, slick, keen mouth so obviously appreciative and slowly driving him crazy. A hand cupped his balls and squeezed gently. He wished it could go on forever, but felt the tension building rapidly, heat pooling in the lower parts of his abdomen and crotch. What was the proper thing to do here? Come in his mouth as he usually had with Will? But then Will and he had been friends since they were barely toddlers, and it wasn´t like they had started sucking each other off, they had done other things first, so when it had come to this … Well, probably the right thing to do was pulling out. He jerked one, two, three more times and tightened his grip in Gwaine´s hair with the intension to pull out. “Merlin? Merlin, is that you?” Oh, no. No. Not now. He opened his eyes abruptly and turned in the direction of the unmistakable voice. It was hard to see much else in the faint light but the dark contours of an immobile shape less than two yards away. And instead of pulling out, he pushed further in, Gwaine´s tongue swirling along his rock hard length, cockhead hitting the back of the throat and the hand around his balls slipped further back, one finger nudging his hole, and it was all it took to pull him over the edge. “Mmhm…, yeah, …” he groaned through clenched jaws. Oh, dear gods, was he actually trying to answer that? With braies half way down his thighs? Before he could gather himself the dark contour turned and footsteps echoed down the hallway, then fading away completely. When he looked down, Gwaine had turned his attention to his own cock, wrapped his hand around it, pulling purposefully back and forth in a hurried pace. Merlin knew he should contribute somehow, after all he had gotten more than he had bargained for, it would only be fair, but he couldn´t make an effort for it and settled for a supportive hand on Gwaine´s shoulder, wishing for it to soon be over. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX He was wrong in assuming Arthur would lie-in the next morning, nor had there been a maid attaining to morning chores as there had been the previous mornings, so he was late when he showed up with the breakfast tray in the Prince´s chambers. “You´re late.” Merlin startled at the abrupt non greeting, fell clumsily back against the door, and for a few moments the water jug rattled ominously but he managed to prevent it from falling to the floor. He kept his head carefully lowered, meeting Arthur´s scrutinizing gaze was his last wish after last night´s events. “Hung over, Merlin?” Arthur asked, voice taunting. “Had quite a few drinks, and found yourself a paramour, did you?” Merlin proceeded with his morning chores; put the tray on the table, laid out a plate accompanied by a knife and a cup. He remained silent, though the taunting continued more viciously with every comment. “You´re a lightweight, you shouldn´t drink! You lose even the poor judgment you´ve got to start with.” Arthur loomed over him. Merlin could feel his breath against his neck and tried to steady his nerves. This prat behind him was the Arthur he had met when he first came to Camelot, and now had thought long gone. “Must have been some totally sloshed bloke you got on his knees,” he sneered. This was nothing like their normal banter, which Merlin liked and wanted because it made him feel comfortably warm and at ease, as if they actually were two sides of the same coin. But this made him want to cringe. “Oh, come on! Tell me, who was it on his knees for you? I´m your Prince, damn it, Merlin, now tell me!” Maybe the gods and goddesses hadn´t abandoned him. If Arthur did not know it had been Gwaine with him last night, Merlin would never tell. Handsome, selfless, caring Gwaine, a true friend who hadn´t even commented on his lack of participation at the end of their tête-à-tête. After one gentle stroke to Merlin´s cheek, he had tucked them both in and fastened their drawstrings properly before accompanying him to Gaius ´quarters, assuring him Merlin was the best friend a man could have, commoner, knight or royal alike. He straightened. “Breakfast served … Sire.” “Now, you sire me? When I´ve seen you with your braies down and your private parts down another man´s throat?” Arthur didn´t bother hiding his contempt, as if he aimed to hurt and the heat of shame moved rapidly over Merlin´s chest and neck and before spreading to his face and ears. It had only been Merlin taking what was rightfully any man´s to take, companionship and pleasure between two willing people, right? So why drag it in the filth, rubbing his face with it? Preventing himself from talking back, he bit his lip and moved away from the table. The bed was to be made, the old bed linen taken to the laundry maids, yesterday’s garments needed cleaning, maybe mending and folding before they were put away in the cupboard. Thankfully the man was already dressed. Maybe he would never require Merlin to do it again, and maybe he would get himself a whole new manservant, if what Merlin had done was so loathsome. Arthur finally sat down in the high seat at the head of the table and slowly tore the bread into smaller pieces before carefully putting them in his mouth one at a time, never letting his accusatory gloat abandon Merlin, now standing next to the bed gathering the obviously more than sweat sticky bed linen. The distinct smell of half dried cum rose from the fabric as he pulled it from the bed. Had Arthur had Gwen coming to him after the celebrations last night? Had she maybe even been with him and seen Merlin in that alcove? Was there no end to his humiliation? Or had it been one of the maids? No maid would ever turn down the prince; he could have whoever he wished and all he had to do was hint. Merlin had actually never caught Arthur in the act nor heard any rumours about such escapades or even seen traces of any castle maids visiting his bed. He let his fingers drift over the damp spots before tossing the linen to the floor. When he turned to the linen cupboard for clean sheets, he had to fight the sudden urge to raise his hand and smell Arthur´s cum, now smeared across his fingers. The heavy sent made something swirl in his lower abdomen and left a tightening feeling to his crotch. It was pathetic, he was pathetic and now in daylight with his back to Arthur, it was all there for the Prince to see, to mock. Quickly, he wiped his hand off on his thigh. “So, how´s your knee walking coming along? Like giving as much as you like getting?” After the awkward silence the sudden outburst seemed to rumble dangerously through the chamber. After all they´d been through the last couple of months, even though Lancelot, Leon, Gwaine, Elyan and Percival had been knighted and he was still a servant, even though it was Gwen whom Arthur had chosen, and even though it had been a mistake last night – this was not how Arthur treated his subjects, not anymore. He used to be as fair as his position allowed him, hence Merlin still a servant, and as friendly to his subjects as he possibly could. This was scheming, mean, and incomprehensible. Even Arthur wasn´t so dense he couldn´t see Merlin´s shame or sense his discomfort by now. Ordinarily he would quit or change tactics long before it came to this. “Why would you care, Arthur? Looked like you had a good time yourself last night!” He gathered the bed linen from the floor and moved it to the laundry basket, finding himself much closer to the table and Arthur than felt comfortable. He shifted his gaze from the laundry to Arthur´s reddened face and strained features. “No. No, I didn´t mean … you can of course …. I only meant the feast. You had a good time, with the knights and … Gwen … and Gwen …” His gaze slipped to the laundry basket and back to Arthur. The chair fell over with a deafening crash when Arthur rose faster than was possible and before Merlin blinked he was pinned to the table surface, a wooden plate poked his back and the almost full water jug fell to the floor as he accidentally jerked his arms in startled surprise. Pain repeatedly flashed his skull as Arthur pounded him to the wooden table with an unfaltering grip to his neckerchief. Was Arthur going to kill him? The beating seemed serious enough to frighten Merlin out of his wits. In pure self-preservation he reached out, unconsciously forming a spell which flung Arthur away and into the bed frame, half sitting, half sprawled on the floor. Merlin straightened, adjusted his neckerchief and tunic with trembling hands and rubbed his back head, where a bump was already forming. “You can choose to ignore me like you have the last couple of days, you can treat me like the no-good manservant I am, you can use me to let off steam when you need to, but this … this.” He looked straight at Arthur. “ How and with whom I spend my spare time is none of your concern. And I choose to spend it with someone who cares about me and who isn´t afraid to let it show.” Arthur could see the fading gold in his eyes, but he no longer cared. If he was arrested now, if he was burned at the stake it no longer mattered. Uther was a broken man, it would have to be Arthur giving those orders, and if that was all the recognition he would get for everything he had done over the years, then so be it. At least it would be recognition. After all not even Arthur could ignore a sentenced man. He would have to witness the execution as customary. “Clean up this mess.” Arthur waved his hand towards the table and the floor, rose and strode over to the window, deliberately avoiding any eye contact. “When you´re done here, I need you to muck out the stables, polish my armour and fetch me hot water for my bath before tonight´s dinner. You´re serving, wear your livery.” The avoidance, the insidious calm, ticked Merlin off. What was Arthur playing at? He wanted to walk up to Arthur and shake some sense into him, force him to see Merlin as he was: the sorcerer, the friend and the possible lover. But Arthur stubbornly refused time after time. Merlin would have it no longer! A slightly raised hand and a half whisper and the room cleaned itself; breakfast belongings on the tray, water on floor wiped up, bed neatly made, yesterday´s clothes in the cupboard. Merlin lifted the tray and headed for the door. “Anything else, sire?” He raised his chin defiantly, but Arthur kept his gaze focused on the courtyard beneath the window. “No, that was all.” The short dismissal could have been a death sentence for all Merlin cared. All anger he had felt moments earlier deflated in that single moment. All hope he had carried was lost. He meant absolutely nothing to Arthur, and the thought of that hurt, it hurt more than any flames on a pyre would. He closed his eyes for a moment to collect himself, then let his gaze slowly sweep over the chamber, over every floor tile, piece of furniture and tapestry. “I can´t do this anymore, Arthur. You tear me apart, and I can´t take it anymore … I´m sorry, but I can´t …” The words were a barely audible whisper. He crouched over the tray, facing the door, waited in vain for any reply at all and left the chambers. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX By the time Merlin reached Gaius´s quarters he was shaking as well as freezing. He rushed through the main room and slammed the narrow door to his room open without as much as an eye towards Gaius. The elder man lifted the ladle, which he had used to stir some medical concoction, in the air, an eyebrow raised. “What is it this time, Merlin?” He ignored the question and shoved his few spare tunics and the extra pair of braies in the very same knapsack he had brought with him when he first arrived in Camelot. Over the past years, he had acquired no more possessions than he had had then, with the exception of the little wooden dragon and the book of magic. “Is Arthur taking you hunting?” “No!” It was hard fitting the book in the knapsack with shaking hands. When he managed he strode back out to the main room and halted by the clattered workbench. Gaius had reverted his attention to the concoction. “I´m going home, Gaius.” The old man met his eyes and stopped stirring at once. “Oh, that´s nice. So Arthur permitted your leave. How long will you be gone?” Gaius turned and eyed the full shelves behind the workbench. “I have some medicines here, particularly hard to come by … I´m sure Hunith would be pleased if you …” “Arthur doesn´t know I´m leaving.” The announcement pulled Gaius´ attention back to Merlin, and the old man carefully eyed him. It made Merlin want to writhe with discomfort and he felt an immediate need to justify himself. “Arthur is soon to be king, Uther being too weak to actually rule. Everybody has gained something, some recognition these last months, but me.” He sounded like a spoilt, whining child, he knew and still he couldn´t stop himself. “Lancelot, Gwaine, Elyan and Percival have been knighted. They will be good knights for him, brave, skilled and loyal.” And Gwen has his affection, he wanted to say, she´s going to be his queen. “But I am just old, stupid, no-good Merlin, the manservant! That will never change. ” Gaius had come up close and put his hands on Merlin´s shoulders. “Arthur needs you, Merlin. It´s your destiny to keep him safe. That doesn´t stop just because some knights have proved their loyalty. You are the only one who can provide magic protection.” “He doesn´t care about the magic.” “What do you mean, Merlin? What have you done?” Gaius´ grip on his shoulders hardened. “No one must know about your magic. Uther may be a weak king, but he is still King of Camelot, and he will sentence you to death if he finds out you´re a sorcerer.” “Arthur knows and he couldn´t care less. Anyway, I´m leaving. And Ealdor isn´t within Uther´s jurisdiction.” He hugged Gaius, knowing he would miss the only father figure he had ever had. “I´m picking up bread and cheese in the kitchens. Have the medicines ready when I get back, and I´ll be happy to bring them back to mum.” Gaius, features already worried, nodded and patted Merlin´s back soothingly. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX The stables smelt of horse droppings and fresh straw, and even though it was only the beginning of fall it felt warmer inside than outside. Merlin moved quietly once the stable doors closed. It was past noon, stables mucked out, horses fed and the knights practicing in the fields behind the castle. He should be alone, but just as he put his hand on the door to the saddle room he froze. Something, someone, was moving around in the fodder room, stifled sounds escaping the ajar door less than two yards away. People, they were at least two, based on the whispers, and the sounds of dulled footsteps. It was impossible to decipher words. Merlin flattened himself against the saddle room door, with his now sweat damp hand on the bolt, too worried it would creak to push it open. A soft giggle, followed by a wet smacking sound made him unintentionally smile and his whole body relax. So it was one of the stable boys and a maid. Well, the deserted stables in the afternoon made an excellent place for a tryst and considering their pursuit he wouldn´t have to worry much about detection. He slowly lifted the bolt and started pushing the door open. “… but I do. I do love you!” The female voice still low, but now clearly interpretable, and Merlin froze. He knew that voice, not a maid´s anymore. Gwen´s! Gwen and Arthur, it must be, in a tryst behind the fodder room door. It felt as if his heart dropped to the hard earthen floor, and nausea billowed through his entire body. “No, we …” some of the words no longer audible, others drowned in subdued giggles and Arthur´s deep whisper. “He thinks highly of you, not that you don´t think highly of him of course, but it makes it harder all the same.” He could only grasp Gwen´s part of the conversation, her higher pitched voice wasn´t muffled by clay walls and wooden doors. Where they talking about him? “We will hurt him so much, I don´t know …” They must be. Gwen always cared for him, well, all people’s wellbeing concerned her. Maybe she had realized how he really felt for Arthur and now she worried their love and future union would upset him. Had it not pained him so much, it would have been almost touching. “I care for him … love him like a dear, sweet brother.” The words were interrupted by new sounds of kissing and small sighs of what sounded like pleasure to Merlin. “I hate to see him sad.” Boots scraped the earthen floor and the hinges creaked loudly as Gwen or Arthur opened the door. Without thinking Merlin threw himself inside the saddle room, closing the door behind him. He leaned on the wall next to the door, eyes closed, tears burning the inside of his eyelids, and heart pounding violently in his chest as he waited for the sounds of footsteps to die away and the stable door to slam. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX The tall trees surrounding the circular glade glowed in red and yellow, colours intensified by the setting sun. No leaves rustled and the only sounds came from forest birds preparing for nightfall and a murmuring stream running through the wood only a hundred or so yards away. It had felt wrong taking the sorrel mare. After all he was no thief, not that it mattered after his magic display. If Arthur really wanted to punish him, he could easily do so for sorcery and not bother with common horse theft. But the magic book weighed more than the rest of his few belongings together, and with bread and cheese and two wool blankets he had decided it would slow him down too much if he was to walk the entire way to Ealdor. The mare was an easy decision, it was the horse he normally rode, Arthur had even proclaimed it his horse, and she was of no real value to the kingdom, too old to foal. After he tied her to a low hanging branch and removed the saddle, he groomed her with a huge handful of dry grass, carefully stroking every inch of her dusty body. Later he repeated the movements with his bare hands, searching for scratches or invisible injuries. He finished by resting his head to her soft neck, drawing in her earthy smell and steamy warmth, burying his face in the rough mane. Every thought, every vivid vision of Arthur and Gwen together, kissing, fondling, in the fodder room tormented him. At least the mare´s close proximity calmed the ache in his chest, and he concentrated on keeping his breath steady. Finally he wiped his cheeks dry with the back of his hand, and went to set up camp. Later something woke him. The dark sky above was studded with stars and he lay facing the small fire, wrapped in one of the wool blankets, and stared into dancing flames, listening. Was it wild animals, a boar or a deer, or maybe something smaller like a rodent of some kind? Or was it highwaymen or bandits, or even worse, a search squad from Camelot? He could discern the soft sounds of hooves and sticks braking, one single horse and it´s rider approaching, and the mare snorted. By now he was fully awake and ready to cast a protective spell if necessary. The approaching horse whinnied, the rider halted and dismounted, then led the horse closer. Merlin rose a little, supported his body´s weight on his right elbow, then rose some more. A man, light hair reflecting the glow from fire, and he got on his feet. “Arthur!” Because it was Arthur who tied his dark stallion next to the mare and turned to Merlin, mouth resolute, gaze stern and eyebrows contracted. “Are you hiding from me? Because if you are …” His intonation was accusatory and his eyes flashed with anger. He moved closer to the fire and Merlin. “If you are, Merlin!” He still didn´t finish the sentence. “Why have you come? To bring me back to Camelot? For trial? Are you going to let me burn, Arthur? Is that what you´ve come for? Or is it the mare?” He shouted and glared, took a step forward so they were standing at an arm’s length from each other. It was like a dam finally breaking. “All I ever asked was some sort of recognition. I put my life at stake, every day, for years, and for what? You´ve treated me like muck under your boots since the knights´ return. No, worse, I´ve been like thin air to you, nothing!” Arthur swallowed and turned his gaze to the dark woods. “How can I recognize you for what you are to me? My sorcerer! My friend! My …” He shook his head. “How can I recognize even to myself, that I care more about you than what will ever be appropriate? How can I recognize you have magic when I don´t know what I´ll do if any harm came to you?” “You care about me?” “Yes! Yes, I do. I care about you more than anything. But it can never happen. I am the future King of Camelot, I have an example to set. I need a queen and an heir.” The last words were only a whisper. He took a moment to collect himself, and then walked off in direction of the stream. “I need to freshen up,” he declared, voice flat, facing the dark. Merlin stared after Arthur´s back, engulfed by the dark, still stunned by his little speech. What had he said? What did it mean? What did he want? He followed him at a distance to the stream, watched him take of the jacket, then the tunic and the under tunic. From where Merlin stood he could see Arthur´s broad back, muscles moving under firm skin when he crouched over running water. Merlin´s mouth went dry. Arthur splashed water in his face, over his throat and chest, and rubbed his armpits. When he rose and turned, his eyes locked with Merlin´s. Stream water pearled in Arthur´s chest hair, rivulets passing down over solid muscles, wetting the waistband of his braies and hose. Merlin blushed and suppressed a whimper. He wanted to turn his gaze away, but couldn´t. It was an everyday sight, Arthur bare and wet, and yet, so different. “I don´t understand. What about … Gwen?” he mumbled and finally averted his gaze. Arthur picked up his clothes, walked back to the camp fire and settled on the blanket. Merlin followed, careful to avoid all body contact, but looked back at his prince. “What about her?” “You have feelings for her, and she has feelings for you.” Merlin wanted to tell him he knew about their tryst in the stables, that he had been there, had overheard them. Gwen had pitied him, was that why Arthur had come after him? Did they look at him like some child in need of special care? “Well, yes … I do. She´s a wonderful girl, warm and kind and fun. Any man should be happy to have her.” Arthur kept his gaze to the fire. “She will be your queen,” Merlin sighed. “That´s my intension, yes. A king must have a queen, Merlin, I told you earlier. And she´s the only girl I´ve ever even cared for with no enchantments being involved. It´s a huge sacrifice to ask of her though.” Arthur slipped a quick glance at Merlin. “Marrying someone like me …” “Of course she will marry you, and happily so!!” Arthur spoke in riddles; it felt as if Merlin lacked a vital piece of information. “But I´ll ask her to sacrifice her chance of true happiness.” “No, you´re wrong, Arthur! I heard the two of you in the fodder room today. There´s no doubt she loves you, she said so …” “I haven´t seen her today,” Arthur stated and turned a pained face towards Merlin. “But I heard her, and yo…” His voice trailed off, as the missing piece of information fell into place, and he gaped from cold surprise. “I must marry, Merlin. I have no choice.” Their faces were close. Merlin could feel Arthur´s hot breath on his mouth and chin, and the blue gaze swam in his. His heart raced, blood pounding so hard in his ears and he licked his lips. First their shoulders touched, then knees and thighs. Moments and longer they rested in that gentle touch, eyes locked. Only a couple of inches apart, all it would take was a tiny motion forward and they would kiss. Would Arthur approve if he carried out the idea? Was that how he should interpret Arthur´s speech earlier? Damn it all, why was it so difficult? Kissing Arthur, and more there to, had been a recurrent fantasy of his. One he had indulged in on lonely nights and while doing tedious tasks that demanded no qualified thought. Still he hesitated, lump in his throat threatening to suffocate him. The closeness suddenly became unbearable. Impossible to think straight and anxious to put a modest distance between them, he rose abruptly and hurried over to the horses. “What about me, Arthur?” He had to know. “Are we friends? Even with my magic?” “Yes, I want that. I thought we were … before last night, that is.” Merlin blushed with shame, of course the alcove incident would come up and he felt an urge to justify his actions. “You have a hell of a way of showing it then! Could have fooled me.” “What did you expect? Recognizing your magic would have forced me to send you away from Camelot, or it could have you killed. I didn´t want that!” Arthur had joined him with the horses, staring aggravated. “I´m protecting you, idiot.” “I don´t need protection.” As Arthur had come closer Merlin had backed up against the tree trunk. Whatever calm the horses had provided it vanished with Arthur´s hands gripping his shoulders, shaking moderately. “I´m protecting you from you.” The grip slid down Merlin´s upper arms and remained there, thumbs rubbing the tunic fabric in an unceasing stroke, and Arthur leaned in, connecting their chests. Merlin heard Arthur breathe a little too fast and heavy, matching his own strained breathes, and felt hot damp air brush his mouth, chin and throat. Gaze narrowed down to spread pink lips, and his whole body flushed with anticipation, blood rushed from head to crotch. When their lips finally touched it was a light brushing, an exchange of breaths only instants before drawing back for mutual evaluation. What Merlin saw of Arthur in the faint light from the fire and an almost full moon was wide, dark eyes and flushed cheeks, and he could feel a pounding heart against his. He leaned in to taste those pink lips again, better this time, taking the lower lip between his, licking exploratory with his tongue, then sucking lightly, lapping the corner of the lips before pushing into that hot, wet mouth, meeting Arthur´s eager response. It went on and on and on. Once they´d risked it neither backed down. It was demanding, wet and filthy, little finesse, all frantic sucking and teeth clashing. Merlin, dizzy with lack of breath, broke off panting only to latch back on as fast as possible. He didn´t know if he wanted to swallow Arthur or if he wanted Arthur to swallow him, only he was taking whatever he could for as long as possible. It was all he had dreamt of, and better. Meanwhile his hands wandered, exploring Arthur´s broad, sturdy chest. The warmth emanated from the extra fine linen tunic and almost burnt Merlin´s palms. He stroked and rubbed his way over chest and upper arms, wanting to strip Arthur of his tunic, but settled with the soft, smooth skin of neck and nape. He trailed his kisses from mouth, to jaw, to collarbone leaving a wet trace behind. He wanted to taste every part of that bright skin, he wanted to crawl under and remain a part of Arthur. Desire simmered low in his belly, building steadily, threatening to overcast everything. He desperately wanted to grind his hips to Arthur´s and it took all restraint he could muster to prevent him from doing so. There was no telling how Arthur would respond to such an obvious sign of raw lust, and Merlin wouldn´t risk rejection. Then he didn´t have to. Arthur pushed closer and straddled Merlin´s right thigh, slanting his hips up and pressing the unmistakable sign of a hard cock to his groin. Instinctively he pressed back, withdrew an inch and repeated, his motions mirrored by Arthur. They moaned and grunted and humped each other like pubescent boys. Merlin nuzzled an earlobe and clawed the small of Arthur´s back, so as to increase the pressure. It felt fantastic, want and lust accumulating, lower abdomen tense, cock lacking sufficient, proper stimulation, but the situation itself providing all the stimuli he needed to get off. Hearing Arthur´s hoarse cries of uncontrolled arousal, feeling his cock fat and hot rutting wildly against Merlin and smelling the familiar scent of day old and fresh sweat was all it would take. He bit down on the curve connecting neck and shoulder, burying his nose in the hair folding behind the ear, and pushed his hips, letting his cock drag along hip bone and muscled thigh, once, twice, letting out a whimper, thrice. Oh, oh, oh, so good! Holding on to that fantastic pressure while coming: hot, sweet, messy relief. Arthur followed almost simultaneously, all chafing movements, strained panting and deep groans before collapsing heavy against Merlin. For an eternity they held on to each other as if their lives depended on it, hard breaths the only audible sound. When morning came Merlin lay under the blanket on his side facing the withered fire. Over the treetops in the east the sky was brightening with the promise of another sunny but probably chilly autumn day. For a moment he was disoriented. Why was he laying on the cold hard ground in the woods? And he had a big calloused hand slipped under his tunic, resting on his stomach, and the owner of the hand was curled up close behind him, and yesterday´s events came back to him. Of course, it was Arthur behind his back, although it was hard to believe, and a little unsettling as Arthur´s hand was dangerously close to his morning erection. Determined to sneak away he wiggled lightly putting a couple of inches between their bodies, only to be yanked back by that strong hand and arm. “Don´t run away,” Arthur whispered low in Merlin´s ear, the air tickling and teasing. The whisper followed by a light bite to the earlobe and tongue licking below the jaw. Merlin involuntarily arched back and froze at the realization of Arthur´s hard length pressed to his buttocks. “Are you …? Do you …?” “Yes, please, … let me.” Arthur caressed the soft skin above the waistband of the braies in small circular motions, pulling out a low moan from Merlin. He fumbled for the drawstring, then found the right string to pull and eased the braies down over Merlin´s hips, taking advantage by stroking the bare skin of his hipbone and buttocks while doing so. Then Arthur shifted, removed himself from Merlin´s warm back and wriggled for a few moments. When he closed in again Merlin let out a surprised pant at the feeling of naked skin against his, from the waist down. “Arthur!” The name came out more like a suppressed groan than an actual word. The pure thought of what these actions meant was enough to make him tremble with want. He rolled his hips, letting the hard length under silk soft skin rub against the crevice of his arse. Arthur was already panting heavily, the air ghosting Merlin´s nape at every breath. “I´ve dreamt of this, Merlin … for so long.” Merlin felt Arthur´s fingers trail along the line of hair from navel to crotch. A firm, muscled leg pushed in between his own more wiry ones, followed by a stroke from the inside of his knee all the way to the hot place where thigh met torso. It wasn´t enough, he wanted to turn to face Arthur, to hold him in his arms, to kiss him breathless, but Arthur held him firmly in place while dragging his cock back and forth, the rubbing eased by pre-come slicking Merlin´s crevice. Instead of turning he looked down, indulged in the sight of shining blonde hairs on Arthur´s arm moving over his hip as the strong sword hand kept fondling the soft inner thigh skin, and thumb reaching up to nudge his sweat damp sack. Trembling he turned his face to see a glimpse of Arthur. This time the request was met. Merlin sucked Arthur´s lower lip before opening wider and licking inside his mouth, gliding his tongue over hard teeth, enjoying the moaning response he got. “More … I want … more,” he panted when they broke apart and Arthur hummed in response, and pressed his open mouth to Merlin´s neck and shoulder instead. “Touch me, please, touch me.” In response to his plea, Arthur took Merlin´s achingly hard cock in his hand. The contact almost too much to bear, Merlin jerked back unwillingly, surprised. The motion only increased the sensation of Arthur´s hand holding on firmly, pulling the foreskin over the ridge and head, letting a thumb smear the pre-come pearled at the slit. The motion reversed as Merlin rocked back. Humming together in mutual pleasure, they rocked back and forth in an easily found rhythm. Slow and steady at first, then increasing the pace. Merlin twisted his arm and held on to Arthur´s arse urging him closer, faster. Forward drove him into that strong warm hand, backward let him feel Arthur’s length rubbing his crevice and lower back. Every breath came hard fought for. His heart raced uncontrollably, his movements more and more jerky. Merlin´s vision narrowed down and blurred. Arthur cried out, low and guttural, his mouth next to Merlin´s ear, then stilled and hot cum spurted over his arse and back. Merlin kept grinding, feeling the still hot cum smear all over his crevice. Oh, gods, Arthur´s actually come apart with him, with Merlin! Even though it seemed impossible the thought of that enhanced his arousal further. His breath was shaky now. He glanced down and watched Arthur´s hand on him. “Come on, Merlin, come for me.” Arthur´s voice, dark and husky, urged him on from behind and above, his hand still milking his length with great enthusiasm. “Arthur!” His breath hitched and he spilled thick white liquid over that hand and his own stomach. And when he turned to look over his shoulder Arthur was already there watching, awe in gaze. Merlin attempted to roll over. “Wait!” Arthur stopped him with a hand to his back, sat up and swept a piece of cloth over his sticky lower back, used gentle fingers to spread his arse cheeks and continued wiping. When he was done he pulled Merlin around and they lay thigh to thigh, hip to hip and chest to chest, resting in each other’s gaze. “I can never recognize you, Merlin. As long as my father lives, magic will be banned. And this!” He tightened his grip on Merlin and buried his face to his neck. “This can never happen.” Merlin inched back and forced Arthur to meet his eyes once again, let his magic tingle under his fingertips, eyes burned gold and he stroked Arthur´s back over and over. He wanted to say; I´m here, when you want me to be, I´m here for you always; but remained silent. They ate some of the bread and cheese, and drank cold water from the stream. The silence lay heavy, both stubbornly avoiding eye contact. Afterwards Merlin folded the blankets and went to see to the horses. If this was it, Merlin was happy he had at least had it, although knowing that this had been their only opportunity made his heart as well as his body physically ache for more of Arthur. Yesterday´s decision was long gone. He must have been crazy to even think it possible to ignore destiny. All he could think of now was how he should be there for Arthur, in any position, to help him become the king he was meant to be. “You are coming back with me to Camelot.” Arthur had come up behind him without Merlin noticing, putting a hand on his hip. Merlin shook his head. “I haven´t seen mum in almost three years. I miss her. And Gaius sent some hard to come by medicines for her.” “So you are actually leaving.” It was both a question and a statement, the way he said it, and underneath hidden sorrow. It was the closest to a confession that Arthur would miss him, already missed him, Merlin would ever get, and it twisted something in his heart. He lifted his hands, cradled Arthur´s face and kissed him, at first chaste, closed lips to closed lips, and then deepened, never making it filthy but slow, lingering, and bitter sweet. When they broke apart, Merlin stroked Arthur´s cheek. “I´m not leaving. I´m never leaving you,” he whispered, untied the mare, sat up and rode off in direction of Ealdor. Not once did he look back to see if Arthur watched him leave or if the Prince was already on his way back to Camelot.

Hakkai couldn't understand it. Everywhere he looked, he saw only beauty, yet his traveling companions were either ignorant or incapable of appreciating it – all they could do was complain. He supposed that was typical, after all, they'd been on the road for several days without seeing even a glimpse of a village. Gojyo and Sanzo were running out of cigarettes and alcohol, making them edgy and quick-tempered. Even Goku's normally cheerful demeanor had deteriorated into incessant verbal concerns about their dwindling food supplies. They'd all lost their sense of humor and Hakkai couldn't bear thoughts of many more days with the surly bunch. Hakuryuu had brought them to a lovely spot, a picturesque remnant of a bygone era. After setting up camp and finishing their meager supper, Hakkai had taken the opportunity to explore their immediate surroundings. Following a rough, circular pathway, Hakkai was delighted at what he found only mere steps from their fire. Ruins of stone structures and overgrown, abandoned gardens were the only record of a people long forgotten. Hakkai wandered through remaining upright and finely sculpted archways, running his fingers over rough, weatherworn stones and tracing elaborate scenes of hunting and feasting. Hakkai could only imagine that high caliber artists had spent decades on the outstanding carvings. Wending his way through paths of unnamed, aromatic foliage, he couldn't help but appreciate a virtual kaleidoscope of colors ranging from deep magenta to bright saffron. He marveled at the garden's tenacity, the fragrant, vibrant plants were somehow holding their own against the encroaching indigenous vegetation. Of course, at this point, he mused, perhaps the advancing greenery was the invader. After a passage of time long enough to erode stone, who knew? The moon was high and brilliant when Hakkai stepped into a circle of flowers, wondering at the vast differences in color and size. Leaning over, he sniffed at a purple flower, inhaling its heady, minty perfume. He opened his mouth, about to make a comment about how wonderful the garden was until he glanced over the jungle of plants and at their dying cook fire. Goku and Gojyo were already asleep, curled around one another in an attempt to stave off their ongoing and mutual fear of abandonment. Sanzo sat with his eyes closed and his back against a pillar. Straightening up, Hakkai realized that even if his traveling companions were awake, none of them would care about the garden. Sanzo would roll his eyes in dismissal, Goku would probably want to know what was edible, and Gojyo's reaction to flowers was always melancholy silence. What he saw would be wasted beauty on them. He sighed with frustration. Keeping his opinions to himself, Hakkai returned the short distance to their camp. He rummaged through their meager belongings until he discovered his bag of grooming supplies and a change of clothes. Grabbing the cleanest towel he could find, he stood up and headed towards the lake. Sanzo growled at him. "Don't get lost." "I plan to swim actually." Hakkai paused. After a moment, he managed to coax a smile in place and faced his friend. "The water should be warm enough and it has been hot. I would like to feel clean for a few moments." "Hmm." Sanzo seemed bored. "Care to join me?" "Tch." "As I suspected." Hakkai resumed his journey toward the lake. "Hakkai." "Yes?" He glanced over his shoulder at Sanzo. "Don't get lost." Hakkai smiled again. "I believe you said that earlier." "Huh." Sanzo frowned. Savoring silence, Hakkai inhaled the scents of flowers and fresh water while skirting the garden and then turning downhill and towards the lake. Hakkai was pleased he would swim alone; he needed some time away from his chaotic companions. He let his tiresome and fake smile fade, his bitter reaction to Sanzo's almost-admission of needing Hakkai. They both knew Sanzo's need simply fell to driving, cooking, cleaning and playing referee. Just as Goku's need for Hakkai centered on food and Gojyo's need was mostly about ashtray cleaning. At the moment, he felt more like a domestic hired hand than a valuable partner in their journey. As the proverbial they said: some days were more difficult than others and Hakkai could currently attest to the old adage. This last week had been very difficult, indeed. Missing Kanan happened infrequently now, but tonight his weary solitude seemed heavier than usual and his thoughts naturally turned to her. He wasn't certain she would have enjoyed camping, but she would have appreciated the garden and lake. Hakkai gazed at the night-sky, wondering at the many stars and their brightness. Would they keep Gojyo awake tonight? No. Tonight, Hakkai was completely alone. Hakkai's mood was oddly paradoxical. He wanted company, just not his current company. Strangely enough, his thoughts drifted to Homura, remembering the doomed War God's fondness for flowers. Would Homura have appreciated the garden? What about the gentle Yaone or even Kougaiji? He chuckled softly, wondering how his traveling companions would react if they knew his thoughts. Pausing in his approach to the lake, he observed the moon's reflection off its mirror-like surface, illuminating two crumbling, partially submerged towers. Splashing sounded somewhere to his right. He turned his head, searching for a source of the gentle sloshing, focusing his limiter dampened senses. There was no impression of youkai aura or anything else threatening, however, he couldn't shake a feeling of eerie familiarity. Not worried in the least, Hakkai finished his stroll toward the water. Removing his shoes, he sat down on a stone bench of a half-sunken amphitheater and toed at the warm water. Satisfied at the temperature, he peeled off his remaining clothing and didn't even bother folding them; they were filthy, anyway. Using the ancient stone risers as a stairway, he descended into the mildly temperate water. Sighing with pleasure, he pushed off a bench and dove underwater, already feeling road grime and campfire ash sluice away from his skin. The water against his bare skin felt tantalizing and erotic. As he swam, his muscles loosened with his strokes, tension and irritation began to dissipate. The others of his band did not know what they were missing. Sanzo in particular, could do with a little lessening of anger and stress. Crashing water drew his attention and in a tower's shadow, near a rock wall, he found a waterfall. At one time in the cascading fall's history, Man had manipulated its course, altering into someone's idea of an aesthetically pleasing shape. Nature had her own way of reclaiming beauty - time. Hakkai preferred the raw and untamed elegance of tumbling water, redesigning its way through a manmade facade. Fallen boulders and cut stones had gathered at the fall's base creating an ankle deep pool. Hakkai could definitely get a shower and wash his clothes. He swam back to his belongings and gathered them up. Not able to bring himself to redress in his dirty clothes, he remained naked, walking along an uneven, rock pathway. During his journey on foot, he thought longingly of unsoiled clothing and clean skin. There was another splash and he whirled in surprise, scanning the lake for others and keenly aware of his nudity. No one was visible, yet he was certain someone was watching him. Odd. All he felt was a comforting presence. With one last, sweeping glance, he assured himself he was alone. After arranging his dirty clothing under a steady, but gentle stream of water, he then stepped under the fall. That is, he tried to. His impaired vision caused him to misjudge his pace and a jagged rock edge caught his hip, scraping his skin. He ignored the sting from his injury assuming it was superficial. Then he continued with his shower. Water poured over him with and he showered with efficiency. He wanted to take his time but when he brushed his fingers against his hip, pain raced through him and did not abate. Unable to ignore the damage any longer, he stepped away from the fall's spray and checked his wound. Red. Even with his blurred eyesight, he could see the glorious color in the bright moonlight. He licked his lips and inhaled while he smeared a finger though the viscous warmth. The gash was much deeper than he'd initially thought. He would probably need to heal himself, but not right away, maybe later. For now, however, he would ride his euphoria of pain and savor the intoxicating scent. He'd already had the stirrings of an erection, from the moment he'd submerged himself in the lake his cock was awake, but now with the blood… He grabbed his wet clothing and then carefully picked his way through the boulders and back to the lake's bank. Hakkai liked to think of himself as a disciplined man. Yet, there was still a level of control he couldn't quite transcend; a point where his unwavering calm would suddenly snap like a stepped-on dry twig. Sometimes anger triggered his change and sometimes it was pleasure; he was never certain what would bring about his loss of restraint. At this moment, clean and fresh from a long, satisfying swim, the tantalizing ache from his recent wound, and surrounded by nature's beauty, Hakkai wanted nothing more than a little self-gratification. He spread his towel on the ground and then grabbed a bottle of lotion from his supplies. Pouring some of the thick cream into his hand, he scanned his perimeter once more. There was someone or something watching him, but again, his senses told him it wasn't dangerous. Folding himself to the ground, he stretched out on the towel and gently caressed his twitching cock. Yes, he was naked and in the open. Yes, he was wantonly masturbating in view of some unseen entity. He didn't care. With the same single-minded compulsion that drove him to kill a thousand demons, he would now jerk himself off in front of an unknown creature. Each action might be miles apart in consequences, but to Hakkai's skewed sensibilities, they were bizarrely similar. He bent his knees and raised his hips, stroking his hand over rigid flesh. Closing his eyes, images swirled past, long brown hair became red, then gold, and finally black. His thoughts were unacceptable, he was guilty of thinking about Gojyo, Sanzo and Yaone in his corresponding memories of Kanan, but he couldn't help himself. Then, there was the blood. Raising his coated fingers to his lips, he lapped at the ferric taste and his body tensed in reaction. The images of his friends and lover swirled together with his vision of red and he felt an expected coiling sensation in his belly. His hand tightened and he squeezed his thickening erection, wanting to stay his orgasm but knowing he was already too late. He let himself go. His back arched and he came, warm liquid pleasure flowing from his shuddering cock and spilling onto his stomach. Breathing raggedly, he rode his waves of ecstasy until his quivering subsided and his body relaxed. Done with his throes of passion, Hakkai stretched out and considered the waterfall again. He would do well to wash off right away but he felt so mellow, he didn't stir, staring idly at blurry stars and a bright moon, floating on a sea of unhurried, post-coital tranquility. His consciousness slipped away and he drifted into a comforting and deep sleep. There was a rough tongue dragging against his scar and for a moment, Hakkai was unsure if he was dreaming. Again, he felt a wet rasping feel against his ragged skin. No, someone or something was definitely licking him. He opened his eyes but still could not see. Hakkai reached for whatever blocked his eyesight but found that his wrists would not move. "What - ?" He struggled, almost full of panic until an insistent hand pressed into his undamaged hip. "Shhh," a rough voice Hakkai almost recognized said. "I won't injure you." Hakkai exhaled and forced himself to calm, assessing his situation. His arms were bound securely and over his head, his eyes were covered. There were warm fingers lightly gripping his sides and a strong, course tongue lapped at his belly, licking away Hakkai's drying come. What he thought might be hair flowed gently over him. Sleek skin glided over his and in spite of his helplessness – maybe because of it - the contact was exquisitely decadent. He was completely blind and vulnerable, yet he didn't feel threatened. Hakkai knew his assailant, knew the silken touch, and the recognizable but frustratingly intangible scent. Yes, he knew the person who licked and caressed him with loving care. Hakkai struggled to place a name while his body surrendered everything. Hot breath on his neck caused his flesh to prickle and Hakkai willingly turned his head, baring his throat, allowing his captor full access. Teeth closed on his neck, breaking skin and exposing his lifeblood to the night air. Hakkai could feel warm, viscous liquid trickle down his neck and he shivered knowing his captor watched. His erection returned with an agonizing quickness and he groaned. "Yes," a deep voice rumbled, "you belong to me." Then that long, rough tongue lapped his flowing blood. Hakkai was lightheaded and he could feel his pulse pounding in his groin. Blood that didn't drip from his neck was racing to his cock. He strained his ears, employing what little sense remained in his confused mind while trying to decipher the maddeningly familiar voice. This person wasn't Gojyo, Sanzo or Goku, but he knew him none-the-less. Kougaiji? No, Kougaiji wasn't so… forceful. Sleek skin glided over his, a feel of satin mingled with a familiar scent. Hakkai lifted his chest, trying to keep contact with the warm body above him. When the direction of contact changed, the feel was no longer soft, more like fine sandpaper. He recognized the texture and puzzle pieces fell into place in Hakkai's head. Inhaling sharply he asked, "Hakuryuu?" Hakkai's question earned him a low, breathy reply, "Yes." His mind reeled while he felt unclad thighs straddle his waist. Cool fingers removed his blindfold and Hakkai gazed up at an incredible sight. A moonlit creature, a vision of silver hair, shimmering opalescent skin, delicately tapered ears, and glittering red eyes returned his stare. "Hakuryuu? But how?" Those red eyes never wavered. "Does it matter?" Hakkai nearly laughed aloud. "Not in the least." "Good." Hakuryuu leaned over and kissed him. Responding to the kiss, Hakkai opened his mouth allowing a long, thin tongue to curl about his own. He wondered if he was dreaming – the whole idea of Hakuryuu as this stunningly beautiful man and as Hakkai's soon-to-be lover seemed natural, as if somewhere in time, they'd been together. Hakuryuu took his time, fingers and tongue touching him, seeming to inspect every centimeter of Hakkai's flesh. Tender caresses traveled down his bound arms and into his ticklish armpits. Hakuryuu's appearance of stoicism gave way to open amusement as he made Hakkai squirm and laugh several times. Then Hakuryuu's attention moved to Hakkai's chest, warm palms curling around his sides, thumbs teasing hardened nipples. Hakkai writhed this time, his breathing turned into panting and his cock throbbing for attention. Hakuryuu shifted, his naked ass slithering over Hakkai's erection, but not granting any friction. Hakkai nearly whimpered in frustration. Hakuryuu sat up and his long teeth glimmered at Hakkai in a smile. "You're unusually impatient." Hakkai's gaze fixated on those lengthy canines. "That's true, but normally, I am not tied up and it has been a very long time since I…" He licked his lips and stared. "Your teeth look very sharp. Are they?" "You already know they are." One long, elegant finger circled a sore spot on Hakkai's neck. "Do you want more?" His cock nearly jumped with Hakuryuu's question and he whispered, "Yes." "Very well." Hakuryuu lowered his head and closed his teeth on Hakkai's tender skin, next to his right nipple. "Ahhh!" There was a satisfying tearing of his flesh and a scent of fresh blood filled the air. Hakkai arched his body upwards, nearly coming with a cresting wave of sensual torment. Hakuryuu lifted his head and Hakkai was mesmerized with the sight of red trickling down one side of his captor's mouth. Leaning forward, Hakuryuu delivering a bruising, unrelenting kiss, breaking away only to let Hakkai lick the trail of blood clean from his face. "Mmm." Hakkai's body thrummed with desire as he lapped at the sticky substance. "No wonder the others fear bedding you." Hakuryuu's deep voice rumbled with a soft chuckle. "They know they cannot handle you." "Wh… what?" Hakkai stammered out. "But no one…" Hakuryuu interrupted him. "Some of them want you. I can smell it on them, especially the half-demon. He watches you with hunger." He nuzzled at Hakkai's neck and growled possessively, "I don't like it." "I don't think so." Hakkai laughed. "You are mistaken." Hakuryuu moved like lightening, his sleek form moving sinuously down Hakkai's body. He sank his sharp teeth into the raw, previously broken flesh just above Hakkai's hipbone. Hakkai cried out with searing, erotic agony. Hakuryruu raised his head, all bloody lips and teeth. He stared at Hakkai. "I don't like it." Sweat beaded on Hakkai's forehead and he nodded his understanding. "Good." Hakuryuu licked lovingly at his bite, soothing Hakkai's hurt. Shifting himself away from Hakkai's prone body, he demanded, "I want you. Now. Turn over." Electricity hummed through Hakkai's nerve endings and he shivered. "Oh, yes." He attempted to roll over but quickly discovered his task was more difficult. With his wrists bound and tethered, he couldn't quite get the leverage he needed without a little writhing about. Hakuryuu watched him, his red eyes never wavering from Hakkai's undulating naked form. Hakkai settled on his stomach and Hakuryuu gently nudged him into place. His bound arms remained stretched over his head and his legs pushed wide apart. Hakkai felt completely vulnerable and his cock, now trapped uncomfortably beneath him, pulsed in time with his wildly beating heart. All he could do was wait for whatever Hakuryuu planned. Maddeningly light caresses traveled across his body. Soft pads on long fingers dallied over Hakkai's skin, flirtatious strokes along his neck, ghosting down his spine, finally lingering with teasing frustration on his hips and thighs. Hakuryuu's fleeting touches left Hakkai panting and aching for more. Hakkai moaned when he felt his companion's loose hair tickle his shoulders. "Hakuryuu, I need…" "Shh." Teeth closed on the back of Hakkai's neck. "I insist on my own pace." Hakkai's skin was hypersensitive and he tensed and bowed, his body tingling with the onslaught of wonderful pain. He wanted to beg and shout for more but he also knew doing so would not hurry Hakuryuu. Instead, he embraced his trembling distress and moaned. "Good." Hakuryuu lapped at Hakkai's blood while positioning himself between opened thighs. "Raise your hips." One knee slid under him and then another, somehow Hakkai responded, not knowing where he found the strength or ability to remain focused. He felt disconnected and separate from his passion-inflamed body and yet filled with a wantonness he'd never known until now. Widening his legs at Hakuryuu's command, Hakkai waited, shivering with his desire. Strong, gentle pressure from fingertips divided Hakkai's ass cheeks, exposing his delicate skin. There was a tangible pause while warm breath whispered against his most intimate opening and Hakkai squirmed under Hakuryuu's intense study, embarrassment cascading over him. He tried to wriggle away but Hakuryuu's fingers squeezed and dug ruthlessly into his hips, holding him immobile and spreading him wide. The stress on his tender skin was immense and Hakkai feared he might tear. He cried out in panicked warning, "No more!" "Hush." Hakuryuu's voice was ragged but the wresting strain eased. "Hold still, now." Falling silent once again, Hakkai waited, his body now shook with a desperate need for tactile contact. His muscles coiled in anticipation of how Hakuryuu might torture him next. He bit his lip to keep himself from begging. Thumbs moved closer to his entrance, rubbing provocatively against thin skin and responsive nerve-endings. Hakkai closed his eyes when Hakuryuu tentatively tasted his highly stimulated flesh. There was a rumbling growl from Hakuryuu and the sandpaper, forked tongue slid lower, lashing softly at Hakkai's balls and dragging along the length of his tender crevice. For a moment, Hakkai thought he might black out. His erection twitched with agonized neglect, but even so, he thought he might come. "Touch me," he moaned, "please." If Hakuryuu heard him, he gave no indication and instead, continued to lap at Hakkai's exposed divide. After several moments, Hakuryuu narrowed his strokes, focusing and circling Hakkai's opening, dipping shallowly inside and then out again. Hakkai thought he couldn't possibly experience any more stimulation but when Hakuryuu's long tongue finally slithered inside him, he jolted with the sensation. He groaned with every caress. "Oh, that's…" Before he could finish his disjointed, incoherent sentence, Hakuryuu's tongue pulled out and then stabbed inside Hakkai again, in and out, over and over. Hakkai lost track of time, his vision unfocused and his head drooped onto his arms. Hakuryuu's tongue finally withdrew. Night air teased Hakkai's damp flesh while he waited. Hands pried him open and then something cold and liquid dripped on his acutely sensitive cleft. A fingertip slipped inside and Hakkai shifted, raising his hips and driving Hakuryuu's digit deeper inside. Hakuryuu's hand curled around Hakkai's hip, holding him still again. "Don't stop me, please," Hakkai pleaded. He could feel a steady stream of precum dribbling down his aching cock, soaking the towel underneath him. Tears of frustration filled his eyes, he wasn't really an overly emotional being, but his body burned from desire and deprivation. He tugged feebly at his restraints. "Hakuryuu, please …" Hakuryuu's long, lubed finger pushed inside, brushing against lightly Hakkai's prostate. Hakkai quivered and groaned with the gentle touch. A second finger joined the first, stabbing inside without gentleness, rubbing ruthlessly against that spot. Hakkai closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, he was coming. Orgasmic convulsions wracked his body. Crying out, he jacked his hips loose from Hakuryuu's grasp and rocked back and onto the fingers, trying to get more pressure. "Ye… yeah…" Hakkai choked out. Hakuryuu leaned over him and snaked his free hand around Hakkai's hip. Squeezing Hakkai's spent cock, he said, "I didn't even touch you and you came. I guess we'll have to try again." Rolling Hakkai over, Hakuryuu straddled his chest, reaching up and untying his arm. Gently, Hakuryuu rubbed each wrist and checked them for damage. Hakkai's body felt boneless and all he seemed capable of was gazing at Hakuryuu's beauty. "You have horns," Hakkai finally managed to say, touching the small white horns poking through Hakuryuu's mass of hair just above his ears. Hakuryuu gave him a toothy smile. "Yes." Hakkai's eyes traveled over his friend's body, beyond the red eyes and silver-spun hair, past strong shoulders and a well-defined stomach, down to where Hakuryuu sat on him. Hakkai stared at Hakuryuu's thick, pulsing erection. Drawn tautly over his cock, Hakuryuu's pearly skin had turned a lovely shade of iridescent purplish-blue. A thick stream of precum spilled down one side and Hakkai felt an undeniable need to taste it. He reached out with his right hand and he brushed his fingers over the gossamer liquid, coating them and then raising them to his mouth. Tangy, salty and bitter, Hakuryuu's flavor was provocative stuff, enough to make Hakkai's head spin. Hakuryuu grabbed Hakkai's hand and pressed it to his cock. Gasping with surprise, Hakkai realized Hakuryuu's erection was much larger than he'd first thought. Also, he realized that from tip to base, a series of smooth nubby ridges circled the formidable hard flesh, each one progressively thicker than the last. The root of Hakuryuu's cock was incredibly wide giving Hakkai some room for doubt. "I'm not sure I can take all of you." "You will." Hakuryuu smiled again, sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. Raising himself to his knees, Hakuryuu propelled his hips forward, nudging his impressive erection against Hakkai's lips. "Hakkai." Hakkai opened his mouth and curled his tongue around the wet tip of Hakuryuu's erection. Closing his lips and lifting his head, he slid the hard length further into his mouth. Hakkai's senses filled with the scent and taste of Hakuryuu. "Yes, like that." Hakuryuu leaned over him, pushing his thick cock deeper and rocking his hips, fucking Hakkai's mouth. "Yes." Trying not to gag, Hakkai focused on breathing and staying calm. Saliva filled his mouth and in spite of the rough treatment - or maybe because of it – Hakkai's hard-on returned with speed. Hakkai concentrated, listening to Hakuryuu's muted sounds of pleasure and felt a power he'd never experienced before. He moaned and took Hakuryuu's gentle, even thrusts deeper into his throat, wishing to give even more enjoyment to his lover. A hand tangled in Hakkai's hair, holding his head still. Hakuryuu's breathing was ragged when he pulled himself away from Hakkai's mouth. "Enough." Sliding down Hakkai's body, Hakuryuu positioned himself between opened legs, nudging them wider. Hovering his long form over Hakkai, he leaned close and delivered an intense kiss. When he sat up again, he reached for the lotion. Hakkai placed his feet flat on the ground and raised his hips, giving Hakuryuu as much access as possible. He was a bit concerned; after all, Hakuryuu's cock was large. Then again, he did like a bit of pain and he was certain Hakuryuu wouldn't damage him too badly. Lubricated fingers entered Hakkai and this time they stretched him wide instead of caressing him. Two and then three digits quickly loosened and slicked his taut passage before withdrawing. Hakuryuu sat back, and coated his cock. Pressing his hips forward, Hakuryuu's erection nudged at Hakkai's opening. He paused, blood-red eyes holding Hakkai's gaze. "Relax, now." Hakkai unconsciously held his breath while Hakuryuu pushed his cock slowly forward, widening him with every millimeter. Pain and desire griped him, the lines mixing and then diverging. Hakkai tried to keep his composure and wits but everything melded together into pure sensation. Hakuryuu pulled back and then dealt a series of gentle, easy thrusts, each one a tad bit deeper and forcing Hakkai's passage a tiny bit wider. Searing, marvelous agony. Hakkai welcomed the pain, accepting Hakuryuu's persistent invasion. After what seemed like hours, Hakuryuu was fully inside him and the relentless onslaught ceased. Hakuryuu's hand smoothed away sweat from Hakkai's brow. "Are you all right?" Hakkai whispered, "Yes." "You feel very good around me." Hakuryuu panted and then placed his hands behind Hakkai's knees, pushing his thighs up and open. "I want to finish now, are you ready?" Hakuryuu's manipulation of Hakkai's legs made insertion more extreme. Finding his voice, Hakkai finally answered, "Yes." The strokes started out long and deliberate. Hakuryuu backed almost completely out, only to reverse and fill Hakkai again. Picking up speed, his hips started to snap and he slammed his cock into Hakkai without tenderness. Hakkai could feel Hakuryuu's building orgasm and it mirrored his own as they rocked together, driving one another closer to ecstasy. Hakuryuu wrenched Hakkai's knees up, pressed them over to one side, and leaned into him. The new angle allowed Hakuryuu's deep penetration to rub against Hakkai's prostate. Whispering into Hakkai's ear, Hakuryuu said, "Touch yourself, like you did earlier. I want to feel you squeeze me as you come." Hakkai didn't need any more encouragement and he grabbed his dripping erection and pumped frantically. Hakuryuu kissed Hakkai's neck while thrusting inside, dragging against his prostate. Hakkai's body tensed and his belly coiled in anticipation, his orgasm unstoppable now. Hakuryuu drove him over the edge, biting him savagely, breaking skin at the junction of Hakkai's neck and shoulder. Hakkai yelled, his orgasm sending electrifying jolts pulsing throughout his system. Hakuryuu's rapturous groan quickly followed and his body was shaking as he gave one final shove. Hakkai could feel Hakuryuu's impressive cock spilling inside him, filling him with come. Panting, Hakuryuu licked half-heartedly at the last bite he'd inflicted on Hakkai's shoulder and then pulled away, collapsing onto his back. After several minutes, Hakkai's breathing normalized and he rolled onto his side to face Hakuryuu. Silver hair spread across the ground and Hakuryuu gazed serenely at him. "That was like nothing I have ever experienced. You seemed very knowledgeable; I assume you've done this before." "I don't know." Hakuryuu raised his hand and stared at it. Light from the moon spilled between his spread fingers and shimmered against his alabaster skin. Involuntarily, Hakkai caught his breath at Hakuryuu's exotic radiance. "I am more than this. More than your steed, more than what you see before you right now. I know I am more than a pet." Hakkai had to struggle to make his mouth work. "I've never considered you a pet." Displaying his impressively sharp teeth with a smile, Hakuryuu said, "I know, you don't." Hakkai could not stop himself from touching Hakuryuu's silky hair. Whispering he asked, "Why did you wait until now to show yourself to me?" "I…" Hakuryuu's eyebrows furrowed. "I don't know. I wasn't able to change into this form until recently. I have no memories before you found me. I know there I was something else before you but I couldn't tell you what." Like Goku. Hakkai couldn't help comparing the two stories. Was it some intervention of the gods again? Hakkai disliked gods; they had a tendency to cause unforeseen complications in life. Gazing into Hakuryuu's striking red eyes he asked, "So you can change at will?" "This form," he frowned, "is still difficult for me to obtain. For some reason the moon seems to help me." "I should have known." Hakkai chuckled. "We all seemed linked to the moon, don't we?" "Yes." Hakuryuu swung his leg over and settled on Hakkai's hips. Fingers traveled insistently over Hakkai's skin – extracting gentle sounds of pleasure from him. "Hakuryuu, I'm not sure how responsive I can be." Hakkai felt physically spent but even so, when Hakuryuu leaned over and licked him with that marvelous tongue, his body flexed with renewed stirrings of wanton desire. "We'll both be exhausted tomorrow." "Yesss." Sharp incisors sunk into flesh over a rib and Hakkai groaned. "More." He would be tired – but he could gladly pay the price of his fatigue to gain what he experienced with Hakuryuu. Besides, he was certain they would manage the next day together. Waking with a start, Hakkai was temporarily confused about where he was. He was on a towel amidst a bed of moss. Next to him, Hakuryuu slept soundly, a small bundle of white curled tightly against Hakkai's side. Hakkai blinked sleep from his eyes, attempting to make sense of what happened during the night. Had he dreamed his encounter with a bipedal, dexterous and lustful Hakuryuu? His body protested movement as he sat up. Intimate aches and pains quickly dispelled any further thoughts of a dream and he surveyed his visible bites and bruises. His body hurt everywhere, yet it was a pleasant pain, a reminder of passionate play. Hakkai was pleased they'd taken time to wash after finishing. He smiled at his memory; even bathing with Hakuryuu was quite sensual, as he was an attentive lover. Stretching his arms over his head, he gazed at the lightening sky. Today would be beautiful. Hakuryuu opened one sleepy eye and then rubbed his head against Hakkai's leg and sighed. Hakkai scratched the dragon's neck and wondered about life's idiosyncrasies. "You said the moon helps?" "Kyuu." "Well then," Hakkai leaned closer to Hakuryuu, "we'll have to plan accordingly, won't we?" Hakuryuu nuzzled Hakkai's cheek with his own. "Kyuu." Hakkai chuckled. "Tempting as it is, you know Sanzo won't let us stay here." Reaching for his clothes, he stood up and began to dress. "They'll be looking for us soon, best if we beat them to it. Besides, I'm hungry." Hakuryuu watched him while he dressed. Hakkai realized he would never disrobe in front of the dragon again without considering what thoughts Hakuryuu might be having; he was kinky enough already to give Gojyo a run. Hakkai slipped into his secondary button-down shirt. When he tied his sash into place, Hakuryuu flew to his shoulder and licked his ear. Listening to Hakuryuu's soft crooning, Hakkai gathered up his remaining, damp clothes and then hiked back to camp. Once he returned, he stoked the fire and started breakfast, breaking out his hidden stash of food. Using a downed large tree as a work area, he went to work preparing their meal. Hakuryuu stayed close, accepting Hakkai's handfed offers of the best morsels. After several quiet minutes, Gojyo stood up and stretched. "Hey 'Kai. Want me to make coffee?" "Why, yes, Gojyo, that would be very thoughtful. Thank you." Gojyo yawned and stepped next to Hakkai while he reached for the coffeepot. "You're awfully cheerful this morning." Hakkai turned towards his friend and smiled. "Ah, ha ha, am I?" Gojyo blinked at him. "Hey." He gently touched Hakkai's collarbone with his index finger. "Wow. Looks like something's been gnawing on you." "Oh…" Hakkai struggled for something to say. "I, um…" "Hey, there's more than one." Pulling back Hakkai's collar, Gojyo stared at his neck. He raised his gaze to Hakkai's eyes. "Hakkai, these look like teeth marks. What the hell happened to you last night?" Hakkai shrugged. "I went for a swim." Gojyo scowled. "Well, swimming doesn't give you love bites." Hakkai swallowed and then forced a laugh. "Love bites? You must be mistaken." "Look, 'Kai, don't bullshit me." Gojyo tugged on Hakkai's shirt again. "Those are love bites." He didn't want to lie to Gojyo, but Hakkai wasn't ready to share Hakuryuu's secret, either. "I, uh…" Just then and with lightening fast quickness, Hakuryuu bit one of Gojyo's fingers. "Oww!" Gojyo shouted, snapping his hand away from Hakkai, blood already spilling on the ground. "Was it you that bit him, ya flying reptile?" Hakuryuu took to the air, circling Gojyo with a steady stream of hissing chatter. Gojyo's subsequent yelling and swearing woke up their two companions. Goku was excited to see secret stash of food and wanted to know how soon breakfast would be ready. Sanzo sat up from his bedding and yelled for silence, brandishing his fan and threatening all who breathed. Hakkai attempted to hide his laughter as Hakuryuu continued to harry Gojyo. He remembered Hakuryuu's warning about Gojyo's attraction to Hakkai from the previous night. He bit his lip. If Gojyo was interested in Hakkai, their journey might become a bit more adventurous and difficult. Either way, Hakkai was confident he wouldn't experience a repeat of his crushing loneliness any time soon. End

New York - 1948 The clerk at the flight desk reached up and changed the placard to reflect the ten minute late arrival time for the London flight. Troy sighed, reached into his inside coat pocket in automatic search for his cigarettes. He frowned as he remembered his decision to quit smoking. Pacing the length of the waiting area, he finally threw himself into a chair, cursing the slow plane. A slow smile touched his mouth. For three years, he’d been patient, waiting for the right time, waiting for the world the recover, waiting for final duties to be fulfilled. Three years, twenty odd letters, numerous phone calls and several telegrams - and he was being frustrated by an extra ten minutes. Straightening his tie, he sighed and settled into wait. Troy was heading for the gate even before the arrival call was finished. A sudden wave of nervousness hit him and he wondered if perhaps he should have waited some more. The idea that this was a bad idea never occurred to him. Dietrich spotted him and a smile touched the lean features. Troy felt his own mouth lift in response. He stepped forward and for a minute they regarded each other, remembering the many meetings before, most made over raised weapons. Troy extended his hand. “Welcome back to America, Hans.” “Thank you, Sam.” Dietrich took his hand, shook firmly. The single touch was enough to rekindle all the fires, sharpen memories of desert nights, winter evenings, too brief minutes in a dying city and a good-bye on a frozen airstrip. A surge of warmth filled Troy’s chest, and a jolt of lust followed it down to his groin. Catching Dietrich’s gaze, he saw the same fire reflected there. His patience hadn’t been wasted. “Is that all your luggage?” Troy questioned, gesturing to the single bag. “An old habit,” Dietrich said. “I still travel very light.” “Yeah, some things are hard to shake,” Troy admitted. With a smile, he added, “And some things are worth remembering.” “Hope you don’t mind riding in a truck,” he commented as they came to a stop next to a new heavy pickup. On the doors were neatly printed signs that read “Samuel Troy and Sons Construction.” Dietrich noted it. “You are named for your father.” Troy looked at him in confusion, then remembered the sign. “Yeah. He was the one who started the business.” Opening the door, he said a little sadly, “The “and sons” doesn’t apply anymore.” Regret touched Dietrich’s expression. “Your brother was kill...” “No, no,” Troy shook his head, seeing how his statement had been taken. “He’s okay. He just decided to stay in England. He’s an instructor for the RAF.” Walking around, Troy climbed in, waited for Dietrich before starting the truck. “Dad just wanted us to work the family business is all,” he continued. “Yes, I can understand that,” Dietrich said, as they pulled onto the road. “My mother was very proud of me being appointed mayor but she was also a bit disappointed that I would not be working the farm.” Troy glanced at him. “Are you an only child?” “No, I have an older sister but she moved to South Africa with her husband in 1935.” For just a moment, a touch of nervousness hit him, causing Troy to grow silent. He and Dietrich didn’t really know much about each other. The empathy they had shared over bullets and distance let him feel Dietrich’s similar silence. And that made him laugh. Dietrich looked at him strangely. “What do you find so amusing?” “I was just thinking that we don’t know much about each other.” He got a confirming nod from the German. “Then I realized that we’ve been enemies who tried to kill each other and we’ve been lovers who tried to keep each other safe. There’s very few people in the world who know each other like we do.” Dietrich regarded him for a minute before an amused glitter entered the dark eyes. “You are quite correct. The rest is interesting but unimportant.” Heartened by Dietrich’s assessment, Troy said, “Which do you want to do first, sleep or eat? The plane couldn’t have been very good for either one.” “Perhaps it was the changes in altitude,” Dietrich theorized, “but I find myself famished.” The traffic around them started to pick up as they neared New York. Troy keep them clear of most as he outlined the many varied choices for food available in the Big Apple. It was amazing, Troy decided as he unlocked the apartment. He had been in New York a lot lately, setting up things for the company’s expansion, but having a visitor opened up whole new adventures, like getting lost in Chinatown and ending up in a hole in the wall restaurant. Much to both their pleasure it had proven to be one of the best meals either of them had eaten in a long time. If he could find the place again, Troy had promised they would eat there again before Dietrich left for home. Dinner had been relaxed, the conversation filling him with a warmth like spring rain. He had caught Dietrich up on the post war adventures of his team. Troy was not surprised that Dietrich asked after each of them; Troy was not the only desert rat that had plagued his existence, he had come to know the others well too. They had enjoyed a long laugh at the absent Professor Moffitt’s experiences in dealing with an Arab chief who wanted him as part of the family, no matter how many daughters it took to accomplish that. He had told him of his intent to hire Hitch as soon as he graduated from college. Tully, he hadn’t heard from in a year but at last notice, he was a father for the second time, another girl, and his garage was doing well. The door swung open and Troy picked up Dietrich’s bag, motioning his companion inside. Through the windows that dominated the west wall the red-purple of sunset colored the New York skyline, turning the gold and bronze of some of the old roofs into a glorious blaze of color. Dietrich stepped passed Troy to admire it. Troy sat the bag down, watching Dietrich’s enjoyment.When the German turned back to him there was the slightest bit of condemnation in his expression. “Really, Troy,” he chided, “it wasn’t necessary to go to this expense to impressed me.” Troy stared at him blankly. “What expense?” Dietrich gestured around the well furnished room, finished by indicating the window. “A normal hotel room would have done nicely.” “Yeah, this place is kind of expensive to rent,” Troy said with a slight smile. “Good thing I own it.” Dietrich’s look of complete surprise was one Troy had seen only a few times, once in the dark of a desert tent, once in the harsh light of an SS cell. “The apartment is yours?” “The building is mine or the company’s actually,” Troy explained. Shaking his head, Dietrich turned back to the fast fading sunset. Troy stepped closer as Dietrich chuckled. “You will forever continue to surprise me, Troy.” Dietrich’s dark eyes caught the fading glow of the sinking sun as he smiled at Troy. Troy didn’t know who moved first. They were suddenly together, the spring warmth that had surrounded two friends all day now built with one touch into a firestorm between two lovers. Troy’s tongue slipped into Dietrich’s mouth and he moaned softly at the well remembered taste. He reached for Dietrich’s coat, managed somehow to get it off and the shirt open with only losing one button. Dietrich tugged down Troy’s zipper, hand sliding inside. Breaking the kiss, Troy gasped at the hot hand that tightened around his already hard cock. His own shirt didn’t fare as well, losing several buttons to his haste. Releasing his shaft, Dietrich stepped away, shedding his clothes with equal abandon. Troy managed to get his pants off just as Dietrich grabbed him. Troy took Dietrich’s mouth again, sliding his tongue into wet welcome. They went down to their knees on the thick carpet, still locked in the deep kiss. For an instant Troy thought of trying to get them into the bedroom but Dietrich’s hand on his cock vanquished the idea. He moaned against the sensuous mouth, reached for Dietrich’s long shaft, firing flaring along his nerves. As his fingers tightened around the head, Dietrich tipped them over. The position they ended up in, Troy flat on his back on the hard floor with Dietrich’s strong arms under him, should have been uncomfortable. Troy didn’t notice. All he could feel was the hard press of his swollen cock against Dietrich’s muscled stomach, the prod of Dietrich’s solid shaft just under his balls. Dietrich moaned, shifting, sliding his cock between Troy’s thighs. Troy pulled Dietrich even closer, fired by the weight of the solid body. Dietrich’s mouth sucked at his shoulder as the man became to thrust, sliding his whole body against Troy. Troy groaned, meeting each move with a counter effort, feeling the strong muscles flex under his arms. Grabbing Dietrich’s head, he brought them together in another searching kiss. Fire whipped through him. He arched up to it, driving desperately against the German’s stomach. The body wrapped in his arms stiffened and Dietrich cried out, thrusting down with all his strength. Hot liquid flowed between Troy’s legs, splattering his balls and ass. It was gasoline on the fire. With a deep groan Troy shoved up, coming in one quick shattering flare. He pumped his offering between the two of them, his final thrust smearing it across their stomachs. Several long minutes went by as they fought to get their breathing under control. Dietrich’s weight becoming a little heavier as the tense muscles went limp. When at last reality floated back in, Troy started to chuckle. With an effort, Dietrich slid off, lay by Troy’s side, staring at him in confusion. Troy only laughed harder. “Damn, Dietrich,” he finally gasped. “I haven’t come that fast since I was eighteen.” Dietrich looked down at their sweaty bodies, at the thick fluid spread across their stomachs and on the floor; he noticed the clothes scattered just inside the door. Very slowly, he smiled, then gave way to laughter. Troy rolled them together, holding Dietrich, enjoying the feel of his laughter, enjoying the German completely enjoying life. The boat swung around, bringing Lady Liberty into prefect view, into the view that had greeted millions of refugees as they came to their new home. Troy felt a tug of pride. His own family had come in before the statue had been put up, but it was still a symbol he understood. He cast a quick glance at Dietrich. The tall German was staring at the statue with a neutral look. Troy frowned, wondering if perhaps this had not been the best place to finish their day of exploring the city. Dietrich was a noble, proud German, would he see this as Troy rubbing in America’s victory over his own country? “I guess us American’s like to show off sometimes,” he offered lamely. “It is a magnificent sight,” Dietrich said softly. “You have every right to be proud.” The small ferry swung back toward the dock and the skyline of New York greeted them. “You were awake very early this morning,” he observed to Troy. “Yeah, had to check on couple of things.” With a smile Troy added, “Oh, yeah, seems there was a package arrived at the office yesterday for you.” “For me?” Dietrich asked, puzzled. “Who would be sending... Ah, Professor Moffitt’s yearly gift.” “I’m having it sent over to the apartment,” Troy added. Shaking his head, Dietrich said, “I have written him to explain that he does not need to send me a bottle of champagne every year.” “That’s Jack,” Troy acknowledged. “Knowing him, he’ll do it until you die.” “And if he should go first?” Dietrich prompted. “He’ll have his estate do it,” Troy said with complete certainty. Dietrich regarded him for a minute, then with characteristic insight, asked, “What is he sending you?” Not surprised he had been figured out, Troy admitted, “A tin of beef stew on the anniversary of his joining us.” The ferry docked with a slight bump as Dietrich said flatly, “I think I prefer the champagne.” They walked around the harbor side for a while, talking, remembering their adventures and the city’s future. Troy frowned, it seemed impossible to keep his eyes off Dietrich. The man looked younger, happier than he had ever seen him. The wind from the harbor kept blowing his hair down into his eyes and it was all Troy could do not to reach up and tug on it. Forcing his mind away from thoughts like that on a public street, Troy motioned them toward a hot dog vendor. Troy brought them street side lunch before starting back to the truck. After a few bits, Dietrich was obviously less than exciting. Half-way back to the truck the German tossed his to a stray dog that was sniffing around one of the ferry docks garbage cans. “Hey,” Troy suddenly spoke up. “What did you do with that dog?” Dietrich squinted at him in confusion. “What dog?” “You know, the little one that followed us in the tank...” “You!” Dietrich’s eyes narrowed. “You were responsible for that cur!” Startled by the outrage in the deep voice, Troy said carefully, “Well, we rescued him and he kind of followed us...” “That.... dog,” Dietrich hissed, “chewed up my only decent pair of boots the day before I had to report to Rommel! By the time I returned to base he had also managed to break in and eat a sack of dried fruit I was saving for the next leave.” Troy was having a hard time not smiling. Very carefully, he asked, “So, what did you finally do with him?” “I gave him to the Arab cook and had him stewed,” Dietrich said. Troy’s mouth dropped open. “You didn’t,” he denied, though his voice was a little squeaky. Dietrich held his haughty glare for an instant longer, then squinted at Troy. “No, I didn’t. I arranged to have him sent to my mother. He still lives with her.” The sentimentality that such an effort displayed caused Troy’s face to lift in a soft smile. He very much wished they were somewhere off the street, somewhere he could have kissed the taller man. As it was, he settled for a hand on the strong shoulder. Looking embarrassed by the whole affair, Dietrich said, “Yes, well, it seems that associating with too many sentimental Americans had rubbed off on me. Much to my regret. The little demon has chewed up most of my mother’s best rugs.” Tightening his hold on Dietrich’s shoulder, Troy said, “I’ll buy her a couple of new ones.” The view offered by the restaurant was spectacular, the food incredible. Troy picked up his glass, savoring the champagne the Moffitt had sent to Dietrich three days before. The time in between had passed far too quickly, the days marked with touring the city, the nights marked with youthful passion and the comfort of another body close during the night. And each day Troy started to ask the question and each day he found himself unable to get the words right. With only two nights left, tonight, he told himself, tonight would end what he had waited three years to ask. He looked across at Dietrich, and found his gaze returned by dark eyes. Dietrich smiled. “I must be getting slow,” Dietrich said. “I have only just realized that you are no longer smoking.” With a shrug, Troy said, “Doctors say they aren’t good for you.” Dietrich’s knowing gaze held his. With a sigh, he added, “I decided to quit when your doctor told you it would be easier on your chest.” The light from the table’s flickering candle sparkled in Dietrich’s expression. “You quit smoking for me?” “Yeah,” Troy said, a little defiantly. “I didn’t want you not being able to breath for God’s sake.” The smile Dietrich gave him was dazzling. “Thank you. That was....” “Dietrich,” Troy leaned forward intently. “Join me. Albert is retiring in three years. The company is about to expand into Europe. I want you to come to work for me.” Dietrich stared at him in complete shock. Taking a deep breath, Troy said, “I know this is kind of a surprise but I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Germany needs steel and workers and architects. You know the schools, where we can hire the best. You can speak French and German. I need someone to set up the office. You said you didn’t want to stay in politics. Now’s your chance.” A grain of sand rolling across the table would have sounded like thunder. Troy watched the warmth faded from Dietrich’s expression, and realized what the whole thing must have sounded like. He reached across the table, touched Dietrich’s arm. “Look, this ain’t just a job offer.” Suddenly very conscious of his surroundings, he said, “Let’s go home and I’ll explain.” Eyes flat and wary, Dietrich nodded in silence. A few minutes later they were standing outside the restaurant. A strong breeze shook the trees across the street in Central Park. Troy hailed a cab and started to get in, Dietrich’s hand stopped him. “I think perhaps I will walk back,” he said calmly. “It’s gonna start raining,” Troy argued. The wry half-smile answered him. “Then I will get wet.” Seriously, Dietrich said, “I need time to think.” Understanding, Troy nodded. “Be careful. This isn’t Africa but it can be just as dangerous.” Rain pattering on the window caught his attention. Glancing down at his watch, he realized that Dietrich should have been back. His anger at himself turned to anger at Dietrich for not just coming back and hearing him out. Worry followed hard on the anger, making his pacing more fanatic. Half-hour later, he slipped on his coat, intent on finding his companion. He swung the door open - Dietrich was standing there, key out. “Damnit, Dietrich, where the hell have you....” He stopped as he realized the taller man was shivering. “Shit!” Grabbing Dietrich’s arm, Troy practically threw him into the room. “Get out of those clothes before you get sick again.” Dietrich straightened, still reluctant to take orders from anyone. “It is only...” Troy glared up at him and slowly, exasperation touched Dietrich’s mouth. “Very well.” Ten minutes later, stripped to his shorts and wrapped in a bathrobe, Dietrich sat on the couch, sipping the coffee Troy had poured. Troy sat opposite him in a wide, overstuffed chair, also sipping the hot drink. A lengthy silence went by, both obviously getting their emotions under control. Running a hand through his hair, Troy leaned intently forward, “I’m sorry, Hans. I’ve fucked this whole night up.” “Troy...” “No,” he cut Dietrich off. “Please, I need another shot at it.” The lights of the city sparkled through the rain streaked window, adding a soft glow to the single lamp in the room. With a deep breath, Troy met the dark gaze, let all his thoughts and feelings reach his own expression, as he had so long ago in a cold cell in Berlin. “It wasn’t about a job.” Bluntly, he said, “I need you in my life.” Dietrich blinked at him, nothing more. Troy gestured around the room, to the window. “All this, the business, the life I have, the future I want to build - it doesn’t mean anything if there’s no one to share it. I want you to share it with me.” At the slight pause, Dietrich started to speak, but Troy cut him off. “I know you love Germany and you have responsibilities there. That’s why I thought you could handle the European office. We’d be sharing the work, and I’d have to spend time there, and you’d have to spend time here. I...” He stammered to a stop, looking helplessly over at Dietrich. The German smiled sadly. “You can’t say it, can you?” It was Troy’s turn to start to speak only to be cut off. “How can I know how you feel if you can’t even admit it to yourself?” Dietrich said quietly. Coming across the floor in one quick move, Troy knelt in front of the man, gripped his cold hands. “You think I can’t admit it? I love you. I can’t tell you...” A slow, satisfied smile spread across Dietrich’s handsome face. Troy took a sharp breath. “You sneaky Kraut,” he accused. “You knew I’d...” “Do whatever I said you couldn’t,” Dietrich said slyly. Troy pushed up and kissed slowly down the long throat. When he eased away though his expression turned serious. “Did you think, after Berlin, that I didn’t? I thought you knew...” Dietrich’s hand cupped his chin, his eyes once more soft, open. “I am thirty seven years old, Sam. In my life, expect for one very young girl speaking to one very confused young boy, I have never heard those words.” He kissed lightly along Troy’s mouth, hands running through his hair. “I had always wished to hear them, if only once. You don’t have to say them again.” “I love you, Hans William Dietrich,” Troy whispered, letting himself enjoy the words. “Hey, that sounds pretty good.” “And I love you, Samuel Alan Troy,” Dietrich said very seriously. Troy suddenly started talking excitedly in between slow licks and quick kisses, “There’ll be a lot to do. We have to figure out the best place for the European office. I’ll make arrangements here for you to get the next apartment over. We’ll...” “Sam.” Troy pulled back, stared into sadness in Dietrich’s gaze. “What’s...” “No,” Dietrich said evenly. “No?” Totally confused, Troy stared at him. “No, what?” Dietrich sighed, stroked his hand down Troy’s cheek. “No, I won’t work for you. No, I won’t join you. No, I won’t share this life with you.” Cold like he hadn’t felt since a Berlin cell filled Troy’s blood. “What? You said...” “I said, and I meant, that I love you, Sam,” Dietrich said quietly. “I love you enough to not ruin your life.” Emotions which he would barely acknowledge spun in a tight circle through Troy’s stomach. Anger tore free. He shoved up, coming to his feet. “What the fuck are you talking about?!” Dietrich stood, hands behind his back, very straight and very formal. “You are not like me or your bother,” he said firmly. “We have no choice in who we love or how we must live. You do. You don’t have to live with the hiding, the lies, the risks...” “I know what I’m getting into,” Troy protested hotly. “I’m not stupid. I’ve talked to David. I understand what the two of you...” Troy, you have a chance at a normal life.” The rich voice Troy had known in so many tones, now became wistful. “You like women. You can marry, have a family.” “God damnit, Dietrich,” Troy snapped. “I love you.” “And I you,” Dietrich said softly. “But I will not let you destroy your future on a... wartime fantasy.” A thousand responses and arguments filled Troy’s mind, but he was more than familiar with the stubbornness in the sable eyes. He knew Dietrich, knew there was nothing short of a loaded pistol that would make him change his mind. Swallowing the anger, outrage and hurt, he took a deep breath. Cold silence claimed the room. Dietrich’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I knew you loved me,” Dietrich said softly. “As I knew the offer was not just for a job. That’s way I needed the time to think.” He looked up, eyes very bright in the dim room. “I am sorry I forced you to confess your love. I had only wanted to know.... it was not just my wartime fantasy.” He took a deep breath, “Perhaps it would be better if I were to fly home tomorrow.” Troy’s instincts told him to yell no, but he fought it under control. Calmly, he said, “No, don’t do that. We still have to take that ride in Central Park.” Troy reached out, put a hand on Dietrich’s shoulder. “That day, when I had to leave you in the oasis, I made myself a couple of promises. One was that I would stand by you as a friend. I still plan on doing that.” Forcing a smile, he said, “I also still have to introduce you to my brother.” Dietrich’s dark eyes shone with relief that he had not lost everything. Troy gave him a forced smile. The awkward silence returned, and Dietrich broke it again, by saying, “I think I will go to bed now. It is late and... I’m still a bit cold.” “Okay,” Troy said. “I’ll wake you in the morning.” With a nod, Dietrich turned and headed for the bedroom. Troy watched him go, feeling numb. As Dietrich started into the bedroom, he stopped, half-turned. “Troy?” “Yeah?” “I will always remember your words.” The door closed finally on Troy’s dream. He broke the lamp first, then the vase, then seriously considered shooting out the window. Instead, he sat down on the bed and fought his anger under control. Once that emotion were gone, he was afraid of what was left. There was a large, empty feeling in the middle of his chest, a hole he’d felt twice before, each time with more intensity. Once it had been of his own making, when he’d tossed a grenade and watched Dietrich knocked to the ground; next had been when he’d awakened in a hospital, thinking the German was dead. The feeling had been wrong those times, and he knew there had to be a way to make Dietrich see how wrong it was this time. Dietrich loved him and knew Troy returned that love. He also sincerely believed he was doing the best thing for Troy. Dietrich was being noble, fulfilling his duty to his friend. How could Troy argue with that? How could he convince Dietrich that they belonged together? Why couldn’t Dietrich see that? The answer was Sahara heat and Berlin cold, a wave that filled him with exasperation at German pride and stubbornness and his own inability to be talkative. He came to his feet, smiling. Nearly running to Dietrich’s room, he jerked the door open and hit the light switch. Dietrich sat up quickly, too quickly to have been asleep. “Troy?” “You Goddamn, stupid German,” Troy snapped. He stalked to the bed. “Get your stubborn ass out of that bed.” “There is nothing left for us to discuss...” Dietrich started to argue. Troy cut him off by suddenly straddling Dietrich’s narrow hips and grabbing the man’s wrist, pinning his arms to the solid oak headboard. Dietrich was too startled to resist. “I have called you a lot of names since you first tried to kill me,” Troy growled. “But this is the first time coward comes to mind!” Every muscle under him tightened, preparing to fight. Anger flared in Dietrich’s eyes. “How dare you!” Dietrich hissed. “I will...” Troy kissed him, hard, without a hint of gentleness. “How dare I? How dare you think you can cover the fact that you’re scared shitless!” His words struck hard, harder than the kiss, harder than the hold he had on the narrow wrists. Dietrich flinched, but his eyes stayed cold. “I don’t...” “Yes, you do,” Troy said firmly. “You know what I’m talking about. You’re afraid I’ll get tired of war time fantasies. You’re afraid I’ll wake up one day and want a family and a wife and a normal life. You’re so scared of losing what we have that you’re willing to throw it away under the guise of fulfilling your duty to me.” Troy watched the anger in the dark eyes fade into guilt. Very slowly, he eased his grip on Dietrich’s wrists, lowering them until he held the slender hands in front of him. He raised first one then the other, kissing slowly over the pulse point, across the still tight fists. “And it’s my fault,” Troy admitted. “I’m not good with words, not like you and Moffitt. So, listen close, Hans, I don’t wanna have to repeat myself. Once all we had was duty - to our country, our army, our men. Now it’s time to fulfill the duty to ourselves, to give ourselves a chance at a little happiness. Don’t be afraid of it,” he said through clenched teeth. Slowly, he kissed along the set jaw. “I love you, and only you, and will for the rest of my life.” For a long time they sat there in silence, Troy lightly holding Dietrich’s wrists, Dietrich’s eyes locked with his. Very slowly, astonishment colored Dietrich’s face. “I knew you... loved me,” Dietrich said lowly. “But... I wasn’t. I didn’t realize.... You really are quite serious.” “Yes,” Troy said firmly. Dietrich slipped one hand away from Troy’s loose hold, very slowly brushed his fingertips over Troy’s cheeks and lips, touching as if it were the first time. His hand circled the back of Troy’s neck and pulled him down to met his mouth. The kiss was slow and easy, filled with love and promise. Troy suddenly found himself wrapped in a tight hold, lowered back to the bed. Dietrich trailed kisses across his cheeks. The touch brought relief so strong it was like morphine after a bullet wound. Chuckling, Troy asked, “So, that no a yes now?” “Yes,” Dietrich said, smiling back. “It’s a good thing one of us has more brains than stubbornness,” Troy said. He cut off Dietrich’s reply by kissing him very lightly, very gently. “There’s much that I will have to take care of,” Dietrich started, hand playing through Troy’s hair. “Yeah, same at this end,” Troy answered with a sigh, leaning back into the erotic touch. “Perhaps tomorrow we should spend the day planning the moves,” Dietrich suggested. Smiling, Troy let his hands drift down the lightly haired chest, touching almost reverently over the harsh scar on Dietrich’s chest. He still flinched inside but now that they were safe and together it didn’t hurt as much to think of it. “Think of something better to do tonight?” Troy kidded. A soft chuckle answered him, and the hold around his shoulders loosened, the caresses becoming gentle and soothing. He looked up at Dietrich, marveling at the look of hungry and happiness that lined the lean face. Dietrich followed his hand down Troy’s chest, brushed lightly over his stomach. Troy laughed. Dietrich looked up, suspicion in his gaze now. “What do you find so amusing, Troy?” Troy could still hear the word “sergeant” in front of his name when Dietrich used that tone. “The fact that we did it. We survived each other, the war, and fate.” “And now,” Dietrich picked up, “I can enjoy the fact that you really are mine.” Troy smiled at the possessive tone. “So, what are you going to do now that you’ve got me?” To Troy’s surprise, Dietrich stretched out next to him. “Considering the hour, I am going to suggest we both get some sleep.” Before Troy could voice the other things he had in mind, long arms wrapped around him, pulling him deep into the German’s hold. The look of exhaustion he had seen in Dietrich’s eyes stopped him from doing anything else. Turning sideways to lay his head on Dietrich’s shoulder, he started to say something about their plans in the morning but the warmth and security he felt in Dietrich’s arms lulled him to sleep before he could voice the desires. Rolling over, Troy blinked at the dawn light just shining over the rooftops. They hadn’t closed the curtains last night. He knew in the future they would have to be more careful, but he was glad they hadn’t. In the pale, rainy light he gazed at the man sleeping soundly next to him and smiled. He wouldn’t have thought it possible for a man to look happy sleeping but Dietrich managed it. The handsome face was soft, relaxed; the hair falling across his forehead, inviting Troy’s touch. Troy smiled, and despite his best intentions to let Dietrich sleep, he reached out and stroked slowly down one muscled arm. The slight touch brought his companion instantly awake, another left over from the war. The sable eyes, very dark in the subtle dawn light, studied him in quiet pleasure. Troy gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.” The answer was Dietrich’s arm tightening around his back, urging him closer. Troy went eagerly, kissing the nearest flesh he could find, which happened to be Dietrich’s shoulder, hands sliding down Dietrich’s flank and over his narrow hips. Rain pattered against the window, recalling another stormy night and the passion that had flared between them. Troy leaned over, licking over Dietrich’s full lips, sliding into wet welcome as Dietrich sucked his tongue into his mouth. With a combination sigh and groan, Troy moved on top of the bigger man, his full cock sliding across the flat stomach. Dietrich returned the moan, thrusting up. Troy moved off with one quick kiss to each of Dietrich’s taut nipples. Without waiting to see the response, he flipped around, straddling Dietrich’s shoulders, putting his straining shaft within reach of the talented mouth. Flashes of memory touched him as he ran his hands through the thick gold curls surrounding Dietrich’s wine red cock. He had not been in love with the German captain on their first passionate night, nor even the next time in a cold prison cell. Yet, he could not deny the warmth that was beyond lust when they had next met in a sunlit Alabama field. Slender fingers ran hotly around his own cock, cutting off any further contemplation. He wrapped his fingers around Dietrich’s cock, tightened, released, teased and enticed. Dietrich groaned, hips coming off the new sheets, trying to urge Troy’s hand to faster moments. Lowering his head, Troy licked once across the flared head. Dietrich cried out, loud and full, giving himself to the freedom of solid walls and unrestrained passion. With a smile, Troy slipped the hot cock through his lips and deep into his mouth, treasuring the feel of solid flesh heavy on his tongue. “Troy...” Dietrich whispered. “God...” Anything else Dietrich might have tried to say was lost as he echoed Troy’s move. Troy sighed, closing his eyes and letting himself feel the slow slid of his cock into Dietrich’s mouth. The long tongue swirled around his shaft, teasing under the head, tracing the throbbing vein. Heat flared, causing him to pause, to stop and let himself enjoy the slow burn he could feel in his nerves. Troy returned the move by increasing the suction on Dietrich’s cock. His hand tightened around the swollen base, sliding on the saliva he dribbled down the shiny length. He started to move, building a rhythm he had learned from Dietrich that first night together, a pulse that he knew would feed the fire in both their bodies. Dietrich also started to suck harder, and Troy felt a single finger slip in next to his cock, gathering the slick moisture. Troy squirmed, moving his ass into an easier position for Dietrich to reach him. Another image, much like one Dietrich had once fulfilled flared through his mind like a hot wind off Sahara sands. The image alone swelled his cock a little more, threatening to send him over far, far too soon. Troy moved away, sliding his cock regretfully from Dietrich’s mouth. He rolled next to Dietrich. Taking the puzzled face in his hands, he kissed along Dietrich’s jaw, down the long, white throat. “Make me feel those desert mornings,” Troy whispered against the full lips. Dietrich drew back, eyes sparkling with delight and fright. “I don’t want to hurt you.” “Did I hurt you?” Troy asked quietly, kissing across the high cheeks. “Only for a moment,” Dietrich admitted. “But you had done it before.” That statement stopped Troy argument. “You’ve never...?” The blond fringe fell across Dietrich’s forehead as he shook his head. “There was never anyone worth the risk.” Understanding, Troy nodded. Curiosity forced him to ask, “Would you have risked it for me?” Dietrich looked thoughtful for a minute, his hands moving without his knowledge down Troy’s sides. He gave a careful shake of his head. “No.” At Troy’s surprised look, he said, “For me, yes.” He raised his hand, stroked along Troy’s cheek. “But I would not have risked your life.” The glow of love in the sable eyes filled Troy’s heart. Swallowing hard, he said, “I love you.” “I had noticed,” Dietrich said dryly. “You’re not going to hurt me,” Troy assured him. “You never do anything without being careful and thoughtful. It’s what always got you into trouble.” “What?” Dietrich asked, sounding confused. “In Africa,” Troy explained. “You always over thought things.” A flash of annoyance went over Dietrich face. “Careful planning....” His defensive response was cut off by Troy once more taking his mouth, licking along the full lips. Dietrich’s tongue pushed against his own teeth and he opened his mouth, taking the other deep and sucking hard. Dietrich groaned, thrusting down against Troy’s stomach. When the kiss broke, Dietrich looked put out. “You are a most annoying person, Troy.” “Yeah,” Troy smiled. His hands pressed between their bodies, one finger stroking up Dietrich’s full shaft. “And afterwards? After the pain?” A sensuous, pleased look flooded Dietrich’s eyes. “It was everything I had ever hope for or imagined.” “Then what’s the problem?” Troy asked quietly. Dietrich slid on top of him, kissing his face, hands playing lightly over his chest, swelling cock prodding his stomach. Troy sighed, letting himself sink into the feeling of being processed, of giving everything to Dietrich The pause had let the fire in his blood die to hot embers. Dietrich’s tongue flicked out, barely touching one nipple. Troy’s fingers tangled in the fine blond hair, urging Dietrich up to meet his mouth. He shoved his tongue through the prefect lips, sliding into the wet velvet. Moans from two throats filled the room. Dietrich pressed down, sliding his cock across Troy’s. Troy gasped, breaking the kiss, arching up. Grabbing Dietrich, Troy rolled them over, pressing down against the bigger man. He plundered the deep mouth, rolled the sensitive nipples with his thumb and forefinger. A throaty growl sounded in the room, making Troy smiled. “I like when you make noise,” he said huskily. Much to Troy’s delight a flush colored Dietrich’s features and the man glared at him. “Really, Troy,” he chided. “Does everything I do amuse you?” That required a moment of thought. Troy leaned down, flicked his tongue lightly over Dietrich’s left nipple. He let his eyes meet Dietrich’s, let his breath whisper over the wet flesh. “No, most things get me hot.” That caused a combination of exasperation and amusement to lighten the coffee colored eyes. Dietrich squirmed beneath him, frictioning their cocks together. Before he could get too carried away, and take Troy with him, Troy moved off the bed. As before in a damp Antwerp hotel room, he went to the bathroom, emerging a minute later with a jar of lubricate. This time he made no attempt to hide it, offering it to Dietrich with only the slightest tremble of his hand. Dietrich sat the jar aside, took Troy’s hand. With his eyes narrowed to dark slits, Dietrich sucked on each finger, swirling his tongue around each digit as if they were mini-cocks. Troy gasped at the sensuousness in so simple a move. “Damn, Dietrich,” he panted. To control the waves of fire the slow sucking had started in his blood, Troy reached for the jar. Urging Dietrich away just slightly, Troy took a handful of the slippery gel and warmed it between his hands. Very slowly, as he had done once before, he coated Dietrich’s large cock, reaching down to roll the taut balls. Dietrich’s eyes slipped shut, and he swallowed hard. After only a minute, he reached down and caught Troy’s hands. “Enough.” Releasing him, Dietrich said quietly, “Roll over.” “No,” Troy said huskily. “I want to watch you.” A frown lifted Dietrich’s mouth. “That is not an easy position.” Troy smiled. “When have we ever done anything the easy way.” His joking did not relieve Dietrich’s concerned look. Troy ran his hand up a well muscled arm. In a soft voice, he said, “I couldn’t see you when I did you. I want to see your face, like in Berlin. I like seeing what I can do to you.” A very characteristic look crossed Dietrich’s face as he thought it over. It was all Troy could do not to smile. He waited, letting Dietrich think. After what seemed an eternity, Dietrich nodded very slightly. Bending down, he kissed Troy’s chest, teased over each nipple, drawing a gasp from Troy’s throat. “Roll over,” Dietrich ordered. “Hans...” Troy started to protest, only to have his own tactics turned against him. Dietrich cut him off with a gentle kiss. “I promise,” he whispered hotly to Troy. “You will see me, as I will watch you, but for now, roll over.” Trusting Dietrich’s word, and only hoping they both didn’t come too soon, Troy gave the man one more kiss, then turned over, coming to his hands and knees. Immediately, soft hands started to stroke along his back, Dietrich’s sweat slick thighs pressing against his legs. Slow strokes combined with wet licks and gentle nips as Dietrich continued down his back. Troy squirmed, feeling the fire each touch fueled in his blood. “Hans....” “You are incredibly handsome,” Dietrich praised. “I love watching you.” The mattress dipped as Dietrich shifted and Troy felt himself tense despite the heat that was melting his bones. Something wet drifted down his ass, over the tight entrance to his body. Troy gasped, too startled to even think as Dietrich tongued and teased the ridged muscle. Then something else, a single finger, sliding deep on saliva and gel, entered him. Troy groaned, pressing back, letting his lover know he wanted, needed to be filled. Pressure followed, and a little pain as Dietrich slipped another finger in next to the first. “Come on, Hans,” Troy pleaded. “I want you.” The two fingers eased out of the well oiled muscle. Dietrich leaned over him, kissing lightly along his shoulders. One hand went under him, pumping his swollen cock. He felt Dietrich’s hard shaft press against his ass, then slow, sure pressure as Dietrich forced his way passed tight muscle. Pain ripped along Troy’s nerves. He bit back a cry and fought the urge to lunge away. The arm around him tightened, held him steady. “Remember your words to me,” Dietrich urged. “Relax, breathe.” Troy took a deep breath, willed the pain away, told his muscles to let go. Underneath the pain he could feel the promise of pleasure, the alien sensation of fullness. Dietrich held still, letting him ride out the worst of it. Soft wet kisses rained along his shoulders, down his spine. “Talk to me,” Troy pleaded quietly. “I’ve always liked your voice.” A deep chuckle, something else he very much liked, sounded from near his ear. “What would you like me to say, Sam?” The rich voice became unashamedly seductive. “Do you know that I’ve never shared this with anyone? Would you like to know how wonderful it feels to be inside you? Do you want to know how long I’ve wanted you?” Troy shook his head, feeling his back loosen, feeling the wide invader touch deeper into his body. “That night, in Mohadid’s camp, when you let me kiss you, since then.” The soft admission startled Troy. Before he could wonder too long, Dietrich added, “You were accepting and trusting, and very handsome. How could I not want you?” The hard shaft moved slightly deeper, and the first stirrings of pleasure touched Troy’s nerves. “Damn...” “Shall I tell you what I first noticed about you?” Dietrich continued hotly, hand stroking steadily down Troy’s full cock. “After I stopped seeing only a target?” Troy spiraled between feelings, between the fading pain and the building passion; between the embarrassment of Dietrich’s words and his curiosity. “What?” he questioned. “It was when you took the radio station,” Dietrich said. “As we stood there taunting each other, the thought came to me that you had eyes the color of winter sky.” Troy laughed shakily, still a little unnerved at such open flattery. He let his thoughts drift to his first impression of Dietrich. The gun the German had held seemed to be the only thing he could remember. He had been convinced he would die then, having just blown up the captain’s half-track. A single thought struck him. “You were graceful,” Troy said. “What?” Dietrich questioned. “The first thing I noticed,” Troy explained. He took a deep breath, feeling the tension fade under the surprisingly clear memories. “When you jumped out of the hit half-track, then when Moffitt surprised you, you seemed graceful.” Any further memories were lost under the rain of kisses along his neck. For the first time, Troy pushed back, feeling their heartbeats in their joined bodies. Twisting, he looked over his shoulder at Dietrich. His unasked question was answered as Dietrich leaned forward and kissed him. The move drove his cock deeper - and every nerve in Troy’s body suddenly exploded in pleasure. He broke the kiss with a cry of ecstasy. It was echoed by a deep groan from Dietrich. With the pain evaporated under the heat, Troy gave himself to the incredible sensations, to the need for more, to the desire for everything Dietrich could give him. Shoving back, Troy raked that special spot again, gasping. Dietrich’s hands tightened on his hips, holding him still. “Dear God, Sam...” Dietrich breathed against his neck. “Prefect... wonderful....” Dietrich shoved in, pulled back. On the next slow slide in, Troy pushed back, feeling the heavy balls grind against his ass. “Damn.... Hans, do it...” The answer to his demand was for Dietrich to ease out. Troy’s head snapped around. “Dietrich! What...” Eyes filled with heat and lust met his. Dietrich started to speak, managed a near growl, “Roll over.” Only now remembering his original idea, Troy flipped over, raising his legs. The sight of his lover’s condition sent a wave of love to match the lust already heating his blood. Dietrich was breathing hard, hair plastered along his face with sweat, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering. Troy smiled, sliding down further, offering himself to Dietrich. He stretched to run his hand down Dietrich’s thigh. “You’re incredible,” he told Hans. The smile that answered him was blinding. Dietrich leaned forward, sliding deep and sure into Troy’s body. Troy arched up, throwing his head back against the pillow. “God damn....” he groaned. The position was awkward, the strain on his legs strange, and the pleasure that had filled him before was now multiplied, was now beyond any thought or comparison he could find. Dietrich completed him, made him realize just how long he had wanted this, how much he wanted this man with him forever. With a soft groan, Dietrich pulled back, the move sent unimagined passion through Troy’s nerves. He cried out again, a wordless plea for more. The answer was for Dietrich to move, a little harder, a littler deeper. Troy twisted, pulling the cock into his body. He looked up, watched his feelings reflected in a pair of sable eyes. Dietrich’s lean face was tight with pleasure so intense it almost looked like pain, with the need to thrust, with the desire to make it last. Troy reached up, stroked the stubbled cheek. “I love you, Hans,” he said hoarsely. Dietrich leaned down, kissed him, tongue rubbing against Troy’s own. Two groans filled the room. Troy broke the kiss with a hard shove back, impaling himself solidly on Dietrich cock. “Yes,” Dietrich hissed. “Want you... want to take you with me...” “Do it,” Troy demanded, raising his legs until they almost touched his shoulders. “Always giving orders,” Dietrich complained, thrusting hard and fast. The wet sound of flesh sliding together filled the room. Any reply Troy might have had was lost under the torrent of erotic sensations that ripped through him. His eyes slipped closed as he gave himself to the feelings, as he let the passion carry him to a place without time or reality. Existence narrowed down to where he was joined to Dietrich, to the joining that went beyond the physical, to the perfection of having found his future. Bursts of light and heat danced along his nerves. Somewhere far away he heard Dietrich mumbling in German, a soft litany of love and lust, of promise and desire. The words heated his blood to the boiling point and he was suspended there for an instant, caught between heat and ice. Then the firestorm swept over him. “Hans!” he sobbed, coming long and hard, splattering white fluid over Dietrich’s tight hand. Dietrich drove into him, twisting, crying out. Troy forced his eyes open, entranced as he watched Dietrich. Once before Troy had watched the man give himself to passion. From that moment he had known it was a sight he would never tire of watching, or of causing. Dietrich’s head was back, his mouth tight, solid muscles locked under the glistening gold skin, groaning as he spilled his offering into Troy’s body. Troy closed his eyes again, concentrating on the feeling of Dietrich’s cock, of the soft warmth that filled him, of the weight on his legs and the whispered words that Dietrich was still uttering, some in German, some in English. A long minute went by before he looked up at his lover. Dietrich’s head was down, his whole body trembling with release. Sensing Troy’s gaze, the dark eyes met his, and Troy saw the sparkle of unshed tears in the fathomless deeps. He didn’t offer any words, knowing there was nothing he could say to the proud German that wouldn’t embarrass him. Reaching up, he ran his hand through the thick hair, brushed lightly over the full lips. “Come here.” Dietrich slipped off him and Troy slowly lowered his legs, wincing as he did. Immediately strong hands starting rubbing his thighs. “Roll over,” Dietrich said. “I will rub your back. I don’t want you to be stiff.” Troy gave him a leer and Dietrich amended quickly, “At least not there.” “I’m okay,” Troy assured him. “Lay down and kiss me.” This time Dietrich didn’t protest the order, doing it with pleasure. When the kiss broke he lay his head on Troy’s shoulder, wrapping long arms around him. They lay together for a long time, watching the rain run down the window, listening to the distant thunder. “It won’t be easy,” Dietrich said suddenly. Troy nodded. “I know.” “I am glad you had your brother to talk to,” Dietrich said. “Not having anyone to trust, that is one of the hardest parts.” A smile touched Troy’s mouth. “Well, there was always Moffitt.” He counted off the seconds. “Moffitt! Sergea... Moffitt, knows about us?” Dietrich demanded, his tone accusing Troy of talking. Troy rolled over, pushing up on his elbows. “Yeah. It seems someone couldn’t keep their hands to themselves during our escape from Berlin.” Dietrich straightened, understanding what had happened. Troy smiled again, only Dietrich could come to attention while laying down. “From your reaction,” Dietrich surmised, “he took it well.” Kissing lightly down Dietrich chest, Troy said, “Surprised the hell out of me, but yeah, he thought it was a good idea. Thought we’d keep each other out of trouble.” That made Dietrich smile. “I am grateful he was accepting, but I have a feeling his belief may have been misplaced.” Troy started to added something, but Dietrich lay an open palm on his cheek. Very softly, he said, “I am even more grateful that you love me.” Troy proved the statement by kissing him slowly, sensously. When he pulled back, he was smiling. “Know what I’m most grateful for?” The light in Dietrich’s eyes let Troy know he suspected a set up. “What?” “That in 1943, we were both pretty lousy shots.” They melted back into the easy embrace, both laughing.

After having the Sharpe cast and crew prove that they're just as good at partying as any other film crew, Bill's glad that he told Sean he wanted to sleep in. He's not actually hung over, but he'd been tired enough to appreciate the comfort of a nice bed and a warm boy to share it with. It'll be hard going back to London, he thinks as he finishes showering. I'll miss the sun. He'd told Sean he wanted to stay on a couple of days so they could have some time together here, and he grins as he thinks about the kind of time he wants them spend. Less time spent sightseeing and more time spent with my boy recovering from a heavy scene. Back at home, mornings are going to be different. For one thing, Sean's going to be awake; right now he's struggling just to get himself upright. He can hear the shower turning off in the background; he wonders if Bill's going to want him to order up coffee. Coffee is on Bill's mind as well, but he's gotten used to making it himself and so he heads into the kitchen after drying off and putting his robe on. Once the coffee's brewing, he moves to lean in the bedroom doorway. "How're you feeling this morning?" he asks, smiling a little. There's something almost insanely domestic about all this, and he wonders if his life would be more like this if he weren't kinky. "Like I might kill something if I don't get my hands on a toothbrush soon," Sean admits, rubbing at his cheek with one hand. "How much did I drink last night?" He's not hung over, either, but he can definitely feel every drink he took. I'm not as young as I used to be. "I lost track," Bill says with a laugh. "Do you make a habit of trying to drink big Irishmen under the table?" He moves into the bathroom and then returns with a couple of aspirin and a glass of water. "Here, this should help. And there's coffee in a few." "Thank you." Sean grins. "And no, it's not a habit, but I used to be better at it than I was last night, I can tell you that much." He swallows the aspirin down and heads for the bathroom; after he's brushed his teeth and had his morning piss, he's feeling a hell of a lot better. He pokes his head out the bathroom door for a moment before he gets the shower going. "Going to need anything or can I take my time in here?" "You can take your time," Bill says. "Just let me know if you're interested in breakfast." He would love to twirl invisible mustachios and leer at Sean while saying, "you should eat; you'll need your strength," but he resists the temptation. No point in giving anything away. The shower feels good; all the aches and pains from the physical parts of the shoot are wearing off, and it's going to be nice getting back to the aches and pains that come from living with Bill. Sean can't help grinning at that thought; as good as it's been to have Bill here with him, he can't wait to get home. He finishes his shower and comes out of the bathroom with one towel tucked around his waist, drying off his hair with a second. "God, much better," he says, "I feel nearly human again." "Coffee will help," Bill says, looking up from the paper. He gestures at the table in front of him. "There's fruit and toast and scrambled eggs as well, for when you can bear to eat." "I can eat now..." Sean finishes drying off his hair and raises an eyebrow at Bill. "What I'm wondering about is whether I should dress." "You can dress now or later," Bill says with a slight smile. "If you do it now, put on the uniform that's in your side of the closet." The people back at the London club hadn't blinked when he'd requested uniforms, although he'd seen a slight gleam in the concierge's eye when he'd asked that one of them be as close to Sharpe's uniform as was humanly possible. "Oh--" Sean grins as he adjusts the towel wrapped around his hips. Curiosity's making his eyes wrinkle at the corners, and he glances over his shoulder towards the bedroom. "Maybe I'll dress now." Assuming I can get the pants done up. Uniform? He's got a strong suspicion what that uniform might be. "All right," Bill says with a smirk. "Here's the deal. It's role play, so I don't expect you to go into it as my boy." He feels no reason to tell Sean that that he expects Sean to come out of it convinced he's Bill's boy. "You can come back in here and have breakfast while I get changed." "That sounds great." While you get changed? Into what? Sean wonders. "I'll be right back." As he expected, the uniform's a Sharpe replica. Instead of being covered in months of dirt and sweat from shooting, this one's new, and Sean chuckles softly to himself as he strokes a hand down the jacket. Master's being pretty damn devious, he thinks, I had no idea he'd had this made. It fits perfectly, all the way down to the boots, which doesn't surprise Sean in the least. He gives himself a look in the mirror and takes a couple of minutes to comb his hair so it'll look reasonably neat when it dries. Just wish I had the sword, he thinks, but all in all he's pretty pleased with the effect. He just hopes Bill will be, too -- so he heads back out to the kitchen and does his best to put a Sharpe sort of look on his face, not quite the ear-to-ear grin he left the bedroom with. While Sean was getting dressed, Bill took the opportunity to push the furniture in the living area to one wall, and he nods as Sean comes out, pleased with the amount of free room it's given him. He's got a few ideas about how this is going to go, and he's going to need space for a couple of them. "Go ahead and have breakfast," he says, heading to the bedroom. "I'll be back out in a bit." It takes him a fair amount of time to get dressed; while he'd tried the whole uniform on before, it's still not easy to put on without help. Once on, however, he's comfortable enough in it, although he can see where doing action work with this much wool on would get old. And what I'm about to do could be called action work, he thinks with a smirk as he pulls on the highly polished boots. Squaring his shoulders, and picking up the plain black leather bag that holds several toys, he returns to the living room. Sean's done eating by the time Bill comes out, and it's a good thing, too; his mouth drops open when he sees Bill, and though he gets it closed pretty fast, he's still impressed. Christ. I'll have to tell him later how good he looks -- not that he won't be able to tell what I'm thinking, given how tight these pants are. The word master's springing to mind already, but Sean's not sure how Bill wants to play it, so he starts with something a little less loaded: "Morning, sir." "Sharpe," Bill says coolly. He'd debated putting on an upper class Brit accent for this, but decided that it would be too much to juggle. Like almost all actors, he can manage a Mid Atlantic accent well enough, and so he goes with that as he gives Sean a scornful look. "I know you came up from the ranks, but even common soldiers know how to behave when a superior officer enters the room." That's an interesting approach, and it's very easy to find Sharpe's response to it. Sharpe's never been one for ceremony -- but he'll do the bare minimum required to satisfy an officer set on rules and regulations, so long as it's not going to do him any harm. "Sir," he says again, softly, and he stands up -- taking his time to straighten his uniform -- and snaps off a salute. "I've been told you have an attitude problem," Bill continues, moving right into Sean's personal space. He looks Sean over carefully, and shakes his head. "I'm not sure if you're a disgrace to the uniform or if it's the other way around." It's an odd thing to say, so Sean says nothing in response. He looks straight ahead, eyes focused hard on nothing in particular, and waits to see if Bill's looking for more from him. Bill hides his amusement; this, he figures, is exactly how Sharpe would deal with an officer who gave a damn about such trivial things as the appearance of a uniform. "I think you lack respect," he continues. "In fact, I'm sure of it, and I'm here to do something about that lack." "Respect doesn't win a battle for you, sir," Sean points out. It might not be worth saying, but Sharpe would say it, which is enough for Sean. Just enough lack of respect to prove his point, but enough to get him flogged? Probably not yet... "We're not talking about battles at the moment," Bill says, giving Sean a narrow stare. It's tricky, this sort of scene, because there's no right thing for Sean to do, but Bill trusts Sean to understand. He's got more confidence in himself than he used to. Bill's not sure if that's because of him or if Sean would have bounced back on his own. "Perhaps I misunderstood, then, sir," Sean says, cocking one eyebrow. "I wasn't aware my job had much to do with anything else." "And that's why you shouldn't have been made an officer," Bill says with a sneer. "You're just not one of us, Sharpe. You've no respect for your fellow officers." He reaches out and grabs the front of Sean's jacket, pulling Sean close. "It's time to teach you a lesson and I'm going to enjoy doing it." Letting go of Sean, he steps back. "Strip to the waist." Of course, there's nothing on earth Sean wants more right now; he's hard already and he's more than ready to take a beating. But the role requires a bit of a struggle, so Sean does his best to make it look good. He takes a step backward and straightens his uniform jacket again, and he sets his jaw. "Flogging a private's one thing, sir, but whether you like it or not, I am an officer. Take me to court." "Oh, I could do that," Bill says, stepping forward again. "Of course, if it comes to that, I'll arrange the charges so that, when you are found guilty, they will see you shot and your men dishonorably discharged, after which they will undoubtedly fall back into whatever gutter they came from." He smiles smugly. "Or you could just do as you're told." "Why me?" Sean asks. He's still not moving to get his jacket off just yet. "There are others who've come up from the ranks -- why do you care about me in particular?" "Suffice it to say that I do, Mr. Sharpe," Bill says and now his frown is more pronounced. "Do I need to make my threat more clear, or will you do as you're told?" Instead of answering in words, Sean turns his back on Bill and starts unbuttoning his jacket. It's going to be interesting, being in Sharpe's head and taking a beating -- Sharpe, of all people, is Sean's polar opposite when it comes to flogging, and that could be very interesting headspace indeed to play around with. The jacket hits the floor, and Sean starts imagining what it'd be like to have scars across his back -- the way they'd itch, and stretch, and how he'd remember every one of them. It's definitely going to be a struggle -- something he might have worried about doing a few months ago, but he knows full well if Bill wanted a specific reaction, he'd have let Sean know ahead of time. This is all about improvisation, and God, it's going to be fun. "Hands against the wall," Bill says, going to his back to pull out a nice heavy flogger. It's nowhere near as cruel a whip as the ones used back in the 1800s, but it'll still get the job done. "There's only one way someone like you can learn anything," he says as he shakes the flogger out. He brushes it once against Sean's back as a warning and then brings it down hard enough to ensure that Sean will feel it. Sean jumps at the first hit, then braces himself harder against the wall and tilts his head down. This is rougher than he expected -- it fits the scene, but it's rough -- and he ends up growling, partly his own reaction to the heavy start but mostly Sharpe's frustration with his superior officer. The growl is good, and Bill grins as he continues the beating. He has a specific purpose in mind, but even if they don't get where he wants to be, it's good to be able to beat the hell out of Sean's back and not worry about the consequences. He ramps up the strength of the beating faster than he might otherwise, wanting to push Sean, wanting him to fight the beating some. Sean's hands clench into fists as it goes on, growls turning into snarls. His shoulders are getting tight from tension -- it works in the scene, but he knows he'll pay for that later. It's mainly force of will and years of experience that keeps him from trying to turn or make any sudden moves; move the wrong way while you're getting beaten and all kinds of things can go wrong. He stays still, but when one stroke hits particularly hard -- and God, but it's the right kind of hard -- he snaps out, "Bastard." Bill moves in quickly and grabs Sean's hair, pulling his head back. "You've got to learn to watch that tongue of yours, Sharpe," he says, pressing in close and knowing that the buttons and wool of his uniform must be hell on Sean's back. They are -- rough enough to make Sean jerk and try to flatten himself against the wall. That only puts his neck at an uncomfortable angle, so he stops trying to get away, instead gritting his teeth together and snarling again. "Go to hell," he forces out. Keeping his hand in Sean's hair for a moment longer, Bill chuckles a little in Sean's ear. "No, hell is where you are right now." He shoves Sean's head against the wall and steps back to pull a pair of cuffs out of his bag. "Hand behind your back, Sharpe," he barks. Sean glances behind him, eyebrows raised, but he's putting his hands at the small of his back while he does. The stretch of his shoulders hurts -- though not as much as it will later. "One of those," he murmurs under his breath. "Should have figured." "Oh, good," Bill says, cuffing Sean's hands together. "Then you know what to expect." He moves in close again and grabs Sean's hair, tugging back hard. "Is this why you're so insubordinate? You hope for this reaction?" "No," Sean says harshly, eyes closing. But maybe that is part of the answer for Sharpe; Sean might not be the kind of boy who craves being put down hard, but suppose Sharpe is? Even if he is, he'd never admit it. He tugs at the cuffs, not expecting them to go anywhere, and tries to pull his head free of Bill's grip. "Stop that," Bill says with a smack on the back of Sean's head. "You're in for enough as it is." He reaches around and undoes Sean's trousers, pleased that he'd practiced with his own uniform pants. "Why does this not surprise me?" he murmurs as his hand moves lightly over Sean's hard cock. "Because you do this every time you can get away with it?" Sean guesses, squirming against Bill's grip. The trouble is, there's nowhere to go. His hands grope uselessly behind him; there's nothing to get a grip on. "No," Bill says, with another smack to the back of Sean's head. "Only with the ones low enough to want it." He tugs Sean's trousers down hard, getting them bunched around Sean's knees before stepping back and looking at Sean's ass. Unlike his back, there are a few marks here, mostly fading bite marks. Smirking Bill presses at one of them. "That from that big Mick of yours?" Why not, Sean decides. Daragh and Harper are two separate people, and the characters have always been close, so Sean's willing to decide that they were that close, too. Of course, deciding that for the scene and being willing to say so to Bill's superior officer are entirely different things, so Sean's quick to give the other answer. "No," he says, trying not to lean into the pressure against that bruise. "Mmmm hmm," Bill says, noticing that Sean's not squirming as much as he had been. With one last press against the bruise, Bill steps back and takes up the flogger again. "Wonder what he'll make of this?" he says before landing a good solid blow against Sean's ass. "Christ!" Sean yells, jerking forward into the wall. It's going to get harder to fight this, harder with every blow, and if he doesn't keep his mouth shut he's going to end up begging despite himself. Not just yet, fuck, not yet, just hold on. Wait for it and you can beg 'til you're fucking hoarse. Grinning, Bill continues the beating, knowing that Sean is fighting it. Normally he wants his boys to be accepting, even greedy, for whatever he gives them, but once in a while it's good to start like this, where every reaction given is grudging. I'll get him down soon enough and it'll be so fucking good for both of us. Even Sharpe has to have his limits. Sean has a feeling Sharpe might break before he would, odd as that seems -- but Sharpe doesn't get beatings as often as Sean does, and somewhere deep inside him Sharpe wants this. He counts out three more strokes and the lets it happen, tension dropping out of his frame, jaw unclenching, small sounds making their way out of his throat. Oh, yeah, that's what I was looking for, Bill thinks, although he doesn't stop beating Sean. Sharpe's broken, but he's not as far down as Bill wants him to be. "I get the feeling you truly like this," he says, landing a particularly hard blow on Sean's ass. Sean grunts and scrambles for words to give Bill in response. "It's what you want, isn't it?" he bites out. "You bloody want me to like this." "Oh, I don't think I'm the only one who wants you to like it," Bill says with a slight laugh. The flogger lands on Sean ass again, hard enough to leave welts. "It's not just you liking it either, is it? It's that you need it." Yes, Sean thinks, a little desperately. But the urge to keep that quiet is a strong one in this particular role, and the only sound that makes it out of his throat is a low, hungry moan. It's a start, Bill thinks, but Sean--or Sharpe--needs more to bring him all the way down. Stepping back, he takes up a cane and flexes it. "I'll get you to admit it, you know," he says, tapping Sean on the ass to warn him of the switch to something else. Oh, God, you will, too, Sean thinks, sucking in a deep, rough breath. "You want me broken, don't you?" he murmurs. "You're wasting your time." "I have nothing but time," Bill says with a slight chuckle. Stepping back a little, he lands the cane in a sharp stroke onto Sean's ass, grinning as a welt rises almost immediately. Good thing we're here for a few days more; I don't think he'd want to sit on a plane right now. Sean jerks, trying to keep his balance. He's been missing this more than he realized, and now that they're here he's sinking down little by little. It's uneven -- the headspace he's been in has been anything but submissive -- but he can feel himself starting to let go. Bill lands three more strokes before he realizes that his jacket is really just too bulky for this kind of thing. "Stay there," he orders curtly and begins the tortured process of taking the jacket off. "Better," he finally says when it's off. "Now I'll be able to really make you feel it." He takes up the cane and begins carefully laying down stripes on Sean's ass again. "And you do feel it, don't you Sharpe?" It takes two grunts before Sean can get a word out. "Yes," he moans, and that sense of weakness and desperation cuts through him, pushed all the way out to the surface by one stripe after another. Even Sharpe couldn't last through this; it's not breaking role, it's the role being broken. "And you need it, don't you?" Bill asks, landing another blow. Sean holds his breath, trying not to speak, but he can't help himself. "Yes. Christ help me -- yes, sir, yes I fucking need it," he pants, all in one hot gasping rush. Gotcha! Bill thinks as he lands yet another blow on Sean's ass, low where it will hurt like hell. Even as Sean's reacting, Bill's moving up behind him, pressing against his back and ass. "What will you do for it?" he whispers in Sean's ear. It's the question that gets him, even more than the roughness of Bill's trousers shoved up against raw, aching skin. Sean tries to press his face into the wall as he chokes out a breath that comes this close to being a sob. "Anything," he whispers. And while the part of him that's still playing Sharpe is damning himself over it, the part of him that's Sean knows just how right all of this is. "That's what I wanted to hear," Bill murmurs, biting at Sean's earlobe. "You'd beg for more if I let you. You'd beg for anything I wanted to give you." It's not exactly a question, but he pauses, giving Sean room to answer if he wants. "Yes," Sean pants, and the part of him that's still Sharpe is both burning with shame and so hard he almost can't breathe. "Yes -- sir. I'd beg, sir." Biting at Sean earlobe and grinding up against him, Bill says nothing. Part of him wants to stop dicking around and just fuck Sean, but he ignores it. It'll be better for the wait, he promises himself. Even as far down as he's gotten, it still takes Sean another few breaths to say it. Christ, man, and that's Sharpe, in the back of his head, say something and he'll give it to you. Beg, for God's sake. He shifts his legs, trying to get them further apart. There's so little room to move, and Bill's taking up all his senses -- the way Bill's biting at him is making it so damned hard to think. "Please," he whispers. "What if I want proof," Bill says. "Proof that you want it. What if I want you to go down even further? Will you do that just so you can get more pain, get my prick up your ass?" "What... proof?" Sean whispers. "What the bloody hell do you want from me?" "I want to hear you really beg for it," Bill murmurs. "See you beg for it. Down there," he adds, his voice harsh. "On your knees." Sean turns, very slowly, and meets Bill's eyes. He looks down at the floor, then, and nods, taking a deep breath. It's an awkward drop to the floor, with his hands cuffed behind him and his clothes askew, but he makes it -- and that's all Sean and not Sharpe, but worth the shift in role to avoid falling hard on his knees. From the floor, he doesn't look up again. He takes another breath. "Please," he whispers. Something about the way that Sean says "please" gives Bill the feeling that he's got his boy back. "That's a good boy," he says, nudging Sean's thigh lightly with his boot. "And that's what you want, isn't it? Wanna be my boy?" Oh, God -- and it feels so right hearing that. It's like a part of Sean's been missing, and there it is, just within reach -- all he has to do is beg hard enough and it's his again. "Yes -- please," he says, "please -- God, yes, that's what I want." "Strip down," Bill says, moving behind Sean to remove the cuffs. "And think about these boots while you're doing it. Think about how much you want to be down there licking them like the slut you are." As soon as the cuffs are off, Sean struggles out of the rest of his costume, shoving it out of the way so he can get on his knees properly. It's been a long time since he's made it into a proper kneel, and his muscles feel a little stiff -- though that could be from the beating, too. Either way, it feels right when he's finally gotten himself into that kneel, and now he's looking at Bill's boots -- and hell, yes, he wants to be licking them. If that'd prove how much he wants to be on the floor for Bill, how much he wants to be Bill's boy again, that's exactly what he wants to be doing right now. "Beg for it," Bill says, once Sean's kneeling. He can see the hunger on Sean's face, and seeing it feels good, loosens a knot of tension Bill didn't even know he was feeling. "Please, sir," Sean murmurs, eyes on Bill's boots, tongue coming out to slide over his lips. He realizes he's said it wrong, though, and corrects himself on it-- "please, Master -- your boy's here to serve you, please, let me prove myself." It's been so fucking long since he's been able to say that, and it feels right, absolutely right, down to his bones. It feels right to Bill as well, and he smiles down at Sean. "Good boy," he murmurs. "Now beg for the chance to prove it. Convince me." Although, to be honest, once Sean's tongue appears, Bill usually doesn't need too much convincing. "Master, please, your boy's so fucking grateful to be yours," Sean says softly. "Please let your boy show you how much. Please, Master -- let me start with your boots, if that's where you want me to prove myself, and then anything -- everything -- whatever Master wants, please, God, your boy's desperate to serve." "All right," Bill says, spreading his legs a little so he's standing with his feet well apart. "Let's see you put that eloquent tongue to use on my boots, then." And Sean's so grateful for permission he goes hot all over from it, bending over with his hands still behind his back, spreading his knees wide for balance. It's slow, getting down without falling over, but his muscles remember the motion, and then he's there, lips parting, tongue getting them wet one more time before he gets his mouth on Bill's boots. Now that Bill's got Sean where he wants him, he can settle down into his own role again. It's comfortable, or at least it's comfortable mentally; physically, however, he's finding the trousers a rather snug fit. Be damn glad when we get to the point where I can take the damn things off. Sean's so damned hungry for this he's moaning softly as he streaks his tongue across leather. He's trying to take it easy, trying not to go too fast or look too greedy, but that's not easy -- right now there's nowhere else he'd rather be, nothing else he'd rather be doing. He's giving himself to Bill all over again -- or maybe it's more that Bill's taking him. Needed this, he thinks, so fucking much. One of the things Bill truly enjoys about his boy is how Sean really gets in there and does his best at whatever Bill wants from him. That Sean almost always wants it as well just makes it better. "You're such a damn good boy," he says as Sean finally leaves the right boot and moves over to the left. "My damn good boy." "Yours," Sean agrees between licks, "yours, Master." He really is -- for all that he's enjoyed having time with Bill out of role, he belongs here, on his knees, serving. And it's an enormous relief to him that Bill wants him this way again, that Bill's not backing off now that they've got the chance to be master and slave again. A little maneuvering and Bill's in a position to put his right foot on the back of Sean's neck. "You love it, don't you? Love being on the floor with your mouth all over the leather of my boot?" He could have made his words an accusation designed to humiliate Sean, but instead his tone of voice makes it clear that he's offering a compliment. Sean goes still, eyes closing. This is just so damned good-- as good as when they first started and it felt like Bill knew exactly what he needed before he could even figure out what he was begging for. "Yes, Master," he whispers. "Yes, Master, I love it." "Yeah," Bill agrees, leaving his boot on Sean's neck while Sean finishes with the other boot. "Kneel up," he says, stepping back a little. "I'm thinking about fucking you, but I think you need to convince me." In some other universe, perhaps, he thinks with a mental smirk. Now that Sean's kneeling up, Bill's crotch is at eye level, and Sean can see just how tight those pants are. Oh, God, I want that, he thinks, and he nods, licking his lips again and glancing up at Bill. "Master, please, your slave's yours-- yours-- and here to be used. Please use me, Master?" He knows it's not much, but he's having trouble thinking clearly about words; what he wants is to rub his face all over Bill's cock and beg with his breath hot against Bill's fly. "I don't know," Bill says. "I think I need a little more convincing. Non-verbal convincing." After all, it's not too hard to figure out what Sean would love to be doing right now. "Oh, God, yes, Master," Sean says, bending his head forward so he can nuzzle against Bill's cock-- Christ, so hot, want this so much, want to be a good slave for you-- and start licking with fast, hot, lapping strokes. "Please." He gets that out between breaths as he keeps licking, rubbing his face against Bill's cock, feeling both gratitude and lust in just about equal measures. The idea that Sean is down there licking at the rough wool of Bill's uniform trousers just to impress Bill is almost as exciting as the pressure of Sean's face and mouth against Bill's cock. He reaches down, sliding his fingers through Sean's hair and then frowns a little when he reaches Sean's neck. "This is good," he says, "but my boy is missing something." Sean stops and looks up, confused. "Master...?" The idea that he's done something wrong is worrying, but not paralyzing the way it would have been six months ago; he really is doing much, much better these days. "Nothing you're doing wrong," Bill says quickly. "But I think it's time you got your collar back on. Go into the bedroom, get it, and kneel in the middle of the bed with it." Collar. Yes. Sean nods, leaving one brief kiss against Bill's fly, and for the first time in what feels like ages he crawls off to the bedroom. It's good to see Sean crawling again, so good that Bill's a little startled as he realizes how much he missed it. It's made even better by the fact that Sean did it without being ordered to. God, he's good, Bill thinks as he follows Sean into the bedroom. Sean crawls over to Bill's dresser and gets his collar; he grins as he opens up the box and holds the heavy chain in his hand. It's going to feel so good having it back on-- having Bill put it back on. Amazingly good. He climbs up on the bed and kneels, palms open, collar draped across one of them. Christ, I'm really going to feel this in the morning, he thinks-- he's definitely going to be sore all over, and he's going to love it. Pausing in the door way, Bill just looks at Sean for a moment. "You look good like that," he finally says, stepping forward. Taking up the collar, he locks it on Sean's neck and then nods. "And even better like that. Go on, get these damn pants undone and use your mouth on me." It's bloody strange how having his collar locked back on him makes him feel like a part of him's been freed, rather than being trapped-- but that's exactly how Sean feels, and his grin probably reflects that. He reaches forward-- the buttons on these fucking pants are so tight it'd be difficult and time-consuming to unbutton Bill's fly with his mouth-- and within a matter of seconds, he's nosing between folds of fabric, tongue slicking up the underside of Bill's cock in one long swipe before he swallows as much of it down as he can. With a gasp, Bill twists his fingers in Sean's hair. "That's my boy," he says, looking down at Sean. "That's my cocksucking bitch." Holding Sean's head still, he begins to pump his hips, fucking Sean's mouth hard and fast. Sean barely manages a moan before the sound's cut off, but it's a convulsive, involuntary sound: this is all so right. Love being here, he thinks, eyes closing as he focuses on sucking, on holding his position while Bill uses him. Missed this so goddamned much. It would be easy to just come like this, to just shove into Sean's mouth hard and watch him choke on it. But Bill thinks about Sean's ass, all red and hot from the beating, and then it's easy enough to pull Sean off his cock. "Mine," he growls, still holding on to Sean's hair. Before Sean can say anything in reply, Bill slaps him, not quite hard enough to leave a bruise, but still hard enough that Sean will feel it. "Mine." "Yours," Sean pants, voice rough. "Yours, Master." For as long as you'll keep me, he thinks. "Anything, Master, please." "Something basic," Bill says with a grin holding down two of his fingers. "Get them good and wet, and then get down on your knees and elbows, boy. I'm gonna fuck you with nothing else." As soon as Sean gets his mouth around Bill's fingers, Bill pushes them in hard, just as he did with his cock earlier. And just like before, Sean's doing his best to make this good for Bill-- even if the vast majority of what's happening here is Bill using Sean. Sean's aching for this, has been for longer than he's realized, and the idea of getting fucked with nothing but a little spit has never seemed so good. Once Sean's gotten Bill's fingers good and wet, Bill pulls them away and lets Sean get into position. Ignoring the fact that he's getting on the bed with his boots still on, Bill kneels behind him, shoving his fingers hard into Sean. "You fucking love it like this, don't you?" The first thing Sean gets out in reply is a scream, but he figures Bill knows him well enough to know that's a good sound, that it means yes in all the right ways. "Yes-- Master," he growls, shoving back. "Love it... Master, please..." Both the words and the scream are exactly what Bill wanted to hear and he twists his fingers a few more times before pulling them out. Spitting into his palm, he slicks up his cock and then pushes into Sean. "Good like this," he grunts. "So fucking tight...." Sean's breaths are ragged as he takes Bill in, harsh and panting. He's so far past the urge to fight that everything Bill's doing just makes him ache for more. Hurt for you, bleed for you, Master, yours-- "yours, Master, Christ, yes, yours!" Once he's buried as deep as possible, Bill leans forward and bites down on Sean's shoulder. "Wanna mark you," he mutters around a mouthful of skin. Sucking hard, he digs in and works Sean's shoulder with his teeth until he can taste blood. The pain goes from a sharp ache to a deeper pain that feels bright red. Sean braces himself against the bed as best he can; he knows he's yelling, but he can't tell if he's getting out words. It doesn't matter. All he wants to say is how fucking grateful he is to have this, to be here. Yours and I'm so fucking glad, thank you, Master, thank you... "I'm not normally jealous," Bill says after he pulls away. Looking at the mark with satisfaction, he continues. "But when I was there that day and saw Toby beating you, I had a serious Alpha male moment." Pulling almost all the way out of Sean, he slams back in. "You're fucking mine!" "Yours," Sean gasps. The camera gets sweat and sounds and smeared red paint, but this is real. Bill gets Sean's body and sweat and screams that mean something, that mean everything. "Your-- slave-- yours," Sean gets out, "yours." Bending down again, Bill attacks the other shoulder, closer to Sean's neck this time. He manages to move as well, fucking Sean with short strokes that are more grinding than anything else. Sean continues to make amazing noises and once Bill's drawn blood again, he straightens back up and begins to fuck Sean hard, his hand resting on Sean's collar and back of Sean's neck. This is as good as it gets, Sean thinks, as good as it could ever get. He can't see Bill behind him, but he can feel the sting on his shoulder and he knows-- this time he's sure-- that Bill's got blood on his lips. My blood. Because it's his. Because he can have everything he wants. Sean's thoughts are shattering, body's aching, and the only thing keeping him from collapsing right now is the need to please Bill. To please Master. He clenches his teeth together and puts his head down, because now the only words that are jumping to the surface are things like yours always and love you, Master, and now's not the time. With the taste of Sean's blood still in his mouth, Bill knows he isn't going to last much longer. Sliding his fingers under the links of Sean's collar, he tugs, hard, pulling Sean back a little by it. "When you're sure you can't go without another breath," he says through gritted teeth, "come for me." When you're sure. How sure is sure? It's past the point where he's hungry for air. It's past the point where his chest starts getting tight. Sean waits, holds out with the scent of his blood in the air and the feel of Bill's cock deep inside him, waits while he forces himself not to fight against Bill's grip. Anything. Even the air I'm breathing. Yours. And that's the moment. Sean goes over hard, rough grunts choked out of him, coming because it's one more thing he can give Bill now. Yoursyoursyoursyours, fuck, yours, Master! If they were still fucking with condoms, Bill would have pulled out as soon as Sean came, ripped off the condom and come all over Sean's back and ass. Instead, it's fantastic to be able to just let go of the collar and let Sean's gasps and the memory of the sounds he's been making all morning push him over. "Mine!" he snarls, knowing that he's marking Sean in the most basic, primal way, knowing that Sean is his. Sean sucks in a deep breath and somehow, God only knows how, manages to stay more or less upright. But the way he's feeling right now, it's only going to be a matter of minutes-- if that long-- before he collapses. "Jesus... Christ, Master," he pants, lowering himself to his elbows. Christ, I fucking love you. "What you...said," Bill says, panting hard. He pulls back and then presses lightly on the small of Sean's back, his fingers caressing the faded tattoo scar. "Relax," he says and when Sean goes all the way down, Bill settles in next to him, pulling him close. "You're the best boy I've ever had," he murmurs into Sean's hair. I won't want to let you go. The thought should be more startling than it is, and Bill firmly pushes it down. He's mine for another year and a half. A lot can happen in that time. Sean swallows down another impulse to say I love you at that. He nods, settling in with Bill, grinning when he realizes how sticky they both are. "Hope so," he murmurs. "You're the best master I've had."

Despite the premonition, Sam feels lighter and more carefree than he has for a long time. He showers and dresses quickly, wanting to be on the road. Now that he's got Dean to agree to the tattoos, he wants to get them done as soon as possible, wants Dean to be protected and them to be bound together. Once upon a time, the idea of being bound to Dean would have horrified him - not because of Dean himself, but because of what Dean represented to the child Sam still was. Now, Sam barely recognizes his younger self, and he hates the ignorance, and arrogance of youth that caused him to wound Dean so deeply, and so often. They load up the car, and start driving. Sam drives for eight hours straight, and would have driven through the night, but for the fact that Dean threatens to shoot him if he doesn't stop for a rest. It's been a full nine hours on the road by the time Sam finally pulls into the parking lot of a motel. Dean goes to get them a room, while Sam eases himself out of the car, ostensibly to stretch his legs, although in reality, he wants to keep an eye on Dean. The dream has left him unwilling to take his eyes off Dean, at least until they've got the tattoos and he has some way to find Dean, no matter where he is. Dean returns with the room key, and they make their way over to the burger bar next door, where Sam barely tastes the burger Dean makes him eat. He's too busy watching Dean. Now that he's seeing his brother through the eyes of a lover, he can finally see and appreciate the beauty in front of him, and he can't help but think of the way Dean looks when he's caught in the throes of passion. He shifts, feeling the stir of arousal, despite the fact he's had more sex over the last few days than he had for over a year before that. "Sam, you're doing the staring thing again. Would you just cut it out?" Dean's not looking at him, and Sam would swear that there's the faintest hint of color across those cheekbones. The thought that Dean might actually be just a little bit shy about Sam looking at him gives Sam the nerve to lean forward and whisper. "I was just thinking about going to our room, and bending you over the furniture. Or maybe I'll just pin you against the car and let you fuck my mouth." He knows he's blushing slightly too, hoping Dean doesn't laugh at him. The shiver that Dean clearly can't quite suppress boosts Sam's confidence no end, and has him more than half hard. He watches Dean swallow, then slowly his brother lifts his head and heavily dilated eyes meet his. Dear God, that look has Sam wanting to do things he's not sure he could even put a name to. "Then why are we still here?" Jesus, Dean's voice is rough and deep and Sam swears it's the sexiest thing he's heard in a long time. They walk back to the room and when Dean unlocks the door, Sam follows him in. His pulse jumps when he realizes that there's only one large bed in the room. He knows from the lack of cars in the parking lot that the motel is virtually empty, which means that Dean specifically requested a double, rather than two singles. The fact that they are clearly on the same page, for once in their lives, makes Sam ridiculously, idiotically happy. He reaches out and catches Dean's arm, feeling the muscles beneath his hand tense, then relax, as Dean resists the fight or flight instinct. Sam feels a moment of anger at Dad for instilling that in Dean, in them both. He forgets to be mad though, when Dean turns round to face him, and shrugs off his jacket. Such a simple action, now imbued with so many layers of meaning. Sam tugs his brother closer, and steps forward himself. They meet halfway, chest to chest, groin to groin, Dean tipping his head back slightly as Sam bends his forward, lips meeting and tongues tangling. Of all the things they've done, this seems the strangest, to be standing in the middle of a motel room, kissing his brother with the definite intention of taking him to bed. Between them they manage to strip each others shirts off without breaking the kiss for more than a few seconds. Sam has to pull back though, when Dean slides a hand down the front of his jeans, fingers stroking and teasing through the cotton of Sam's boxers. Sam can't help thrusting into the touch, but eventually he gathers what's left of his wits, and grabs Dean's wrist. He pulls his brother's hand out of his pants, feeling the sudden tension in the body against his. Dean tries to pull back, and Sam wonders if they'll ever be able to erase Dean's deep seated fear of rejection. "Dean, let me. Trust me." Dean's answer is a shaky breath, and a nod. Sam lets go of Dean's wrist, and wraps a hand around Dean's neck, pulling his brother in for another kiss, slow and wet and so good Sam can feel it all the way to his toes. He pulls away, and slides to his knees. His hands are almost trembling when he opens Dean's fly and tugs his jeans and boxers down to his knees. "Sammy..." Sam had thought he'd heard every way Dean's voice could sound broken, but he guesses he was wrong, because fuck, the way he sounds when he says his name then makes Sam’s heart pound just that little bit harder. Sam wants to take this slow, wants to make Dean feel as loved and wanted and protected as Dean’s so often made him feel. He slides his mouth down over Dean’s cock, feeling his brother tremble against him. There's a sense of power in knowing he can make his big brother shake, just from his hands on Dean's skin, from the heat of his mouth, dragging over the soft skin of Dean's cock. "Jesus, Sammy. Oh God..." The temptation to pull Dean to the floor and crawl up his brother's body and fuck him until they can't move is so strong, but Sam wants to do this right, wants to give Dean this, to prove that they're in this together, as equals. He works Dean until his jaw starts to ache, until Dean's shuddering and clearly fighting not to thrust into Sam's mouth. Finally, Sam pulls back, closing his eyes as Dean lets out something close to a whimper at the loss of stimulation. Sam stands and walks Dean backwards towards the bed, flashes behind his eyes of the first time he did this, the night on the bridge. He strips Dean, then himself, amused by the way Dean is apparently unable to form a coherent thought; the way he's so pliant and obedient. There have been many times over the years when Sam would have killed to have been able to reduce Dean to such submissiveness. Sam wonders if this will ever get old, wanting Dean like this. He wonders if he'll ever be able to keep his hands away from his brother, now that he's tasted this. It's not until he's pressed Dean down onto the bed, and crawled up his body that he realizes that he's left the lube in their bags, which are still in the car. He drops his forehead to rest against Dean's, trying to ignore the way his brother's body arches into his, one leg hooked around Sam's hip. He's certain he can summon up the willpower to go get the lube, providing he can ignore the way Dean's cock brushes against his, and the way Dean's making quiet noises, whimpers and pants and little 'oh' sounds that would be amusing if Sam weren't so painfully aroused. "Damn." "What?" "Lube's in the car." Dean shivers and Sam can't help but thrust back against him. It's a poor imitation of what he wants, but it's still good. "Christ, Sammy..." "I know." Dean fucking writhes under Sam, and it makes Sam hiss and dig his nails into his brother’s skin. The thought that Dean’s going to be wearing those marks tomorrow is doing nothing to help Sam’s frustration. "You could get it." Dean's mouthing at Sam's neck now, and there's just no way Sam is going to be able to leave the bed, let alone find some clothes, get dressed and go out to the car. He snorts, and he feels Dean's body ripple as his brother laughs, softly, breathlessly, warm breath tickling his ear. "I don't think so..." he tells Dean. Another laugh, and Sam has to grin. It feels wonderful to be lying there with Dean and sharing the amusement. Lately, everything has been intense and strained and despite their frustrated arousal, it's liberating and soothing to feel so in tune with his brother again. "Got an idea. Get off me, freak." Dean wriggles beneath him, and that's really not encouraging Sam to move much. He presses his hips down, trapping Dean between his body and the bed. "I said off." Dean heaves, and suddenly Sam's on his back, Dean stretched out over him, smirking. He stands, and offers Sam a hand up, then drags Sam towards what Sam assumes is the bathroom. "Dean, what the hell...?" Dean shoves him into the bathroom, and into the shower, then he crowds in behind Sam, his chest against Sam's back, before reaching around and turning the shower on. Sam yelps at the first spray of water because it's cold, and Dean snickers, until Sam jabs him in the ribs with his elbow. Dean moves behind him, and then his hand snakes around Sam's waist again, and he catches Sam's cock in a soap slick hand, and strokes, firm and steady, neither fast nor slow, and Sam rocks onto tiptoes, caught by surprise. Dean's grip is knowing, confident and Sam feels a small surge of jealousy about the thought that Dean's touched someone else like this. But he can't concentrate on anything but the way Dean's handling him, his other hand also reaching around, and rolling his balls in a warm, gentle hand. Dean's cock presses against him, sliding between the cheeks of his ass for a few strokes then slipping down and riding slickly between his thighs, the tip just brushing the back of Sam's balls when Dean presses forward. Sam shudders, and squeezes his thighs more tightly together, loving the gasp and hard thrust that provokes. It's not the same as fucking his brother, but it's good. The various sensations blend until Sam can barely separate them in his mind. Dean's hot breath fans across the back of his neck, and every so often, his brother drags his teeth over the ridges of Sam's spine. The orgasm, when it finally hits, matches the rhythm of Dean's hand, slow and languid, the sensation washing over him until he's drained and has to brace his hands against the cold tiles. Dean lets go of Sam's cock and balls, and digs his fingers into his hips instead, and the thought that they’ll be wearing matching bruises tomorrow is a damned sight hotter than Sam thinks it should be. He lets Dean drive against him, despite the fact that his legs are shaking, and the inside of his thighs are starting to burn from the friction. When Dean finally comes, he's almost silent, and he sinks his teeth into Sam's shoulder, not quite hard enough to bruise. Sam turns under the lukewarm water, and slides a hand into Dean's hair, then angles their heads for a kiss. There's something so intimate, so fundamental somehow about the way they kiss. Kissing Jess when they were sated and weak kneed was electrifying, like lightening during a thunder storm. It felt like a promise of things to come. Kissing Dean is like warm sunny afternoons and the smell of autumn. Like coming home to a place you know you'll always be welcome, where they’ll always have a space for you no matter what. When he pulls back, Dean licks his lips and grins at Sam. It's all Sam can do not to kiss him again. But instead he shakes his head, and shoves his brother until he gets out of the shower. Sam follows him, and they fight over the towels briefly, as they used to when they were kids. Eventually they dry off, and Dean slips a t-shirt and his jeans and boots on and goes to bring their bags in. Sam watches him go through the usual routine of checking windows and doors, then Dean strips once again and slides a knife under the pillow, despite Sam's glare, and climbs into the bed. It still feels a little odd, to share a bed with Dean like this, as lovers. But there's also something comforting about knowing that Dean's right there, close enough for Sam to reach out and touch. Sam closes his eyes, and listens as Dean drifts slowly to sleep, then he rolls onto his side, and rests a hand on Dean's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. He fights sleep for as long as he can, fearing more nightmares, but eventually, he succumbs and follows his brother into sleep. **** When Sam wakes the next morning, he's wrapped around his brother again, and for once, he's slept past dawn. He doesn't remember dreaming at all, let alone nightmares. He doesn't know whether to be relieved, or concerned. He untangles himself from Dean, and heads for the bathroom to brush his teeth and shave. Dean's still asleep when he returns, and loathe as Sam is to wake him, he's itching to be back on the move again. If they make good time, they should reach the tattooist by lunchtime, and Sam still won't feel truly comfortable until they've got the tattoos done. After he's woken Dean, and they've dressed and grabbed breakfast, they set off again. Dean sprawls in the passenger seat, dozing while Sam drives. They reach the tattoo parlor by early afternoon, and Sam finds it hard to hide his relief, and anticipation. He's tried to deny it to himself, but there is a part of him that views the tattoos as a way of leaving a permanent, indelible sign on his brother that links them to each other, that marks Dean as forever being Sam's. The tattooist is waiting for them, and the shop is empty but for the three of them. Dean is clearly uneasy, and Sam has to admit that he's a little nervous too. He makes Dean go first, and the furious look that Dean throws his way makes Sam grin. He knows he'll pay for this later, but these days, that threat just makes his breath catch, and his cock twitch. He lets Dean choose where the tattoo will go, and he picks the small of the back. Sam agrees, loving the idea of that relatively simple mark at the base of that well defined back. The tattooist takes a drop of blood from each of them, then settles Dean so he's comfortable. Sam sits close by, and as the tattooist begins, the buzz of the tattoo gun loud in the otherwise quiet room, Sam begins the recitation of the spell, trying to imbue it with as much of his will as he can. **** Slugs and snails and puppy dog tails. Witches blood and unicorn horn and werewolf fur. That's what people think spells are. Dean knows better. He knows that spells are not revolting ingredients, but words and intent. Because even the words can be worthless if the person saying them doesn't mean them. The only ingredient that some spells, older and more powerful, darker spells require is blood. So when he discovered that not only is a drop of Sam's blood going into the ink for his tattoo, and vice versa, but that Sam'd be reciting the spell while it's etched into Dean's skin, and vice versa, he knows that whatever this spell is, it's damned powerful. It's surreal, the buzz of the tattoo gun almost drowns out Sam's voice, as he recites the spell, his lips almost brushing Dean's ear as he does. Dean closes his eyes, and grips Sam's hand tighter and tries to quell the faint sense of fear at the tingle that he can feel, even through the sting and burn of the tattoo; a tingle that tells him the spell is working, that it's sinking into his flesh and blood and soul, and marking him forever. A permanent bond between them that will last for the rest of their lives, and quite possibly beyond. It feels as if he sits there forever, and Sam's voice is nearly hoarse by the time the tattoo is finished. Dean can feel his body protesting when he finally stands up, stretching muscles cramped from sitting in the same position for too long. He turns to the long mirror in the shop, and twists so he can see the tattoo. But it's Sam's face, reflected in the glass, and unaware of Dean's scrutiny that makes him pause. His brother's expression is a mix of pleasure, relief and possessiveness. It's so unlike Sam that it stuns Dean for a minute. But then the tattooist is carefully stroking lotion and taping gauze over the tattoo. Sam takes his place in the chair. He's chosen to have his tattoo between his shoulder blades. Dean sits by him, and Sam grabs his hand, holding as tightly as Dean did, and Dean sets aside his worries and curiosity and concentrates on reciting the spell properly, on putting every emotion he feels for Sam into the words. It seems to take even longer this time, and when the tattooist finally finishes, Dean's throat is dry and sore. But when he sees that tattoo on Sam's back, he understands exactly what Sam felt. It's a visible, tangible sign of every thing they mean to each other, of the bond, the tie between them. Once it's all done, and they've paid, and the tattooist has closed the door behind them they get gingerly into the car. Sam voices the exact thought that's running through Dean's head. "I think we might have to take a few days off, let these heal before we think about hunting." "Yeah. Be a shame to go through all this only to ruin the damned things." To be honest, Dean doesn't mind. The tattoo is starting to burn and ache now, and honestly, he thinks he's almost ready to start hunting again. So the idea of a few days of doing nothing with Sam before finding their next gig sounds like a really good idea. He reckons they'll need six or seven days, maybe eight max before the tattoos are healed sufficiently. He settles down in the car, slides is sunglasses on and closes his eyes. “Sam, wake me up when we get to where ever the hell it is we’re going.” When Sam laughs, Dean cracks an eye open, and the sight of Sam laughing, happy again makes him think that whatever his own misgivings about the tattoos, the effect they’ve had on Sam is worth it, as far as Dean is concerned. **** It's been ten days since they got the tattoos. Days that Dean would have resented before the change in their relationship, hating the enforced break from hunting and chafing at the inactivity. Ten days of the same motel room, of Sam insisting they eat three proper meals a day, of watching daytime TV and surfing the net, of sleeping late, waking wrapped around each other. But it's not the days that have dulled Dean's normal reaction to spending too long in one place, it's the nights. Ten nights spent in a sweaty tangle of limbs and sheets, the smell of sex heavy in the air. Dean can barely remember what they did to pass the days, the time has blurred in his memory, but every single second of the nights is crystal clear, permanently etched in his memory. Nights where he's memorised the way Sam sounds, and feels, and tastes; the things that make Sam writhe, that make him shudder, that make him gasp and beg and say Dean's name over and over again until his voice is hoarse and Dean no longer knows why they shouldn't be doing this. He still can't quite shake the feeling that this is dangerous, that he's not only leaving himself open to being broken if, when Sam leaves, but that he's somehow corrupting Sam, tainting him with some of the darkness that Dean fears will consume him one day. But he can't stop, can't refuse Sam anything, not even this, and God help him, but he needs it too. Needs the connection to Sam, needs the hope, however desperate. The tattoos have finally healed, more or less and when they're together in bed, moonlight leaking through the flimsy curtains, neither of them are able to stop touching the marks. Sam likes to curl up against Dean, face to face and drape an arm over Dean's waist and run his fingers gently over the tattoo at the base of Dean's spine. It makes Dean shiver, arouses him and makes him feel connected to Sam in a way that really would be scary if he could actually think straight when Sam does it. It's almost as though every time Sam touches the tattoo, it strengthens the bond. There's still the fear that Sam's going to leave, but when Sam's wrapped around him, when they're as close as they can be, skin against skin and they're lost in each other, he can't feel it. No matter what happens, this bond will never die. And that scares Dean a little, because he knows what that kind of shit can do; knows that if one of them dies, there's a chance the other one won't survive the loss. Or worse, if they survive, that they'll be driven to do something stupid. He's also pretty certain that if Dad ever finds any of this out, he'll go crazy. Which will leave Dean back where he's always been, stuck between Sam and Dad and knowing that whatever he says or does is going to be wrong somehow. Except that this time, there's a fairly good chance Dad will actually kill him. He figures he should be terrified that not even the thought of Dad finding out can make him even contemplate giving this up, giving Sammy up, again. There's certainly a small part of his mind that has been screaming for the last few weeks, but Dean's gotten used to ignoring it now. He glances over at Sam, watching his brother concentrate on the road. They're finally moving again, and though Dean's glad to be back on the road, a part of him misses the lazy sensuality of the last few days. He can't deny that he feels stronger, calmer and more like his old self. Whether it's the result of the break, of having Sam with him, of having Sam, or the tattoos, he can't tell, and it really doesn't matter much. He can feel the hope he's learnt to keep locked away threatening to escape, and he's almost ready to let it drown him. They're together, and they're hunting. It's not exactly his most cherished dream, but it's so damned close it might as well be. And despite the hope, that still scares him more than any monster they've ever hunted. ***** Sam can feel Dean watching him. Hell, he can feel Dean, like a gentle buzz in the back of his mind. It's been getting stronger every day since they had the tattoos done. The tattoos and the last week and a half have gone a long way to easing some of his fears. He hasn't had the nightmare since, but he doesn't for an instant believe that means that they're safe. This new connection with Dean helps. At least now he knows that if anything does happen to his brother, he'll be able to find him. Already he can tell roughly where Dean is when they're apart, over longer and longer distances. Every so often, he'll also get a flash of something else. It's always brief, a split second of feeling whatever emotion Dean's feeling, there and gone again before he even realizes it. He suspects that somehow his abilities are boosting the bond. The unexpected side effect is good as far as Sam is concerned, but there's no way he's going to mention it to Dean. He knows his brother well enough to know that he'd be very uneasy if he thought Sam could tell what he was feeling, however random and short those glimpses were. He can't deny that the thought of Dean wearing a permanent reminder of their bond gives him a possessive thrill as well. The fact that Dean agreed so easily to the idea warms Sam in ways he can't quite name. They don't have a destination in mind. Sam would have been happy to have stayed longer, but he could tell that Dean was starting to get restless. So they packed up the car, picked a direction and Sam's been driving ever since. When Dean turns away, watching the road, fingers tapping in time to the Black Sabbath tape he bought in the last gas station they stopped at, Sam turns his head so he can see Dean out of the corner of his eye. Dean looks rested, healthier than he has since before the crash. He seems more relaxed, more like his old, cocky self, and while Sam isn't sure he wants every aspect of that Dean back, he's glad that his brother seems to be healing, slowly. He'd hated seeing Dean so broken, so lost and vulnerable, so drained and empty. What they're doing might be wrong, but nothing has felt as right to Sam as the last ten days, spent wrapped in a world that consisted of just him and Dean. He wonders if they've been heading for this since the day Dean came to find him at Stanford, maybe even since the day the demon killed Mom. He wonders too what Dean thinks about the change in their relationship, but getting Dean to talk about his feelings is difficult at the best of times, and Sam's too relieved to see his brother starting to heal to risk pushing him too hard yet. He doesn't really need the words anyway. He knows how Dean feels; he sees it in his brother's eyes every day, feels it when they touch, hears it when Dean whispers his name. Sometimes he catches Dean looking at him when he thinks Sam isn't aware of it. The look on his brother's face is a mixture of fear, surprise, awe and hope, and it somehow manages to make Sam feel humbled and ten feet tall, all at the same time. Sam thinks, hopes, that every day he stays the fear withers a little more, and the hope grows. That's Sam's goal now. Not finding Dad, not even finding the demon anymore. He still wants the bastard dead for what it did to mom, to Jess, for what it almost did to Dean, for what it's done to all of them; Dad, Dean and himself, but not at the cost of their lives. Not if the price is risking his brother's life again. It's late afternoon when they pull into the first motel they've seen in hours. It's a relief to get out of the car and stretch his legs, but Sam forgets the dull ache of spending too long driving when he glances over and sees Dean stretching too. The almost too tight gray t-shirt rides up, exposing an inch or so of tanned skin that Sam knows is soft and smooth and he's pretty much ready to forgo dinner and just get a room. A small, detached part of his mind is amused by the fact that now he's unlocked the physical attraction to his brother, even the smallest, seemingly innocent things are enough to make his hard, make him wish for a bed and hours of uninterrupted peace. It's still so new, the lust Dean can inspire that it catches him by surprise, almost every time, despite the fact that they've moved so smoothly from brothers to lovers. Dean is completely oblivious to Sam's scrutiny as he finishes stretching and tugs his shirt and jacket back down. Not seeing the strip of skin helps, a little, though Sam knows exactly how it feels to run his hands and his tongue over it. Knows how it feels and tastes and knows too the hot, helpless noises Dean makes when he does just that. He watches Dean walk to the motel lobby, feeling the now familiar sense of anticipation in the pit of his stomach. They've spent two weeks as lovers, fucking each other in every conceivable position and it's still not enough. Sam's afraid it may never be enough. He hopes it's never enough. The part of his mind that isn't consumed with watching the way Dean walks and remembering the way his body flexes when Sam takes him is amused by the way that becoming lovers has left him far more aware of Dean, of his physical presence. Things that he's never consciously been aware of before are brought sharply into focus now. The way Dean walks, the way his lips look after he's licked them. Now Sam watches, and overlaying these normal things are the memories of the way Dean's hips roll and his back arches when Sam drives into him, the flex of his shoulders when he's taking Sam, teeth biting his lip and frowning with concentration. When Dean returns, room key dangling from his fingers, they unload the car and Sam can't help standing just a little closer than he would normally. Close enough that their arms and shoulders, and occasionally their hips brush, sparking small tingles of desire rippling over his skin. It's so strange to feel the constant attraction that all new lovers have towards his brother, but Sam can't deny the strangeness doesn't seem to be dimming the desire any. He's tempted to skip dinner and spend the evening feasting on Dean instead, but he's hungry and they'll have time later to try out the bed. And the chair. And the table. And if Sam doesn't stop thinking like this, they won't make it out of the room. Dean's smirk when Sam turns to him tells Sam that his brother knows exactly what Sam was thinking. He gets the feeling that Dean wouldn't refuse if Sam suggested staying in, and sometimes it worries him, how much Dean has always been prepared to give up for the sake of his family, for Sam and Dad. It's entirely possible that there is nothing Dean won't do for those he loves, even at the expense of what Dean himself wants or needs. Sam's sure Dean wants this as much as he does, but he can't shake that small doubt that maybe this is just another sacrifice for Dean. It shames Sam slightly that there's a large part of him that doesn't care, that justifies that careless disregard of his brother's needs by promising to treat Dean as well as he deserves, or better. Dean's called him selfish more than once, and at times like this, Sam understands why. But it's not enough to make him give this up. Not now, maybe not ever. And maybe that makes him as bad as Dad, relying on Dean's unswerving, unflinching loyalty, but it would take a stronger man than Sam to walk away from this. He remembers Dean's words at the cabin "For you or Dad, the things I’m willin’ to do or kill, it just….it scares me sometimes.". It scares Sam too, and saddens him that Dean's been forced to kill, been forced too often to be the one to take care of Sam, of the family, forced to grow up so fast. Too often left with the responsibility and too seldom given praise for it. Sam shakes off the maudlin thoughts, and catches Dean looking at him with a concerned look. He shakes his head and grins at his brother, jerking his head towards the door. Dean reads his meaning easily, falling back into the unspoken code they've used since they were kids, and they walk to the diner down the street in comfortable silence. **** Dean knows that Sam watches him when he thinks Dean isn't looking; Dean's spent too many years hunting not to know when someone is watching him. He catches Sam's expression sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, or reflected in a window. Sometimes his brother looks concerned, which makes Dean nervous that they're heading for another of Sam's endless attempts at a heart to heart conversation. Other times, it's lust, pure and simple and that Dean does know how to deal with. Hell, he's spent most of his teen and adult years being on the receiving end of those kind of looks. When they get to the diner and settle down to study the menu, Dean gets the chance to see a new look. The waitress is young, perky in all senses of the word, blonde and pretty. Dean grins at her, though he has no intention of flirting with her at all, and the expression that flows over Sam's face is all too clear. Jealousy. Baby brother is actually jealous of a bubble-headed waitress from the back of beyond. He considers flirting with her, just to yank Sam's chain a little, but the flash of hurt that Sam isn't quick enough to hide stops him. Instead, he tones the smile down, and deliberately sticks to being polite, but uninterested, despite her attempts to flirt with him. He can sense Sam's annoyance and it's both amusing and perversely arousing to see a hint of the possessive streak that he'd thought Sam had outgrown. Sam was never good with sharing things he cared about and though at one time that included his big brother, Dean never expected to be reinstated to that list after Sam had grown out of his childish hero worship for Dean. While they're waiting for their food, Sam snags a local paper that's been left on the table next to them, and Dean tries to ignore the waitress who's still throwing longing looks in his direction. He leans back in the seat, listening to the way the cheap plastic crinkles beneath him. The bottle of ketchup has a crust around the cap that Dean suspects is almost as old as he is, and there's no salt in the salt shaker. They've been in a thousand almost identical restaurants, and despite what Sam thinks, Dean's hated them almost as much as Sam has. He loves the hunting, needs to know he's helping people and he knows that Sam would say it's because he's trying to make up for the fact that he couldn't save Mom, by trying to stop it happening to anyone else. Maybe Sam's right, and maybe he isn't, all Dean knows is that he can't imagine a life without hunting. It's all he's ever done and he can't sit back and do nothing when he knows what's out there, in the dark. It's the one thing he's never understood about Sam leaving, how his brother could carry on with a normal life when he knew what the world was really like, when he knew about the evil that walks amongst the unsuspecting general population. He's so lost in his thoughts that Sam's voice actually makes him jump a little. "Hey, I think I found something in our line of work." He ignores the smirk on Sam's face that means Sam noticed Dean's reaction. "A hunt?" "Maybe." "Well, what is it?" "Looks like there's been a recent spate of graves being disturbed in the local cemetery." Dean's just about to ask a question when the waitress comes over with their meal. Dean watches Sam glare at her, although the girl's oblivious to the looks. Dean just nods and waits until she's gone. "Sam." He waits until Sam's looking at him "Stop glaring at the locals. I'm not going home with anyone but you, so knock off the jilted lover act, ok?" Sam's expression is a mixture of indignation, happiness, shock and shame, and Dean couldn't say which element amuses him more. He grabs his silverware, and points to the paper with them before attacking his dinner. "So, were any bodies in those graves disturbed?" Sam just stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head, grins a little ruefully and picks up his own knife and fork, giving the ketchup bottle a considering look before obviously coming to the same conclusion as Dean and doing without. "Ok, I can't believe we're having this conversation over dinner..." Dean gives him his best 'are you kidding' look and Sam sighs "..fine, I can. Anyway, the newspaper report says that the bodies in the graves were disturbed. Doesn't say anything about them being eaten, but that doesn't mean they weren't." "Worth looking into though. Could be a ghoul or something." "Yeah, that's what I thought. You want to check out the cemetery after we're done here?" Dean looks out of the window. There are a few hours of daylight left, and after the last hunt, he wants all the advantages he can get on this one, wants to make sure it goes down right and he doesn't screw up again. He can still feel the cold knot of fear in his stomach, but hunting is all he's got apart from Sammy, and he needs to get back into the swing. Besides, he hates ghouls. "Definitely. We'll see if we can make sure it is a ghoul and where's its lair is, then we can come back after sunset and waste the sick fuck." **** Sam really hates ghouls. They are evil, aggressive, repulsive things, and they have a really nasty tendency to explode when shot. Confirming that the cemetery was being plagued by a ghoul was easy, as was finding it's lair. Tracking it was harder, and the damned thing gets the drop on them first. They'd split up when they got to the cemetery and found the thing was already out prowling around the graves. Sam's heading back towards his brother when he feels a wave of pain. It's muted and he knows instantly it's not his pain but Dean's. He's on the edge of panic, but he forces himself to concentrate and block out the fear, trying to feel for the bond, needing the connection to be able to find Dean. It feels like an age before he finally gets a hold of himself, but when he does, he gets a flash of the scene through Dean's eyes. He's running before he can see through his own eyes again, the image of the ghoul advancing on a stunned Dean, murderous claws drawing back to open Dean's guts so the ghoul can feed on them giving him extra speed. He reaches them just as the ghoul slashes at Dean, who's still groggy, but quick enough to avoid being disemboweled. Sam doesn't hesitate and he's not sure who is the more surprised when he pumps two shots into the thing; Dean, the ghoul, or Sam himself. The ghoul disintegrates. Unfortunately, Dean’s right in the way when the thing does blow, and he ends up covered in dripping, stinking goo from head to foot. Sam would be amused by the expression of disgusted outrage, if he wasn't still sick with fear at how close the thing came to killing Dean. As it is, he has to fight down the hysterical giggles that threaten to break loose. "Man, I fucking hate these sons of bitches." Dean tries to wipe the mess off his face and glares at the smoking pile of gunge in indignation. For a moment, Sam thinks his brother is going to kick what's left of the ghoul, but he doesn't. Sam takes a deep breath and though it helps him get himself under control, he wishes he hadn't, because the thing smells bad. "Damn, I need a shower." Dean's walking away, back towards the car, and Sam has to hurry after him. "You hurt?" "I'm fine." "Dean, stop a second, I know that thing got you with it's claws. We should clean them up, that crap can't be healthy." "We can do that back at the motel. Wait, you saw the thing get me? Why didn't you shoot it? What the hell were you waiting for?" Dean's stopped and he's staring at Sam in confusion and anger. "I... I didn't see it. It was a vision, of a kind." "Of a kind? You want to be a little more specific here, Sam?" "The tattoos, they created a bond." "Yeah, I know that." "Well, I guess my...powers are, I don't know, boosting it, because if I concentrate I can tell where you are, and when I tried earlier, I got a sudden image of the ghoul attacking you. I got there as fast as I could Dean." Dean just looks at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Did you know this would happen when you suggested the tattoos?" "No, not exactly. And it's not like you didn't know what the tattoos and the rituals meant when I told you about them Dean. You agreed." For a second Sam thinks he's gone too far, but Dean's acting like Sam's tricked him into something and he can't help the annoyance in his voice. "I know, but I didn't expect...this. It's just odd, you know." Sam wants to laugh. All the things Dean's seen and hunted and killed, and he thinks this is odd? "It'll just take a little getting used to." Dean grins and Sam relaxes again. "But you think next time you can fine tune it so you turn up before the bad guy gets to take a pop at me?" He turns to carry on walking towards the car and Sam follows him. "Dean, wait, I still need to check you out." Dean laughs, low and dirty and he realizes his words can be taken an entirely different way. "Later Sam. Let's just get back to the motel." "Damnit Dean, would you just let me take a look?" Sometimes Dean can be such an jerk that Sam wants to shake him. He catches his brother up and falls into step beside him. "It's fine Sam. Just a scratch." "Yeah, well, you're so determined to be a hero that your arm could be hanging half off and you'd still just be saying it was a scratch." "Sammy, it's nothing, ok? You can play doctor at the motel and kiss me better then, if that's what gets you hard." Sam ignores the suggestive tone and the mock leer, though his body doesn't. "Dean, just let me take a look. Please?" They reach the car and he opens the trunk as Dean strips off his jacket and over shirt before dumping them into the trunk. "Sam. It's the middle of the night and I'm covered in ghoul guts. I just want to get back to the motel, get out of these clothes, into the shower, and then into you. Alright?" There's something about the way Dean says it, so casually, as if they've been lovers for years, that makes Sam's guts clench, and his cock twitch. It's only slightly spoilt by the knowing smirk on Dean's face. If Sam thought being lovers was going to change Dean into a less annoying person, he was wrong. On the other hand, knowing how well Dean could use that mouth makes it a damned sight easier to deal with the less amusing aspects of his brother's personality. "Christ Sammy, from concerned nursemaid to horny in 0.3 seconds? I'm proud of you man." Sam rolls his eyes. The temptation to just press Dean up against the car and kiss him until they're both dizzy is strong, but Dean's right. He's covered in reeking goo and as much as the idea of sliding into his brother while the adrenaline from the hunt is still buzzing in their veins hits him hard, he knows that if they go back to the motel and get cleaned up they can spend the rest of the night between clean sheets. "Fine, have it your way. But you're going to let me make sure you're ok when we get back to the room." "Yeah, whatever." Sam rolls his eyes. He watches Dean as his brother walks around the car, and stretches out his hand, trailing his fingers lightly over the paintwork. He holds his breath, aroused at the sensual way Dean touches the car, and hopeful. Dean turns slightly towards Sam, and holds the hand that isn't on the car out. For a brief second, he thinks Dean wants him to take his hand, but then he realizes that Dean's asking for the keys. A surge of relief and happiness rushes through Sam and he feels almost giddy. He'd almost given up hope of Dean ever wanting to drive this car. He puts the keys in Dean's hand, but closes his own over the keys and Dean's fingers, and pulls his brother in for a kiss. He doesn't care that Dean's covered in slime, but he's mindful of the fact that Dean's hurt when he steps closer. It's tempting to go with his earlier thought of pressing Dean into the back seat again, but he really does want to make sure Dean's alright. He pulls back and grins at Dean. Dean clears his throat, opens his eyes and grins back at Sam. He steps back and Dean nods, then opens the driver's doors and slides in. Sam walks around the car and climbs in the passenger side. He watches as Dean caresses the wheel, then starts the engine, puts the car in drive, and pulls away as if everything were right with the world. Sam just hopes he's right. **** By the time they reach the motel, Sam's given in to temptation, and his hand is resting on Dean's thigh, fingers stroking up and down the inside seam. He can feel the muscles in Dean's leg flex under his hand, and it makes his mouth dry and his cock twitch. He has to force himself to walk, not run back to their room and he's all too aware of Dean following him. But he forgets all the fantasies when he opens the door and some sixth sense tells him that there's someone already inside. He draws a gun and knows that Dean's doing the same, then he throws the door open and he and Dean burst into the room, only to stop in surprise when they both realize who the intruder is. He hears the same surprise and fear that he's feeling in Dean's voice. "Dad...?"

Dad’s gone, again. Checked himself out of the hospital as soon as he could; damn near the very second they knew Dean would pull through. Left Sam to try and comfort a brother who’s broken, physically and emotionally, while he’s still trying to deal with his own injuries, both visible and invisible. Of all the things that Dad’s ever done, this is the one Sam finds hardest to understand; the one he knows he’ll never be able to forgive. Because Sam knows why he’s gone, why he’s not there when Dean finally, finally, wakes up. It’s not because he’s got a hot lead on the demon, nor because he’s trying to lure the demon away from his sons, nor any of the other reasons he tells Sam in the days before he goes; lies that Sam doesn’t bother to call him on, because hell, what’s the point, he going to do what he wants anyway, and Sam’s too tired, too hurt, to argue anymore. No, the real reason he’s going is because he can’t face Dean. Can’t face his firstborn child, knowing the painful truths the demon used to hurt Dean so badly. Sam hates himself for it, but he’s glad Dad’s gone – though Sam doesn't understand how any father could walk away from his sons like that. He knows that Dean’s probably not going to be happy when he wakes up and Dad’s not there, but Sam is relieved. Dad’s guilt and despair and fucking bottomless well of denial made Sam’s skin twitch, and his stomach roil. When their father came to Dean’s room; where Sam has spent most of his days; to say goodbye, Sam merely nodded and pointedly didn’t watch his father leave. After that, the days start to blur. Sam gets ever stronger, and Dean, well, Dean doesn’t wake up. Physically, he’s healing, but Sam never doubted that. It’s the state of his mind that worries Sam. He’d never realized, until that moment in the cabin, when the demon spelt it out, just how emotionally fragile his brother was. Realized too, why Sam’s leaving had hurt Dean so very badly. Dean’s invested everything in his family, even at the cost of the things he must have wanted for himself, and he’s watched Sam and John throw that dedication back at him, time and time again. How many rejections can one person take? Sam can only hope there hasn’t been one too many. Every day that passes scares Sam a little more, increases the chill in his stomach, the ache in his chest. Every day leaves Sam a little more despondent, a little more alone, a little more broken. But he can’t break, because when Dean wakes up, Sam’s afraid he’ll shatter, and they can’t both fall apart. So for once, Sam’s going to be the one who keeps it together, and gets them through this. The two of them. It’s all he’s got right now, and the thought that he might lose Dean too is more than Sam can bear to contemplate in any way, shape, or form. The day Dean finally wakes up, Sam doesn’t know whether to cheer, or cry. His voice is hoarse, scratchy, and the first word he utters is ‘Sam’. The second is ‘Dad’. Sam can tell him Dad made it through the crash, but the look on Dean’s face when he realizes Dad isn’t there damn near breaks Sam’s heart. Sam doesn’t think he’s ever hated his father before, but for that moment, before Dean’s face closes up and he locks the hurt away, again, Sam honestly does. He wants to comfort Dean, but he can’t find the words, and he doubts Dean would want to hear them right now anyway. Sooner or later they’re going to have to talk about things, but Sam reckons the day Dean comes round is not the best time. It can wait; they’ll have time to discuss all the shit the demon brought out into the open later, when Dean’s fit, at least when he’s physically fit. Sam’s not planning on going anywhere, he’s going to make sure he’s there for his brother, this time. ***** Dean hates being in the hospital; though he hates the physical therapy most, as he tells Sam frequently. Sam knows what he really hates is the fact that he can’t just walk straight out of the hospital; that he’s got to rebuild, to regain his strength. Dean hates the thought of being weak, and it makes him cranky and short tempered. Sam bears his rants and bad moods with little complaint, which earns him nothing but suspicious looks and the occasional withdrawal. It tears Sam up inside, but he can’t let Dean see that, not now, not when Dean needs all his support. Sam’s been out of hospital for a couple of weeks now, though he still spends every day there, with Dean. He’s got them a room at a local motel; not what he wanted for Dean after his brother has spent so long in hospital, but he doesn’t know how long Dean’s going to want to stay in the area. They haven't spoken about what happened at the cabin; about the things the demon said; about John leaving; about a whole load of stuff that Sam thinks they need to talk about. Partly because it’s hard to have a private conversation in a hospital, partly because Sam’s been reluctant to do anything to slow down Dean’s recovery, and partly because Sam’s scared, and every time he thinks about starting the conversation, he stumbles over the words and for all his education and supposed smarts, he doesn’t quite know where to start. It would be so much easier to let it go, to never mention what happened again, but Sam can’t – he needs to understand Dean, and he needs to make Dean understand him too. The day Dean checks out, Sam’s waiting. He’s been waiting for this day, wanting to see Dean walking out of the hospital under his own steam, wanting his brother to be whole enough to leave the sterile, clinical setting. It's awkward, at first, watching Dean wander around the room, poking about in the kitchenette, checking out the shower, testing the beds. Sam almost burns with the need to talk, with all the questions he needs answered, but he tries to wait, tries to let Dean give him an opening. If he pushes too hard, too fast, Dean'll just clam up and deflect the conversation and Sam'll be left frustrated and no wiser than before. When Dean's finished checking out the amenities, he slumps down on the bed, tiredness radiating from him, in a way that makes Sam's chest tighten. Dean's not supposed to be this drained, this hurt, still. It reminds Sam uncomfortably of when Dean's heart was damaged. He swore then that he wouldn't be put in this position again, that he'd never let Dean be hurt like that again; stupid as that promise is, considering their line of work. It's not just the physical tiredness that bothers Sam though. Dean looks mentally drained too; he's missing that essential spark that makes him so damned infuriating at times. That scares Sam, far more than the residual physical damage. It's this that makes him speak before he can think better of it, before he can stop himself. "Dean. We need to talk about ...things." It pains him, to see the weariness and suspicion on Dean’s face; the way he clearly prepares himself to be hurt again. The resignation makes Sam catch his breath, shocked, by the bleakness on his brother's face. He'd been prepared for anger, frustration, hurt, but not this despair. "You're leaving." It's more a statement than a question, and Christ, Sam wants to take back every careless word he ever said about running out on Dean, on the hunting. If he'd known how much it hurt his brother... Sam knows himself well enough to know that he'd probably have said it anyway. It shouldn't have taken Dean nearly dying to make Sam understand, but it did. Sam's not making the same mistakes again, though he's certain he'll make all new ones instead. "No!" He tries to stay calm, to not cross the room and shake Dean for being so meek, so vulnerable, so unlike Sam's brother that it scares Sam more than facing a whole pack of werewolves or nest of vampires. He takes a breath, searching for calm, for the ability to have this conversation without letting Dean get under his skin, for once. "No. I'm not leaving. But Dean, we need...man, we need to talk. About the demon, about the cabin. About Dad." Dean's face is expressionless, his eyes blank, and for a moment Sam wonders if Dean's even heard him. "No." Dean's voice is steady, but quiet, and distant. "What? No? Dean?" "Nothing to talk about. Nothing's changed. Dad’s gone, the demon’s still out there, and we’ve still got things to hunt. Same old, same old.” “Dean…” “I'm gonna take a shower." He's gone, bathroom door slamming behind him before Sam can argue. Sam can't say he's really surprised, he never expected getting Dean to talk to him would be easy, after all, but this is worse than he thought. They can’t carry on as if nothing has happened, as if nothing has changed. As far as Sam’s concerned everything has changed, and he needs Dean to see that too. When Dean emerges from the shower, Sam's ready, determined not to let Dean run this time. "Dean..." "So, you got anything for our next gig?" Damn, he'd forgotten how irritating Dean's habit of talking over him could be. "No. I really don't think you're ready to be hunting again so soon. And we really need to talk man." "Hunting's what we do Sammy. And I told you; nothing to talk about." "Damnit Dean! We can't just ignore what's happened. The demon, Dad leaving. I can't just pretend it didn't happen, and don't even think about trying to pretend you can either." "Sam. There's nothing to talk about, ok? We're all alive, and Dad's off tracking the demon again and we're going to carrying on hunting until he thinks it's safe to contact us again." It's that obvious tone of 'Dad can do no wrong' in Dean's voice that sets Sam off, despite his intentions to the contrary. "For god's sake Dean! Dad left. He left us, left before you were even awake. He's not hunting the demon, he's running away from his responsibilities, from dealing with what happened. He's never been there for us, how can you still believe in him?" Sam's expecting a full body slam against the wall, or even a fist heading towards his face. He's prepared for it, ready to take whatever Dean deals out, if it just gets Dean to think. Sam's not expecting the click of a safety being taken off, and he's certainly not expecting to be staring at the muzzle of a gun held by his brother. "Don't ever say that again. Dad's gone because he thinks it's best, he’ll be back soon. He hasn't left me." Dean has never, ever drawn a weapon on Sam before, not even in jest. He's never even thrown a punch in anger before, not at Sam, unless Sam threw one first, and it sends a chill through Sam to see the steady aim, the cold look in Dean's eyes as he points the gun at Sam's chest. Dean's voice is hard and distant, but there's a hint of anger under the surface, and Sam can't help but remember Meg and the exorcism. This cold anger scares him more though. Sam's been afraid of a lot of things, especially of late; losing Dean, spending the rest of his life hunting the demon like Dad, but he could never have imagined that his brother would be one of them. But this Dean does scare him. Dean is many things, but he's not cold, not like this. He's always been Sam's protector, his big brother. Sam doesn't know how to handle this Dean, and he's beginning to wonder whether he really knows his brother at all anymore. Despite the gun, Sam doesn't miss Dean's slip though. 'Me', not 'us'. As if he's expecting Sam to leave, again. Sam wishes he could tell himself that it's just Dean's insecurities, but he can't, he knows whose fault this is, who has left Dean so broken, so vulnerable. God, what have they both done to Dean? "Dean, I... I'm sorry, ok. I just want to talk about this, ok?" "Leave it, Sam. Dad'll be back when he thinks it's safe, and in the meantime, we do what we've always done." But it's not enough, Sam wants to say. It's not enough, not anymore. Damnit, you nearly died, and all Dad could think about was killing the demon. You were bleeding to death, and he was still thinking about the fucking demon. He'd sacrifice us all if he thought it would enable him to kill it. God, Dean, can't you see that? The words bubble up in Sam's throat, but he chokes them down. Dean's not ready to hear them, and though Sam's pretty certain Dean won't put a bullet in him, he's not ready to test that theory right now, not when his brother is still so vulnerable, emotions scraped raw by the demon, by Dad leaving again. It's only as Dean lowers the gun, clearly satisfied with Sam's silence, that Sam realizes the extent of the battle ahead of him. Dean's got walls the size of Texas, and Sam's going to have to chip away at them, bit by bit. He just hopes they can stay alive long enough for him to finally get through, to reach his brother, to undo the careless wounds he's inflicted. ***** Dean turns away from his brother, flicking the safety back on the gun, and dropping it carelessly onto the bed. He hears Sam get up and head into the bathroom. When he hears the soft click of the door closing, he sinks onto the bed. Tremors run through him, and he can feel his hands shaking violently. There’s a cold, sick feeling, settling like lead in his stomach, and unshed tears stinging his eyes. He can’t believe he pulled a gun on his brother. Worse, a gun that was loaded, and had the safety off. It makes Dean feel sick to think about it. He could tell from the look on Sam’s face that while his younger brother was shocked, he didn’t honestly believe that Dean would shoot him. Dean can’t say for sure what he was thinking at the time, but he’s not half as sure as Sam was that he wouldn’t have pulled the trigger. It scares Dean that all he can remember is the sight of his hand pointing a weapon at Sammy, at the brother he loves more than almost anything else in his life, the brother he'd sworn, both to Dad and himself, to protect at any cost. It was like a nightmare, to look down a barrel and see Sam’s face pale and worried. Shame, and a hot, sick horror flood through Dean’s body until he thinks he’s either going to scream or throw up. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels a tear splash onto his hand. Disgust and fear gnaw away at him, and he can’t help but think that it’s no wonder everyone leaves eventually. He’s certain that Sammy will leave now, the first chance he gets. Dean’s honestly surprised that he’s stayed this long, that he didn’t leave with Dad. Dean’s tried to be grateful, tried to hold his impatience at being stuck in the hospital inside, tried not to show how much it hurt that Dad left, tried to avoid doing anything that would drive Sam away too soon. Then he goes and pulls a gun on Sam. Way to go, he thinks, Sam’s going to be out of here, away from his psycho older brother, first chance he gets. What then? Dad’s gone and god only knows when, or if, he’ll be back. Once Sam’s gone, he has no idea what he’s going to do, where he’s going to go. There’s no one to run to, no one who understands what Dean does, what Dean is. Not being in contact with Sammy during the years he was away at college tore at Dean’s soul but then at least Dean had the hope that eventually Sam would come round, would come back to the family. He can’t go through that again, no way he could cope if Sam left for good. It hurts that Dad’s gone, that he couldn’t even been bothered to wait until Dean woke up before taking off, but if he loses Sam, he doesn’t think he can carry on, doesn’t think there’d be any point. Sam’s been the center of Dean’s world since Dean was four years old, and that’s never, ever changed. But Sam’s never known when to let a thing drop; he always has to push, always has to have answers. Right now, Dean can’t face thinking about Dad, about what it means that he’s gone. He can barely deal with the memory of everything that’s happened; the cabin; the demon possessing Dad; the lingering sensation of phantom claws digging relentless into his flesh, while the thing wearing Dad’s face watched and mocked him; Sam shooting Dad; the fact that Dean can’t remember a single thing after Sam laid him gently in the back of the car, until he woke up in the hospital. He feels fragile and brittle, like fractured glass. It feels as though all that’s holding him together is having Sam here, with him. When Sam leaves, Dean knows he’s going to shatter. **** Sam rests his head against the bathroom door. He’s always thought of Dean as being strong, so sure of himself, but he’s starting to realize that maybe the Demon had a point. That maybe that cocky attitude covers up his vulnerability; a fragility that Dean doesn’t want to show, not even to his brother. It hurts that Dean won’t open up, but Sam knows that much as he’d like to lay all the blame at Dad’s feet, he’s guilty of taking Dean for granted too, of assuming that Dean is as tough as he makes out. It was always too easy, growing up, to avoid seeing the truth, that Dean had built his whole life around him and Dad, around following in Dad’s footsteps. Dean’s taken on a war that was never his, and made it his own. And of the three of them, he’s the only one doing it for the right reasons. While Dad, and then Sam himself were seeking nothing more than revenge, Dean’s been helping people; drowning his own loss and pain in the fight to prevent anyone else having to go through the horror he has. Sam’s only just beginning to realize that there’s far more to his older brother than he ever knew, so much more going on than he ever bothered to see. Would things have been different if he’d paid more attention when they were kids? Would he have done things differently, if he’d allowed himself to realize how easy it really was to hurt Dean? Sam can’t honestly say he would have, and he hates knowing how casually he’s treated his brother’s feelings. Someone needs to start thinking of Dean, start putting his feelings and needs and wants first, and since it’s not going to be Dad, Sam’ll do it. Sam doesn’t even want to chase the demon anymore if it costs Dean anything more than he’s already lost. Dad’s already asked Dean to pay the price for his obsession, Sam’s determined not to make the same mistake, especially knowing that Dean would pay it, without a second thought, if that was what Sam wanted. He needs to start right now, needs to give Dean something good, something to make him happy, and he thinks he has just the thing. His hand drops to his pocket, and he wraps his fingers around the keys there. Time to stop lurking in the bathroom; time for them both to stop hiding from each other. If they’re ever going to make it through this, Sam needs to think more about his brother, and Dean needs to learn to open up, to let Sam in, but it’s up to Sam to make the first move, because Dean won’t. Time to let Dean know how much his brother needs him, how much Sam loves him. Dean’s sitting on the bed when Sam leaves the bathroom, head in his hands, shoulders slumped. He’s so still, so desolate that Sam feels his anguish like a physical blow. He crosses the room, sinking to the floor in front of Dean, cautiously resting his hands on his brother’s knees, trying not to be hurt by the slight flinch at his touch. “Dean? Man, are you ok? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Dean…” Sam is torn by the desperate, lonely air about his brother, and when Dean makes a muffled sound, but doesn’t raise his head, Sam can’t help himself. He reaches up, and gently pulls one of Dean’s hands away from his face. Dean lets the hand fall carelessly to rest on the bed beside him, and Sam could cry. He cups Dean’s cheek, tipping his brother’s head up slightly. He doesn’t know whether to be pleased, that the tear tracks he’d half expected to see aren’t there. “Dean, come on, look at me man, please. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said those things.” He can’t stop the way his thumb strokes across Dean’s cheekbone, and it scares him beyond belief that Dean allows that touch, that there’s no comment about chick flick moments, or lame jokes about Sam being a girl. Dean’s eyes open slowly, and for just a second they glitter, as if the tears Sam was expecting are about to fall, but Sam’s more worried about the blank look he’s getting, as if Dean doesn’t recognize him. It scares him, and he’s completely lost as to what to do next. He’s almost relieved when Dean blinks, and slowly seems to come back to himself. Sam can almost see the realization hit Dean, and he tries very hard not to let the way his brother jerks back, away from his hand, spear his heart. “You’re still here? I thought….” Dean’s voice is rusty, harsh and strange, as if he’s been screaming, or crying. “What? You thought what…?” Understanding hits Sam like the proverbial ton of bricks, and shit, Dean thought he’d left? Dear god, this is what he and Dad have done? How the hell do you even begin to erase that kind of insecurity? He doesn’t have a clue where to start, until he remembers the keys in his pocket. “Dean. I’ve got something to show you.” He squeezes Dean’s knee lightly, ridiculously pleased that Dean doesn’t flinch this time. Actually, his brother doesn’t do anything much at all, just stares at Sam with that same slightly bleak, somewhat dazed expression. Sam stands, and when Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t even raise his head, he grabs one of Dean’s hands, and drags his brother to his feet, glad that Dean dressed in the bathroom after his shower. It’s both worrying, and strangely pleasing that Dean doesn’t try to pull his hand away from Sam’s, and he tightens his fingers around Dean’s, enjoying the fact that Dean is allowing this simple touch, this small intimacy. It lightens Sam’s mood, just a little. He’s not going to be really happy until he sees Dean smiling again, that huge, smug, cocky grin that he can’t believe he used to hate, but this is enough, right now. He pulls his brother towards the motel room door, and outside, towards the parking lot, feeling hopeful for the first time in months. ***** Dean feels pretty stupid, towed through the motel by the hand clasped in Sam's freakishly big paws, but Sam is so eager, so much like the enthusiastic little brother that Dean remembers that he doesn't have the heart to pull his hand away from Sam's. He'd die before he admitted it out loud, but there's something comforting about Sam's touch. Sam's warm, and solid, and while he's holding on to Dean like this, Dean can imagine that things are how they used to be, before everything fell apart. But the closer they get to the parking lot, the more Dean has a bad feeling about what Sam's up to. It starts as a tickle in the back of his mind, like the sense he sometimes gets when a hunt's about to go spectacularly wrong. Dean vaguely remembers Sam telling him that the car had been trashed, though at the time he was so doped up on pain meds that he can't be sure it wasn't some demon induced nightmare. Dean can cope with knowing the Impala's gone, but dear god, he doesn't want to see it; doesn't want to have to face the reality of seeing the wreckage. His life's littered with enough wreckage as it is. Sam stops, so suddenly that Dean can't help but crash into him, nearly sending the two of them sprawling. Sam's hands steady Dean, and it hits Dean suddenly that they're standing in the middle of a motel parking lot, in broad daylight, looking for all the world like they're about to hug, or something. Dean yanks his hand away from Sam's, and steps back, trying to ignore the small wince that crosses Sam's face as he does so. There's something almost lonely about the way Sam takes a half step back, but Dean ignores it; tells himself it doesn't mean anything. "Dean..." He recognizes the signs. Sammy's about to head back into territory that Dean's got no intention of touching with a ten foot barge pole, let alone setting foot in. Time to head Sam off before he gets started. "Why are we in the parking lot Sam?" He can hear the suspicion and wariness in his own voice, but he's too tired, and too confused to even bother trying to hide it. Sam looks a little crestfallen, but he covers it well. "I told you I had something to show you." That sense of impending trouble is really biting now, the tickle becoming a full blown sense of panic. It makes Dean swallow, suddenly dry mouthed, makes him feel as though he can't get enough air, makes cold sweat trickle down his spine. It's like a bad dream, one where he knows what's coming next, but he can't do anything to stop it. Sam reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys, then turns and points towards the far side of the lot. For a moment, Dean thinks he's had another heart attack, because he would swear that his heart stops beating for a good few seconds. It's not the Impala, at least, it's not his, their Impala. It's a '67, but this one is gunmetal gray, not black. The sight of it is like a slap across the face, and for an instant, Dean's not standing in a motel parking lot, he's curled up on the back seat of his car, Sam driving, arguing with Dad in the front, while Dean feels his blood dripping onto the leather, wondering whether he'll ever get the stains out, then whether he'll live long enough to find out. He remembers hearing Dad telling Sam that nothing is more important than killing the demon, and meeting Sam's eyes in the mirror, and the strange combination of pride and love that swept through him when Sam told their father that killing the demon wasn't the most important thing. He can remember the impact, the unexpected, jarring force, the sudden fear; he knows he tried to call out for Sammy, but fell into darkness and demon haunted dreams without knowing if he managed to make a sound. He's aware of Sam talking, but he can't make out the words. All he can hear is the sound of screaming metal; all he can taste is the iron tang of blood. He can see Sam, wide eyed and pale, but he's still caught in the past and it's like Sam's the dream. Dean wrenches away from Sam. He'd run if he could, but he can barely catch his breath as it is. He's got to get away from the car, away from the memories that are pressing in on him, making him feel claustrophobic in his own skin. He's aware of Sam calling after him as he walks away, blindly. He's got no idea where he's going; hell, he can hardly remember where they are, but he's got to get away, before the tidal wave of emotions drowns him. When the hand grabs his shoulder, he reacts purely on instinct, spinning round and throwing a punch, even as his head swims with the sudden movement, and nausea washes through him. It takes a few seconds before he realizes it's Sam he's just knocked on his ass. The sight of bright red blood spilling over Sam's lip has Dean bent over and throwing up bile and god knows what until he's convinced he's going to puke up his stomach, he's retching so hard. Somehow he ends up on his knees, the taste of his tears mingling with the taste of bile and despair and bone deep exhaustion. **** Sam has no idea how everything went from hopeful to completely fucked up in the space of just a few minutes. Whatever reaction he'd expected from Dean, it wasn't the one he got. He'd watched the color drain from his brother's face and seen the look of horror and pain settle on Dean's features. He tried talking to Dean, but it was like his brother wasn't there. He was caught by surprise when Dean suddenly pulled back and damned near ran from him. For a few seconds, Sam was so surprised he just stood there, watching his brother's back as he walked away. Then he was running after Dean, wanting, needing to know what the hell was going on in that crazy brain of his brother's. His next surprise was no better than any of the others he'd got since Dean came out of the hospital. He'd forgotten how fast Dean could move, and he'd no sooner grabbed Dean's shoulder before Dean was spinning round and a fist was connecting with Sam's jaw, catching him off balance, splitting his lip and knocking him on his ass. The anger is swamped by concern when Dean starts throwing up. Sam's not sure what to do. Every instinct he has wants to offer Dean some comfort, but he knows that Dean hates being touched when he's ill. It hurts to see Dean retching until he's dry heaving. Sam has no idea what happened, but it's obvious that it's had a profound effect on Dean, and Sam wants to understand. He has a sinking feeling that the new car was a bad idea, but he doesn't know why. It's only when Dean finally stops retching that Sam realizes his brother is crying, soft, heart-wrenching sobs that have Sam scrambling on his knees towards his brother, desperate to offer what comfort he can. He's more cautious this time, though he doubts Dean is in any state to take another swing at him. His first touch is tentative, and when Dean gasps and nearly jumps, Sam almost pulls his hand back. But instead, he lets his hand slide slowly up Dean's arm, over his shoulder, until he can wrap a hand carefully around the back of Dean's neck, and gently turn his brother to face him. Dean looks utterly distraught, and Sam's horrified at the thought that somehow, this is his fault. "God, Dean. What's wrong? What did I do? Oh Dean. I'm sorry, I didn't realize....." Dean's no longer sobbing, but tears still spill from his eyes. He looks about five years old, and where once Sam was sure he would have teased him about it, now it just makes him want to pull Dean close, to hold him tightly until he can figure out how to put things right; how to put his brother back together again. "The car." Dean's voice is so quiet Sam can barely hear him, has to lean closer to be sure of catching everything. "I..I remembered. The night the...the night at the cabin. I remember you and Dad arguing in the front, and I remember the crash. I...I was so scared, Sammy. I thought we were all going to die. I thought you were..." Dean sounds so broken, so young and scared and hurt. Christ, no wonder he freaked out. Sam had assumed that Dean wouldn't remember anything about the crash. He'd lost so much blood by then, and he'd been drifting in and out of consciousness, and Sam had just thought that Dean wasn't even aware of the crash, beyond what Sam had been able to tell him later. Sam wants to say he's sorry, but the words sound so trite and useless in the face of Dean's absolute anguish that he can't make his mouth form them. Instead he grabs Dean's shoulder, and pulls him closer, wrapping his arms around his brother, holding him so tightly he feels the shivers wracking him, the frantic beating of his heart. He aches, for Dean, for himself, for all the things they've never had, and all the things they've lost. Sam doesn't even know where to start trying to help Dean. His brother has always been so closed off, apart from rare moments of openness, so loathe to admit to any perceived weakness or vulnerability that Sam sometimes feels he has no idea who Dean really is. This may be the most emotion that he's seen Dean show in years, and that's just one more thing Sam lays at Dad's door. When Dean's arms wrap slowly around Sam, hands fisting in the back of Sam's jacket, he can't help but bury his head into Dean's shoulder, biting his lip against the tears that threaten. Dean's always been the strong one, the one who was there for Sam, yet this is the first time he's allowed Sam to return the favor. They're still walking through an emotional minefield, and he's certain that they're inevitably going to hurt each other, but if Sam can get Dean to open up, maybe, just maybe they'll find a way through it. They're never going to be entirely whole, never going to be normal, but maybe they can be all right. Kneeling in a dismal parking lot, clutching his brother too tightly, that thought is the only hope Sam has to cling to. ***** Sam can see the first hint of dawn, breaking through the darkness. Dean's sleeping fitfully in one of the beds, limbs carelessly sprawled. By the time Sam worked up the strength to leave the comfort of his brother's embrace, it was dark, and his legs had stiffened from sitting so long on the cold, hard asphalt of the parking lot. Dean had been calmer, though he'd said nothing. Sam had taken in Dean's tear stained face and the lines of exhaustion around his eyes, and merely steered his brother back to their room. Dean had slumped onto the bed and was more or less asleep as Sam wrestled him out of his boots. Despite his tiredness, Sam hadn't been able to sleep. He'd spent the night sitting in the lumpy armchair, just watching Dean sleep. Every so often, he made soft, snuffling noises that reminded Sam of their childhood, of hearing Dean shifting in the dark in any of the endless procession of seedy motels Dad had dragged them to. The nightmares though, they're new. In all the years he's shared a room with Dean, he's never known his brother be troubled with bad dreams, but several times during the night he's heard Dean whimpering, making desperate, pleading noises and shifting restlessly, tangling himself in the thin sheets. Every time, Sam's crossed the room, settling on the bed and soothing Dean with soft words, 'It's ok', 'I'm here', 'I love you, damnit', and gentle hands, stroking and petting until Dean subsides and quiets again. Sam can just imagine what Dean's nightmares consist of, and he wishes, with all his heart, that he could spare Dean this. Sam's nightmares aren't of Jess anymore. Now they're filled with breaking glass, shrieking metal, the smell of blood, the taste of fear. He no longer sees Jess' desperate, terrified face; instead he see Dean's, hears his brother plead with their father not to let the demon kill him. He dreams of being back in the cabin, pinned to the wall, unable to move, or even speak; of watching as the demon tears Dean apart, and drops his lifeless body at Sam's feet. What scares Sam most is that the dreams feel almost like premonitions. They're not exactly the same as the ones he had before Jess was killed, but they're close. This time though, Sam's prepared. He lost Jess because he didn't pay attention, didn't heed the warning, he's damned if he's going to lose Dean too. In the early morning light, watching over Dean's troubled sleep, he can admit to himself that while he loved Jess with all his heart, he loves his brother with all his soul. He knows that he's got a mammoth task ahead of him, to convince Dean that he's not going to leave, that he finally understands that in the end, nothing is more important than family, than Dean, to Sam now. It's almost a relief, to finally accept that he's never going to be normal, but to know that the one thing he'll always have is Dean. It shouldn't have taken as long as it did for him to realize, certainly shouldn't have taken Dean nearly dying, for a second time, to open his eyes. The unexpected sound of his cell phone ringing startles him, and has him scrambling for his bag, hoping he can reach the phone before it wakes Dean. The phone stops ringing before he can find it, but Dean, apart from muttering something unintelligible under his breath, doesn't stir. Before Sam can check the caller id, the phone rings again, startling him even more, and he grabs the room key and heads out the door, answering without looking to see who's calling as he heads down the corridor. "Yeah, um, hello?" "Sam?" Sam swears his heart skips a beat at the sound of his father's voice. Dad's the last person Sam expected to be calling. "Dad, yeah. Hi." Where the hell are you? Why aren't you here? What the hell have we done to Dean over the years? Has the price we've all paid really been worth it? "How are you Sammy?" Sam grits his teeth at the name, but now isn't the time to start bitching about it. "Fine, same as I was last time you saw me." He can hear the anger and the bitterness edging his tone, and he really doesn't care. Dean was still unconscious and hooked up to a terrifying number of machines the last time Dad saw him, and he's asking how Sam is? "Sam...." He can hear the sigh, imagine the resignation on Dad's face and he's gritting his teeth so hard now he worries briefly that he'll break one. "How's your brother?" He takes a deep breath. Then a second. "His name is Dean. And he's still breathing, yeah." "Sam..." He can hear the warning, and the touch of frustration in his father's voice, and he doesn't care, in fact, he relishes it. "What?" "I had to go, you know that. I..." "You couldn't be bothered to stay and make sure Dean woke up. Yeah, I know Dad." "Sam. I love you both, damnit. You know I do." "Yeah, well, it's a funny way of showing it. Christ, do you have any idea how much that hurt Dean? You ever think about all the shit he's having to deal with?" He can hear his voice rising, hear the anger and the slightly hysterical edge. He takes another deep breath, trying to stay calm. "Goddamnit Sammy, I'm sorry, ok? I didn't mean to worry Dean, but he's strong, he'll be fine..." Sam isn't sure whether to be glad or disappointed his father isn't in front of him right now, because he'd really, really like to be able to take a swing at him. "No, damnit, he isn't strong, not right now, and he's isn't ok. How the hell would you know anyway? You're not here, you haven't seen how much he's hurting." He's shaking now, half repressed anger, half worry for Dean "You have no idea how much he's hurting right now Dad, and I...I don't know what to do to make it right, to repair all the damage we've done to him." He's almost whispering, hating Dad for not understanding, but needing to tell someone how scared he is for his brother. "Sammy, we haven't done anything. It's the demon.." Sam could scream. "No, the demon started this, but fuck, it's your obsessions, and mine, god help us, that have hurt Dean. And it's Sam, damnit." His father doesn't say anything for a long time, and Sam would think he'd hung up, if it weren't for the lack of dial tone. Sam chews his lip, waiting for something, *anything* from his father to show he understands. "Sam." Deliberate, pointed. Typical Dad when he's in the wrong and knows it, but won't ever, ever admit it. "Dean will be ok. He just needs to get back on track, get back hunting again. You'll be with him Sam, I know you'll keep an eye on him." Disappointment. Definitely disappointment, because if Dad *were* here, Sam would certainly have punched him out for that. "He's just got out of hospital. The last thing he needs is to go hunting." "Sam, I know your brother. He needs to be active. I've got a simple job that'll ease you both back into things..." "No. No way. Don't you do this to him. He's not ready. Dad, please." Sam'll plead, order, anything to stop Dad doing this, because he's finally getting through to Dean and the fear that if they go off hunting again, he'll lose what ground he's gained so far is eating away at him. His father sighs, and Sam hopes he's got through, somehow. "It'll be ok, I promise. Can I speak to Dean?" A cold shiver runs through Sam. A flash of premonition, there and gone too quickly for him to grasp it. He starts walking back towards the room, needing suddenly to check on Dean, to make sure he's ok. God, he shouldn't have left, what if Dean wakes up and finds him gone? "Not right now Dad, he's sleeping. Is there any point even suggesting he call you later?" Not that Sam has any intention of telling Dean about this conversation, but Dad doesn't need to know that. "Sammy, it's still not safe..." "Sam. Fine, whatever. I've got to go Dad. Just, just think about what I said. And...be careful, ok?" "I will Sam, and you boys take care too, you hear me?" "Yes sir." "Bye, and remember, I do love you both, very much." "Yeah. Bye Dad." John hangs up, and Sam stands outside the door of the motel room, resisting the temptation to bang his head against the wood. He opens the door carefully, relieved to see Dean still sleeping, peaceful now. Sam doesn't really believe in God, but he offers a quiet prayer to any deity that might be listening, that the peace might last, this time. **** John's been replaying his conversation with Sam, over and over, since he hung up the phone, several hours ago. It hurts that he can't be there for his sons, but it's better this way. Sam's words stirred up a load of guilt though. He knows he really should have stayed, should have been there when Dean woke up, at least. But he couldn't face his son, not knowing what the demon had done to him, knowing that it was John's face that laughed at Dean's pain, that watched as Dean pleaded for his life. It tore him up inside to hear the demon mocking Dean, to hear him twisting the truth and using it to hurt Dean so much, to torment and torture him; trying to drive a wedge between John and his sons. John loves both his sons, equally, though in different ways. Sam's always been easier to understand; John has always been able to see himself in Sam, it's the reason that, as Sam grew towards adulthood, they began to fight so much, both stubborn and convinced they know best. His eldest son though has always been something of an enigma to John. Always so eager to please, always so easily upset by a careless word; even as an adult, he still seeks John's approval. He tries hard to hide that sensitive side, but really, his face and eyes have always been so expressive that John could read every thought and every emotion, even when he tries hard to appear indifferent. John's aware that in the beginning, when he started this hunt, he was harder on Dean than on Sam, pushing him harder, making him train longer, criticizing him more. But he did it with the best intentions. Dean was such a sensitive child and John knew that he'd never survive the life John was training him for unless he toughened up. When Sam was old enough to train, it had been Dean who had taken most of that responsibility, who had taught his brother everything John had taught him. It was Dean who'd patch Sammy up when he was injured, comforted him when he was distressed, as John spent more and more time away from them, hunting, trying to find something, anything to fill the hole in his life and his heart that losing Mary left. He's pleased that Sam's there with Dean, that he cares so much for his brother, it's right somehow, when John spent so long encouraging Dean to take care of Sammy, that Sam's now looking after his brother. They should be there for each other, although there's a small part of John that worries about the effects of making them depend so totally on each other. They were always exceptionally close as kids, even when they were fighting. Sometimes John would watch his sons together, and feel like an outsider in his own family. The bond between them was so strong that at times it scared John. When Sam first started hunting with them, Dean was so concerned with watching Sam's back that he sometimes forgot to watch his own. And Sam, Sam seemed to have a sixth sense where Dean was concerned. He always knew when his brother was in trouble or injured. When Sam left, it broke John's heart to see how distressed Dean was, how much he missed Sam. It made John even angrier at Sam, at his almost casual disregard of Dean, just because Dean hadn't wanted to get involved in the argument between his father and his brother. And afterwards, when it was just the two of them, Dean changed; he became quieter, more withdrawn, a little more distant. He hopes his boys will be ok. He knows that they've managed perfectly well up until now, but as much as he'd like to, he can't ignore the cold knot of fear that Sam's obvious distress over Dean has caused. Still, despite Sam's misgivings, he thinks that getting back into the game is just what Dean needs, to take his mind off the past, to keep him occupied and focused. He looks again on the phone in his hand and makes his decision. He's still Dean's father and he knows him better than Sam thinks. He can't be there with them right now, but he can give Dean something. He can give him his trust in Dean's ability to cope.

Dean's mind is stuck on an endless loop of 'no' and 'Sammy'. He can't believe he just watched the coach carrying his baby brother crash over the bridge. He doesn't remember stopping the car, or getting out, but as he walks towards the bridge, towards the point where the coach disappeared into the gully, he knows he's never going to forget a single step; guilt and despair and grief make his heart twist, and leave him tasting bile, as his eyes blur with tears he doesn't even notice spilling down his cheeks. Anguish drives him to his knees, his forehead bumping the rough stone wall. He doesn't notice the small pain, nor the cold of the night. All he can feel is the gaping hole left by losing Sammy. A hole that Dean knows nothing is ever going to fill. He's never felt despair like this before, never felt so empty and alone. Even when Sam went to college, Dean knew he was there, knew Sam was only a day's drive, or a phone call away, even if he never actually drove over, or called him. To know his brother's gone, for good, is just more than Dean can stand. **** Sam hauls himself back over the edge of the bridge. He's furious. Angry with the stupid kid for being in the wrong place at the wrong time; with Dad for sending them on this hunt before they were ready; and with Dean, for fucking up and forcing Sam to leap out of the coach as it toppled into the gully. He's bruised, scraped, cold and seriously going to shake his brother until Dean’s teeth rattle. Then he sees Dean, on his knees, head resting against the wall of the bridge. He looks surreal and almost supernatural himself, his form back lit by the car headlights. Anger gives way to concern, and as Sam gets closer, concern turns to distress when he sees the silent tears leaving trails down Dean's face. He's throwing himself to his knees beside his brother before he realizes it. "Dean. Oh, Dean." He knows exactly what Dean thought. That he went over with the coach. That he'd died. Dean lifts his face to look at Sam, and it breaks Sam’s heart to see Dean like this; broken, despairing, lost. He doesn’t quite know what to do, what to say, so he just gathers his brother’s trembling body against his, wraps his arms around Dean and just holds on. It’s the most natural thing in the world to press his face into Dean’s neck, to whisper soothing words against the soft skin and scratchy stubble, to turn his head as Dean turns towards him, until his lips meet Dean’s, almost accidentally. It’s nothing more than a soft brush of lips at first, until Dean’s lips part, and then they’re kissing properly; wet and slow and tasting of salt from Dean’s tears. It’s slow and delicate and so utterly unlike Dean that Sam can barely recognize the man in his arms. Dean’s the one who’s breaking, and yet he still treats Sam like something precious, something to be treasured. It makes Sam want to repay that devotion, makes him want to shake Dean for putting everyone else first, makes Sam want to give him everything his heart desires, everything that’s in Sam’s power to grant him. Sam could stay like this forever, trading slow, sensual kisses that warm his heart, even as they start to fire his blood. It should feel so very wrong, but god help him, it doesn't. It feels like they've been heading for this their whole lives, and if there is a hell, Sam would gladly burn there for eternity, so long as he never has to give this up. Dean's hands are wrapped around his biceps, tight enough to bruise, and Sam doesn't care. Dean's already left his mark on Sam, a long time ago. The kiss that started out so soft and gentle is changing, becoming heat and passion, driven by fear and grief. Sam doesn't know which of them is moving, trying to get closer to the other; maybe they both are. He runs gentle hands down Dean's back, feels his brother wrap a hand around the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his hair. And god, he doesn't want to stop kissing Dean, because fuck, he needs this like he needs to breathe, and Dean kisses like he does everything else; all focused intent, and deadly concentration. He doesn't want to stop, but his knees are aching and the temperature has dropped considerably, and he just wants to get them into the car, doesn't care that the back seat is a cliché, he just wants. He pulls his mouth away from Dean's with an effort, then gasps and shudders when his brother's mouth moves down to his neck, licking and sucking and biting, and Christ, Sam's half tempted to just stay right where he is as long as Dean keeps doing that. In the end, he manages to marshal enough will power to pull away, heart clenching at the sudden panic in Dean's face, and the way his brother's hands dig into his skin, trying to hold on to him as he stands. Fuck, even now, Dean thinks he's going to leave. Oh god, Dean, I'm not going to leave. You're all I've got, all I want, I love you, damnit. I want you. Sam pulls Dean to his feet, and kisses him again, slow and hot, trying to chase away the fear and the loneliness they both know far too well. This is so fucked up, but they need this so much Sam doesn't care anymore. He walks slowly towards the car, still kissing Dean, guiding his brother backwards, and Dean lets him; trusts him to take care of him, and Sam loves him even more for it. Trust is the most precious thing Dean has to give, bar his heart, and Sam thinks maybe he already has Dean's heart; maybe he always did, he just didn't know it. They bump into the car, and Sam can't help himself. He presses up against Dean, feeling the lines of solid muscle shift against him; feeling the hard line of Dean's cock, pressing against his hip. Jesus, that's good, the little whimper that escapes Dean as Sam thrusts gently against him. It's every wet dream about Dean that Sam's never had, and even if he had ever thought of this, he's certain his fantasy would never have felt so desperately sensual, so agonizingly emotional, so seriously hot. Dean's shifting restlessly against him, hips arching to meet Sam's shallow thrusts. Dean has one hand on his face, stroking over his cheekbone, while the other rests on Sam's ass, pulling him closer, as if Dean wants to climb inside him. Dean's mouth moves over Sam's jaw, stubble catching on stubble, making Sam shiver. Hot lips and slick tongue slide down his neck again, and Sam needs to get them horizontal now, before he's rendered incapable of any thought at all. He fumbles for the handle, unable to pull away from Dean for even the few seconds it would take to look at what he's doing. He completely loses his train of thought when Dean nuzzles into the crook of his neck, tongue moving over his skin, hot and wet and feeling like sin given form. He finally gets the door open, but has absolutely no idea how he's going to maneuver them around the door and into the back. When Dean suddenly sinks his teeth into his neck, he can't stop the gasp and growl, nor the way his hips buck into Dean. The groan Dean gives, breath tickling over damp, sensitive skin, and the way his hands tighten and his body arches into Sam's is so fucking hot that Sam wonders how he's ever lived without knowing this. Need and necessity overtake rational thought, and as Dean lifts his head and drags Sam back into a wet, sloppy kiss, Sam drags them around the back door, and then he's pressing Dean into the car, guiding him down onto the back seat, following him all the way down, the symbolism not entirely lost on him. Dean's hands cup his face, and despite the obvious desire, his brother's eyes are soft with devotion, still clouded by fear and loss, but his gaze is open, vulnerable, trusting and god, Sam can only hope that he's going to be worthy of that trust; that he isn't making a mistake by binding them together even tighter. He can only hope, because nothing on earth, not thoughts of laws, nor morals, nor right or wrong could make him stop now, not when Dean's pulling him down, spreading his legs awkwardly, so that Sam's stretched out over him, weight propped on the hand that's gripping the back of the seat. Sam can feel the tremors that still shake Dean's body, and he doesn't know if they're desire, or a residue of Dean's earlier scare, or both. He wants to wipe that fear away, wants to give Dean something real to hold onto, wants to drive out the cold he sometimes sees in Dean's eyes when he thinks Sam isn't looking. Dean's hands are busy, sliding from his face to stroke over his shoulders, under Sam's jacket, sliding it off his shoulders until Sam has to kneel, bent damn near in half to pull it off, hampered by the confines of the car. Warm hands worm under his t-shirt, fingertips ghosting over the skin of his sides, his ribs, teasing touches over his nipples, making him squirm and suck in a breath. He drags the shirt off, shivering as the cold air from outside hits the bare skin of his back. He'd like to shut the door, leave them cocooned in the warm isolation of the car, but there's barely enough room as it is. His brother sits up, lips and tongue following the path of his hands, making Sam arch towards him, forcing desperate moans from his lips. A gentle bite to his nipple makes Sam curse, and breaks his temporary immobility under Dean's touch. He fumbles and scrambles, and drags Dean's jacket and shirt off with indecent haste. He slows himself, deliberately, sorrow catching him at the sight of Dean's scars, the outward sign of the wounds left on his brother's heart and soul. Dean shudders, a broken sob escaping him as Sam traces the angry marks with his fingers. Dean turns his head away, as if afraid of Sam's reaction, so he leans forward, pressing gentle, reverent kisses to the damaged flesh, moving until he's kissing Dean's neck, up over his jaw, until he can catch his brother’s mouth with his. The pace is slow as they share long, gentle kisses, right up to the point where Dean unexpectedly sinks his teeth into Sam's lower lip, hard enough to sting. It makes Sam jerk, and flicks the switch from patient to frantic. He's not sure whose hands are shaking more as they undo buttons and zips, stripping off boots and denim; limbs tangling, and leaving even more bruises in their haste. Sam can't resist licking and nibbling Dean's neck, enjoying the way Dean squirms beneath him, one leg trapped between Sam's body and the car seat, the other curling up around Sam's hip and thigh. "Sam. Oh fuck... Glove compartment. Oh..." Christ, Dean's voice is rough, deeper than normal, and just god, the sexiest thing Sam's ever heard, and hell's looking like more and more of a certainty. "What...?" It's nothing more than a mumble against Dean's skin, raising goose-bumps and making Sam pant as hard as Dean when his brother hisses and arches, cock rubbing against Sam's. "Gun oil, damnit. Oh Jesus, Sam..." The reality of what Dean's implying hits Sam like a sledgehammer. Fear and desire war in his head, but lust wins, because damn, just the thought of what Dean appears to be suggesting is enough to have Sam moaning. "Dean. God, you want me to... Oh fuck." "Yeah. Just get the damned oil." It's a wrench, to pull himself away from Dean, away from the heat of his brother's skin, but he scrambles for the front seat, leaning over to dig through the glove compartment until he finds the familiar bottle. Dean looks utterly debauched, naked and spread over the back seat of the car, tanned skin against cream leather, cheeks a little flushed, eyes bright, pupils so dilated his eyes look black. The way he's looking at Sam, all heat and need and dear god, love. It's utterly surreal, kneeling between Dean's legs, watching the muscles in his thighs shift and flex, seeing one hand, slick with oil stroke his brother's cock slowly, while the other slides behind his balls, and presses carefully into Dean's body. The way Dean twists, breath stuttering past his lips, skin shining with sweat despite the cold air makes Sam's cock twitch. He's caught between watching his fingers sliding deep into the heat of his brother's body, and watching the open pleasure on Dean's face. It could be minutes, or hours, Sam honestly can't tell, before Dean opens his eyes and looks at him with a mixture of arousal and annoyance that at any other time might be amusing. "Damnit, Sammy. Just do it.. please." It's the please, the desperate, needy plea in Dean's voice that undoes Sam, and he's pressing Dean down, grabbing a thigh and spreading Dean open even more. It's uncomfortable and awkward in the back seat, but Sam doubts he'd care if they were on a bed of nails as he slides into Dean. It's dark and addictive, the way Dean groans, like he's dying; the way his body clenches, then relaxes around Sam; the mix of pain and pleasure that twists his face; the way his hands cling to Sam like a lifeline. Sam buries his face in Dean's neck, fucking Dean in slow, deep thrusts. It feels as though they've done this a thousand times; it feels so right, so necessary, so profound that Sam never wants it to stop. Inevitably though, his body takes over, and he drives harder, struggling to find the purchase to move faster, driven on by Dean's gasps and breathless words of encouragement. Dean squeezes a hand between their bodies, stroking his cock as best he can given the cramped space, and the thought of Dean touching himself while Sam's taking him, fucking him, drives Sam crazy, and he somehow manages to get his knees beneath Dean's thighs, pulling his brother's hips half off the seat, bracing his weight on hands either side of Dean's head, shuddering when Dean wraps his legs around his waist. He's almost afraid he's hurting Dean, but the look on Dean's face, the way his brother is biting his lip reassure him that if it hurts, it's a good hurt. And oh god, the noises Dean's making, whimpers and shocked, desperate gasps. He can feel the knuckles of Dean's hand brush against his stomach as his brother strokes his cock, and fuck, that makes his gut clench and his cock twitch. The moment Dean comes, muscles locking, body tightening, head arching back to expose his neck is damn near soul shattering; Sam doesn't think he's seen anything so perfect. It's mere seconds later when his own orgasm catches him by surprise, so sudden and so strong that he can't breathe for several seconds. They're both trembling now, slick with sweat, still panting. Dean shifts, and can't quite hide the wince as Sam's cock slips out. Sam's glad for the first time that this isn't Dean's precious car, because he's fairly sure that semen and leather are a bad mix. Dean shoves at him, until he can get them both lying on their sides on the seat, facing each other. It's cramped and Sam's skin is sticking to the leather already, but he doesn't care, not when Dean's holding onto him, pressing gentle kisses to his shoulder and neck. "You ok?" Sam winces at the sound of his voice; he sounds like he's been shouting for hours, and it's nothing like the sexy rasp Dean had earlier. Dean doesn't say anything for several minutes, though he tightens his grip on Sam, and Sam begins to worry. He'd assumed Dean was ok with this, assumed he wanted, needed it as much as Sam did, but what if he hadn't, what if he'd only done it because it was what Sam wanted? Dean's voice is quiet, muffled a little because he doesn't lift his head from Sam's neck. "I thought you'd died. Oh god." Dean's voice breaks, and Sam can hear the terror. "I don't want to go on if you're dead. And it would have been my fault. I froze. Sammy, oh god... I thought you were dead...." Oh. Oh fuck. "Dean, don't, please. I'm here, I'm fine. I'm not going anywhere, I promise. Dean, it's ok. It'll be ok. I love you, I'm here." "Don't want you to leave Sam. I need you." Dean's voice is soft, and desperate, shattered. "It's ok. We'll get through this." He clings to his brother, sated and scared and worried and more content than he's been for months. He hopes he hasn't made promises he can't keep. He knows it's not going to be easy; Dean's still as broken as ever, and Sam's real concern is that this could just make things worse, but he can't, won't regret it, wouldn't change it for anything. They're just going to have to deal with it. Hell, in the grand scheme of their lives, it's hardly the worst thing they've ever faced. **** They lie, pressed together on the back seat for what feels like a long time to Dean. His body is heavy, sated, relaxed in the way only really good sex achieves, but his mind is still reeling. Dean's not certain what he should be feeling. He'd be the first to admit that he's not great on emotions at the best of times, and in any event, he's pretty sure there are no guidelines for what happens after your brother's just fucked you damn near senseless, and watched you fall apart in front of him, again. What he certainly isn't feeling is any trace of guilt, or shame, or regret. He's aware that what they've done is illegal, and definitely wrong in most people's eyes. Dean couldn't give a flying fuck what other people think, and he's never worried much about laws that don't apply to his family anyway. He does care what Sam thinks though. This is about as far from the normal that Sam's wanted as you can get, and Dean can feel the cold knot of fear sitting in his chest. Thinking Sam was dead was the worst thing Dean has ever experienced, but watching Sam walk away after this, would come a damned close second. Despite the fact that Sam certainly didn't seem to have any reservations earlier, when he was pressing Dean down into the back seat of the car, driving into him, hard and fast and dirty, Dean still can't quite believe that Sam will stay. It's more than Dean dare hope for and more than he could bear to lose. It's enough to make him tremble. He feels broken, cracked wide open and vulnerable in a whole new and completely shitty way. His mind seems to skate between the fear and horror and utter despair of thinking Sam was dead, to the shocking, slightly hysterical relief of seeing his brother in front of him, to the surreal, unexpected feel of Sam's lips on his. He'd clung to that touch, to Sam, like a lifeline. The feel of Sam's body pressed against his, of Sam's touch, Christ, the feel of his brother's cock inside him. God, but Dean can't regret that, no matter how this turns out. 'I love you'. Sam's words keep rattling around in Dean's head. It's not the first time Sam'd said them, but Dean could hear new layers of meaning in his brother's voice this time. He shivers, telling himself it's just the cold night air. Sam shifts, stroking a hand down his arm, making Dean shiver for an entirely different reason, and damn, if that isn't seriously fucked up. "We should probably get dressed and get back to the motel." Sam's voice is soft, and the unease and regret Dean expected to hear isn't there. His brother sounds uncertain, but not disgusted. When Dean doesn't answer Sam moves again, trying to dislodge Dean's face from where it's buried against his neck, and Dean briefly considers resisting, staying where he is so he doesn't have to face Sam like this, knowing every scraped raw emotion is going to be showing on his face. But he knows Sam, and he's only going to buy himself a few extra minutes, at most. "Dean?" He lifts his head, ignoring the spike of sick fear at what he'll see in Sam's face. The expression he sees is not the one he expected. Despite the obvious concern, Sam looks calm, almost content, and Dean has absolutely no idea what that means. Since he stepped out of the hospital, his world's been turned inside out, and nothing seems to be the same. It leaves him feeling out of place, uncertain, confused, and not a little scared. "Hey, you ok? Dean, talk to me man, you're freaking me out here." He blinks, and realizes that Sam's hand is stroking his cheek, and now Sam just looks worried. "Why aren't you...?" Dean's voice breaks, and he hates himself for that weakness. He clears his throat, dropping his gaze from Sam's face. "You're ok, with this?" It's not really what he wants to ask, but it's close enough. "I...yeah. I didn't mean for this to happen, I didn't ever think about..." Sam trails off, and Dean can imagine the awkward expression, and the faint blush on Sam's face. Some other time, it'd amuse the hell out of Dean, but right now, this is too important to laugh. "But yeah, I'm ok with this. A little, uh, stunned, but I'm good." Nervous pause, then "Are you... are you ok with this?" And really, Dean has absolutely no fucking idea how to answer that. Because he's not entirely sure what this is, let alone how to deal with the fact that Mr I-want-to-be-normal apparently doesn't have any issues with fucking his older brother. There's a small voice in the back of Dean's head that tells him he should be grateful that Sammy isn't freaking out right now, because there's no way Dean could deal with that. "I..." Great, again with the girly voice and shit. Damnit, get a grip Dean. If Sam can deal, so can you; don't fuck this up anymore than it already is. "I think so, yeah." "Oh. Good." Sam shifts away, and Dean can't help the way his hand twitches, fingers digging into Sam's arm briefly, before he can stop them. He hears Sam's slight intake of breath, and a cold wave of panic slices through him. He forces himself to unclench his hand, and draw it away from Sam. Sam doesn't let him, though. He catches Dean's hand and holds it tightly. "It's ok. We'll be ok." Sam sounds so certain, so sure. Dean wishes he could believe that easily, but he can't. He wants this too much to believe he's going to be allowed to keep it. He feels afraid, and suddenly angry. He yanks his hand back, and shoves Sam away, sending him sliding off the seat. He sits up, trying to remember where the hell his clothes went. "For how long, Sam? Until you decide you want normal again? Because I hate to tell you, dude, but fucking your brother is definitely not normal. What happens when you want to go back to your apple pie life? What happens to me? How the hell am I supposed to keep going...." He hates the way his voice shakes, the obvious desperation, and fear. Sam's naked, sprawled on the floor of the car, looking startled, and hurt and dear god, debauched and utterly fuckable. Damnit, Dean's angry at Sam for adding yet another layer of confusion and potential misunderstanding to their already damaged relationship, even though he knows he's as much to blame as Sam. He didn't stop Sam, damn near ordered his brother to fuck him, because Dean wanted it, wanted one thing for himself. He's trembling, cold and sick to his stomach, and he knows he's being unreasonable but he can't stop. If Sam's going to go, better he goes now, before he gets even more of a hold on Dean's heart. "God, Dean, if I could take it all back, every time I said I wanted to leave, I would. I'm sorry." He reaches out, one hand catching Dean's and lacing their fingers together, while the other slides up Dean's arm, and tugs him down, until somehow, he ends up in Sam's lap. "Damnit, Dean, stop it. Stop pushing me away. I'm not gonna leave. What the hell is it going to take to convince you?" "I don't know, ok?" His breath catches, and he can feel the hysteria building up again, but he takes a deep breath and forces it down. "It's just, fuck, Sam, you up and leave like it's nothing, and you never think about those of us you leave behind. It feel like we don't matter enough, like we're not good enough for you." "I never thought that Dean, I never...that wasn't the reason I left. I was only going to college, Dean..." "And would you have come back after? Gone back to hunting? Or was Dad telling you to go for good just the excuse you needed?" Dean can hear the bitterness in his own voice, and he doesn't care. He's just so tired of fighting. "I just...I was stupid, ok? I shouldn't have tried to cut you out of my life. I just, I never thought I was hurting you so much. Oh man, I'd never have been such a bastard if I'd realized. I'm sorry, I won't make that mistake again, I promise." Sam's voice is close to breaking too, and Dean has to close his eyes. It's too much and he just wants to get away, wants to put some distance between them, but Sam's holding him too tightly. The panic, and the anger abruptly subside, leaving Dean exhausted, shivering and too drained to move. The hand on his shoulder slides to curl gently around the back of Dean's neck, pulling his head down and angling him until Sam can kiss him, slow and steady and yeah, it might be wrong, but he doesn't care. There's no lust in the kiss, just comfort and safety and affection and Dean's too tired to fight any more. He lets Sam pull back, and rest their foreheads against each other. He's can't fight anymore, and he lets Sam cradle him in his lap, fingers stroking over the back of Dean's neck, soft and gentle, until Dean thinks he could almost fall asleep like this, almost believe the illusion of safety and love within Sam's arms. ***** Dean finally relaxes, breathing deepening until Sam's half convinced he's fallen asleep. Sam lets him rest there, enjoying the feel of Dean in his arms until the cramp in his legs from the awkward position forces him to nudge his brother. "What?" "Get up, my legs are killing me." "Shouldn't have such freakishly long legs then." It's a familiar insult, and the sleepy indignation in Dean's voice just makes Sam smile. He thinks that if they can still be so comfortable with each other, after everything they've been through, maybe things will be ok in the end.. "If you weren't so damned heavy, it wouldn't be such a problem." "Are you calling me fat?" Sam swallows a laugh and squeezes the back of Dean's neck lightly, then shoves him so he ends up sprawled across the back seat. Dean's face is the perfect picture of outrage and wounded pride. But it's the expanse of bare skin, and the way Dean's arms and legs are spread over the leather that draws Sam's attention. He's always known Dean was good looking, but damn, he'd never really appreciated his brother's physical appeal before tonight. The rush of lust, and the sense memory of Dean beneath him, hips rolling into Sam's thrusts catches him by surprise. Whatever he might have expected to feel after taking his brother over the back seat of the car, it wasn't this. Dean opens his mouth, as if to speak, but then his eyes narrow, and he quirks an eyebrow, all cocky arrogance. If it wasn't for the fact that Sam's frozen in place, he'd be tempted to punch his brother. As it is, he just really, really wants to kiss him. Dean's expression shifts, and for just a second he looks scared, then his whole face softens, and he reaches out, grabbing Sam's shoulder and pulling Sam towards him. Sam watches as something hot flares in Dean's eyes, then they're kissing and he's positive he's never, ever going to get bored of kissing his brother. He only pulls back when his leg damn near goes into spasm, he's been sitting on it so long. Dean's eyes are dark, pupils wide, and there's just the faintest flush across his cheekbones. Sam feels as though he's seeing his brother through entirely new eyes, and he likes the new perspective, although he's absolutely not going to tell Dean that, ever. Bastard has a big enough ego as it is. Dean's watching him, his slightly curious expression belied by hot eyes, and Sam wonders how this can feel so easy, so simple. How he can want to run his hands over Dean's skin again, and never stop, make his brother make those soft, helpless noises again, have Dean fuck him. He realizes everything he's just thought must have shown on his face when Dean's eyes widen, and he sucks in a breath. The briefest look of surprise, and something very like wonder slides across Dean's face, before being replaced by a toned down version of the smirk that Sam's so familiar with. He shakes his head, and grins back. As much as Sam would like to carry on, his leg really is hurting now. He clambers out of the car, and they spend several minutes finding their clothes, untangling various items and using the wet wipes Dean always carries to remove all trace of oil and semen. Sam’s almost tempted to comment on the fact that it makes a change for them not to be cleaning up blood after a hunt, but he doesn’t want to spoil the mood by reminding Dean that he could have died tonight. Some of the earlier tension has bled from his brother, although Sam can tell he's still wary. It doesn't matter, Sam's determined that he's not going to give up; he's going to prove himself to Dean; he's going to get it right this time. **** The drive back to the hotel is silent. Dean feels calmer, though the memory of thinking Sam was gone is still tormenting him, in the back of his mind. He ignores it, and concentrates instead on the fact that Sam's alive, and here, with him. Sam's driving and Dean's staring out of the window into the darkness. He can feel Sam glancing over at him from time to time, but he doesn't respond. He's still trying to get his head around the fact that Sam isn't freaking out, let alone the way Sam is trying so hard to convince Dean that he's going to stay. Dean wants to believe, god, he wants it so much, and Sam sounds so honest, so earnest. The way Sam touched him, kissed him, like Dean was precious, was thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. And damn if Dean doesn't want to feel that again, doesn't want to be the center of Sam's world for once. He wants it enough that he's almost ready to risk believing Sam's actually going to stay this time. Sam's been trying so hard to convince him that he means what he says about not going, and Dean's always had a hard time holding out against Sam when he gets that earnest look on his face. He's torn between protecting what's left of his heart, his dignity, and giving in, letting himself lean on Sam, trust Sam not to tear his world apart again. It's so close to everything he's ever really wanted, and then some, offered on a silver platter, and though Dean's sure there'll be a high price to pay for this later, it's more temptation than he can resist. Dean can damn near hear Sam's brain working overtime, and he knows there's a question coming when Sam takes a breath. He tries not to tense, but he's certain he knows exactly what the next words out of Sam's mouth are going to be. "So, what happens now?" Well, he was actually expecting 'We need to talk', but that's pretty close. Dean closes his eyes and tries not to sigh, not to start an argument. "Sam..." "Dean, we need to..." "I swear to God, Sammy, if the next word out of your mouth is 'talk' I will shoot you full of rock salt and leave your corpse by the side of the road." He can almost hear the click as Sam snaps his mouth shut in surprise. Score one for the older brother. But he knows that just this once, Sam's got a point. Like it or not, he's actually going to have to talk to Sam about this, because otherwise, it's either going to drive a wedge between them or come back and bite them on the ass at the worst possible moment. Or, quite possibly both. He turns to face Sam; if he has to have this conversation, he'd rather it was here, now, where Sam's going to have to concentrate on the road as well as talking. Dean has a feeling he's going to need any advantage he can get. "Fine. You're not going to leave this alone, are you? You're like a dog with a damned bone sometimes Sam. You want to talk? Ok, talk." The insulted, then stunned look that Sam turns to him has Dean fighting a smirk. As much fun as it'd be to get under Sammy's skin right now, it's not going to help, and Dean honestly doesn't want another argument tonight. "I..." Oh, but the sight of Sam lost for words is priceless. Sam shuts his mouth again, and licks his lips, obviously unbalanced. Dean's distracted by that simple, innocent action, and all he can think about is how it felt to kiss Sam and have his brother's mouth on his skin; how Sam's lips would look, stretched around his cock. Dean's tempted to tell Sam to just pull over, but he reigns in the desire and tries to concentrate. Talk first, jump Sam later. "Ok, look, what are we going to do about... ah..." Dean rolls his eyes. This whole conversation is surreal, and Sam's sudden attack of shyness, while amusing as hell, really isn't helping. Dean wants a cold beer, a long, hot shower, and, just in case any gods are listening, an easier life where his family is concerned. He raises an eyebrow and lets just a hint of a smirk out, though in truth, he's starting to worry that maybe Sam's about to start flipping out on him, finally, and yeah, maybe having this conversation in the car wasn't one of his smarter ideas. Sam scowls, trying to divide his attention between the road and Dean. Dean has no intention of helping him out here. Just because he knows they've got to have this conversation, doesn't mean he's got to let Sam have it all is own way. "We're good with this? I mean, no regrets, right?" Dean sighs, there's that earnest look and tone again. "No Sam, no regrets. Scout's honor." Sam slants a look at him, half exasperated, half amused. "Dean, ah... you think we might...ah..." Dean would laugh at Sam's sudden shyness, if it weren't for the fact that it is suddenly, unaccountably, hot. "Do it again?" The flush that colors Sam's cheeks is unexpected, and pretty damned interesting. Possibly even just pretty. "Yeah. So, you would, you know..." He can't keep the laugh in this time. Christ, he's probably laying himself open to having his heart ripped in two again, and he's damn sure going to hell, but if he can have this, just for a while, it might just be worth it. "You want to fuck me again Sam?" He watches, fascinated and ridiculously aroused when Sam's flush deepens, staining his cheeks bright pink, and yeah, he might be a fool, but if he's going to pay for this later, he might as well enjoy it now. "Dean..." Sam's slightly breathless, and just damn. If there's a special hell for people who fuck their brother, Dean's going to make damn sure that he earns his place there. Sam swallows and Dean's eyes follow the motion, and he's suddenly tempted by the idea of leaning over and licking a long stripe up Sam's neck. "We're here." Dean looks away from Sam and realizes that they are indeed back at the motel. There's a subdued, slightly awkward few minutes as they leave the car and head for the room. Dean wonders if Sam's come to the same realisation he has; it's one thing to get hot and heavy with your brother in the heat of the moment, but it's something quite different when you've had time to think about it. Dean knows this might be where it all falls apart. ***** Sam's all too aware of Dean following him back to their room. He can feel the nervous tension humming between them, but even that isn't enough to drown out the insistent buzz of arousal; desire; want. He knows he shouldn't want this so much, want Dean's hands and mouth on him. He could blame the first time on fear, his and Dean's, on the need for comfort, and reassurance. But whatever happens in their room tonight, and he's honest enough to admit that something is going to happen, he can't blame on anything but his own needs. Sam's not the prude that Dean seems to think he is. He's not a complete novice when it comes to guys, though a few drunken fumblings, a couple of sloppy blowjobs and some late night internet surfing barely count as experience. He's trying very hard not to think about the fact that Dean apparently knew what he was doing, because that leaves Sam not sure if he wants to kill someone, or throw Dean up against the wall and fuck him all over again. So he's no innocent, but Jesus Christ, he's just had sex with Dean, with his own brother. That thought is part fear, part stunned disbelief, and part lust. It might be wrong, and obscene and illegal, and dear God if Dad ever finds out they're both dead, but he has to admit that he wants to do it again. He has no idea how they're going to cope with this. How do you deal with the knowledge that you know just what your brother looks like when he comes, how he sounds when you wrap your hand around his cock, the way he feels when you drive into him and fuck him. When the memory of the single time you've done all that makes you shiver and gets you so achingly hard you can barely remember why you're not supposed to be doing this in the first place. In some ways though, the biggest shock is discovering that he's just as fucked up as the rest of his family. Sam unlocks the door of their motel room, acutely aware of Dean standing behind, not touching him, but close enough that the hair on the back of Sam's neck stands up. The air feels charged, like right before a storm, and he can only hope that's not a premonition of any kind, because they've been through enough already tonight. He doesn't look round when the door opens, just walks straight in. He's halfway across the room when he hears the door close, softly. There's something about that soft snick that gets to him in a way that Dean shutting the door normally wouldn't have. It's stupid, but it's as if there's a whole sub-text of intent and meaning in that deliberate action. When he turns, Dean's leaning against the door, face carefully blank, arms crossed across his chest. Sam tries very hard not to notice the way the pose makes the T-shirt Dean's wearing stretch across his chest, nor the way his hips jut forward, and especially not the way his lips always look as if Dean's pouting. Fuck, how is he supposed to ever look at Dean in the same way again. Could this be any more screwed up? "Dean, what we did..." "Oh god, not again." Dean's tone is bored, but Sam can see the fear in his eyes, before it's hidden behind the mask again. "We're brothers, Dean." "I know." Dean shifts, almost nervously, and it's a shock to realize that maybe his brother is as unsure about this as Sam is. Dean's never cared for what other people think, always lived by his own set of morals, but perhaps this is something even he can't justify. Sam isn't sure whether that idea leaves him relieved or worried. "Other people..." "Other people? We're not other people Sammy, we never have been. Their rules don't apply to us." "Christ, you sound just like Dad." "Don't bring him into this." "Yeah, because he's going to be thrilled to find out." "Sam....." 'Dean's eyes are narrowed, that bland indifference is slipping and Sam feels as though he's caught in some weird alternate universe, because his mouth is saying one thing while the rest of his body just wants to learn and relearn how Dean's skin feels against his. "I know you don't care about the legality, but damnit, Dean, what about the morality?" "What happened to 'no regrets'? What happened to 'you wanna do it again'? Because, I don't know about you Sammy, but I do. I want to do it again." Sam sucks in a breath, forgetting whatever he was going to say next, because Dean's words make goose-bumps break out over his skin, and the look on Dean's face, dear god. Now that Sam knows what it feels like to touch Dean like that, to hold him and treat him like a lover, he can't go back. And he honestly can't say he regrets it. God, he should, and some small part of him wants to, the same part that wants his life to be normal. But even that isn't enough to make him deny that he wants this, right or wrong. "I don't regret it. I should, but I don't. I do want to do it again. But fuck, Dean, how are we going to... I mean, what if people notice..." Dean grins, suddenly and brilliantly, and Sam's not sure whether to be worried, pissed, or aroused. "Man, half the people we meet already think we're fucking lovers instead of brothers." "That's not the.... What?" Dean laughs, and it's definitely arousal that Sam's feeling, because fuck, Dean looks so completely different when he laughs. It's the faint laughter lines round his eyes, the way his eyes seem to sparkle, the way those damn full lips stretch around the grin, and it's all sorts of wrong that Sam's suddenly hit with the mental image of Dean on his knees, that mouth around Sam's cock. There's just no way they're going to be able to hide this. Sam can barely look at Dean without thinking about fucking him and what if that never changes? What the hell is going to happen when Dad turns up again, as he's bound to do? How the hell does he keep his hands, let alone his eyes, off his brother? He's going to hell for this but he can't muster up the strength to care right now. **** Dean watches Sam, can see the internal struggle between what Sam thinks he should want, and what his body wants. When Sam's eyes rake him, from head to toe, Dean pushes away from the door, uncrossing his arms, knowing that Sam's going to see that Dean's half hard, has been since he closed the door. This is the point where they either move, or fall apart, and he doesn't know which scares him more. Sam stares at Dean's groin, and the look on his face; wanting, hungry, torn just makes Dean swallow, makes his cock harden a little more. Sam's eyes widen, and his gaze jumps up to Dean's face, meeting his eyes briefly, before dropping to watch Dean's mouth, and when Sam licks his lips, Dean knows just what his brother's thinking. He's been told often enough that he has pretty lips, cock-sucking lips. The idea of doing that to Sam has him completely hard, and ready to show him just what he can do. Sam might still have reservations about this, but his body knows what it wants and Dean thinks if he can just keep him from thinking too much, they'll get past this moral thing. It won't stop Sam tearing Dean apart again if he leaves, but it might just make him think twice before doing it. Dean's not above fighting dirty to keep his brother with him, even if it leaves him even more open to being abandoned again. He can see Sam's breathing speed up, see that his brother is half hard again too, despite his protestations of how wrong this is. Dean wonders if Sam's right, if he should feel bad that he wants this, but he meant what he said; they're not like other people, and Dean's never felt that society’s rules have applied to him. Like he said, it's a dangerous gig, and he can't see the point in denying himself fun and pleasure, especially when he knows it could all be over in a heartbeat. He's even more aware of the risky nature of their lives after the horror of thinking he'd lost Sam tonight. So he might be laying himself open to Sam stamping all over his emotions again, but he'll take that chance this time. He walks towards Sam, watching his brother almost square his shoulders, as if Dean's about to throw a punch. Dean has no intention of beating on him, but he suspects what he is planning is going to hit Sam just as hard. He sees the moment Sam gives in and accepts that he wants this, that he's not going to say no. One of his hands reaches out towards Dean, and he starts to dip his head, as if expecting a kiss. Oh, Dean'll kiss him alright, he just intends to do it a little lower down. Sam's quiet gasp as Dean drops to his knees is absurdly gratifying. The full body shudder when Dean reaches for, and undoes his fly is stupidly arousing, and the gentle hands that cup the back of Dean's head and his shoulder make Dean want to do this even more. There's a tenderness, and a reverence in Sam's touch that undoes Dean. He can't stop the fear that this is going to go horribly wrong, but he can ignore it for now. Sam's hard, and he hisses when Dean pulls his jeans and boxers down and wraps a hand around Sam's cock. When Dean licks the head, slowly, letting his tongue drag over the soft, sensitive skin, Sam starts panting. He starts cursing when Dean opens his mouth and slides down over Sam's cock, tongue flicking against the underside as he does. There’s the faintest trace of gun oil, and the lingering antiseptic tang of the wet wipes, but he ignores them both, concentrating on drawing as much of a reaction from Sam as he can. "Oh. Oh fuck, Dean.... Damn. We shouldn't... Oh fuck..." Sam's hips arch as Dean slides a hand between his legs, cupping and rolling his balls. He lets his fingers slide further back, touch firm enough not to tickle, but nowhere near as firm as he wants. The way Sam trembles, legs trying to spread as far as they can, despite the jeans hampering his movements is beyond hot, and Dean slides his hand further back, fingertips pressing more firmly, teasing, promising. "Christ. Yes, Dean, God." Just the thought of what Sam is offering is enough to make Dean tremble himself. It's the dirtiest kind of hot, and Dean knows he shouldn't want it, but fuck, the idea of fucking Sammy is scrambling his brain and making his hands shake. He thought he was ok with this, but Jesus, as much as the idea turns him on, it scares the shit out of him. It's one thing for Sam to take him, but to do that to Sam, he doesn't know if he can. He pulls back, and looks up at Sam. Oh, fuck. Sam's eyes are nothing but pupil, his cheeks are pink, and he's gasping for breath. He looks well fucked already, and Dean's mind is helpfully supplying him with vivid images of how Sam'll look when he's really been fucked hard. Dean's certain he should be playing the responsible older brother here, but he's nowhere near noble enough for that. Not when Sam looks so damned edible. "Dean, please... I want..." Sam's voice is rough, desperation and lust deepening it even more than normal. How is Dean supposed to resist this? Sam's offering him every dark fantasy he's ever had. Oh yeah, he's going to hell, no hand basket required. "What Sammy, what do you want?" Tell me Sam, I need to hear you say it. I need to know you want this. "Fuck me. I want you to fuck me, damnit." Dean's fairly sure he shouldn't be as turned on by hearing Sam say that as he is. Damn, this is still wrong, but he's always given Sam what he needs, and if he tries, he can convince himself that this is no different. "Whatever you want Sammy. Always what you want." Sam closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Dean's certain this is where his brother will come to his senses and push Dean away again. "No. What we want Dean. You need to want this too, damnit." Dean must have something in his eyes, that's the only reason he can think of for why they're suddenly suspiciously wet. Sam's hand moves from Dean's shoulder and strokes across his cheekbone. "Dean, I want this, God help me, but only if you want it too. I don't want you doing this because it's what you think I need. I won't use you that way." Dean has to close his eyes, but he leans into Sam's touch; turns his head and kisses Sam's palm. "Oh, Dean..." "For as long as you'll have me. I want you, damnit. Just don't..." He doesn't open his eyes, scared anew that he's exposing himself to being hurt. "Forever, Dean. For as long as we live. I swear. No more running away, ok? No more hiding. This is for good. I promise." Hands pull Dean up off his knees, but he's still too scared to open his eyes. Sam's hand tugs him closer, and then they're kissing. Slow, deliberate, and no-one else has ever kissed Dean like this. He's certain Sam has no idea what he's saying, but he can't fight it anymore. He needs Sam, and to have this is worth all the heartache in the world. Sam's hand tugging at his fly startles Dean, but when Sam gets the denim open, and slides a hand around Dean's cock, he can do nothing but whimper into their kiss. He returns the favor, and for long minutes they stand, trading kisses and long, slow strokes. It's hot, and intense, and intimate and Dean couldn't stop if he wanted to. Sam comes first, pulling his mouth away and dropping his head to Dean's shoulder, biting down hard enough that Dean can feel it through his jacket and shirt. Sam's hand tightens almost painfully on Dean's cock as he rides the spasms, then he resumes stroking, mouth moving over Dean's neck; licking and kissing and nibbling until Dean can't hold off any longer and comes, the idea of his semen spilling over Sam's hand making him twitch and curse and come just that little bit harder. Seriously fucked up. And Dean doesn't want it any other way anymore. ***** XXXX Dean's half asleep in Sam's arms, physically and emotionally wrecked, even though he'd deny both to his last breath. Sam kicks himself for forgetting that it's only been a couple of days since Dean got out of hospital, even though so much has happened in that short period of time. Sam ends up manhandling his brother over to the bed, stripping him down. Dean's asleep the moment his head hits the pillow, leaving Sam to clean them both up. He takes the opportunity to study Dean as he does, seeing the toll the last few weeks have taken on his brother in the fine lines and the dark circles around his eyes, but even with those he looks a little less wary, a little less guarded, as if he trusts Sam to watch over him. It's not the first time Sam's watched Dean sleep, but he does so through new eyes now. He doesn't regret what they've done, though he knows he should. He just can't bring himself to feel any kind of remorse for it. It's the first time since Jess died that he's honestly felt any kind of connection to another person. He never expected to ever feel this much for another person again; wasn't even sure he wanted to. He'd loved Jess so much and he was scared of letting anyone else in, of opening himself up to that kind of pain again. Dean though, is different. He doesn't have to worry about opening up and letting Dean in, because he's always been there, a constant presence in Sam's life, even when they weren't talking. Despite Sam's anger over Dad's ultimatum, and Dean's attempt to take both sides, he'd never honestly meant to cut them out of his life, especially not Dean. It was just that as time went by, his anger dimmed, but it became harder and harder to make the first move and call his brother. He's sorry for the stubbornness that drove such a wedge between them for so long. There's some sort of perverse logic, of the kind that seems to follow the Winchesters, that if he was going to fall for anyone again, it would be the one person he's always relied on; his older brother. Brother and now lover. He gets a strange thrill from that thought. He has no idea how many laws they've broken, just by crossing that line, though that worries him less than he would have thought. It's so wrong, what they've done, what Sam knows they'll do again. They're going to have to hide it from everyone. It's dirty, in both the hot and the shameful sense. Sam wonders if it'll hit him later, when he's actually had a chance to sit and process the enormity, and the ramifications of what's happened. If he'd done something differently, if he'd thought before kissing Dean, then they'd still just be brothers. But the sight of his brother, broken wide open and damn near destroyed with grief and guilt had shocked Sam to the core, and he'd acted without thinking. He'd needed to offer solace, comfort, and affirmation that they were both still alive. Kissing Dean had felt no different to holding him and even though the memories of Dean giving himself to Sam like that, willing and pliant and desperate were as sexy as hell, it was more than that. Dean's spent most of his life looking out for Sam, giving him what he wanted and needed, so rarely taking what he needed for himself that the shame and unease Sam feels pales in comparison to the desire to repay just a little of Dean's devotion, to give his brother whatever he needs to mend, to start to heal, though he's honest enough to admit that it was as much about his own need to reassure himself, to take the gift Dean so willingly offered him, as it was about Dean. And he feels more guilt about that than about the fact he's fucked his brother. Sam's biggest fear, though, is Dad. He's not stupid enough to believe that Dad will stay away forever, and he just knows that their father will pick up on the change in his and Dean's relationship. And when he does, all hell's going to break loose, and Sam'd bet good money that it'll be Dean that'll bear the brunt of Dad's inevitable anger. He never realized until they'd found Dad again, just how much harder on Dean Dad was. Sam wonders how much Dean had shielded him from Dad's disapproval, how much of the blame his big brother had taken when things went wrong. It's only recently that Sam's started seeing Dean through adult eyes, and discovered that his brother was so much more than the stereotype Sam had thought him. Sam knows that there are only three things Dean considers truly important in life; Dad, hunting, and Sam himself, but he's discovering that behind the apparently shallow, cocky, devil may care attitude Dean presents to the world is an easily wounded man, with layers and secrets that Sam in his arrogance never suspected existed. He feels guilty for it now, but he didn't want to be on the road, hunting, with Dean again and that resentment was like a wall between them that Sam was unwilling to breach, though god knows, Dean tried often enough. Dean whimpers softly, twitching in his sleep, and Sam's across the room before he knows it, sitting on the bed, one hand resting on Dean's shoulder, while the other strokes his brother's head in a way Dean would never allow if he were awake. The sudden tension at Sam's touch is hardly surprising, but it hurts, none the less. "Shsssh, Dean. I'm here." Dean whimpers once more, then seems to relax again. Sam considers heading for the other bed, and trying to grab a few hours sleep, but he looks at Dean; at his hand, still stroking Dean's hair and discards that idea. He strips down to his boxers and slides into the bed, curling loosely around Dean's body, chest to back, and rests a hand on Dean's hip. It's hardly the first time they've shared a bed, but it's loaded with new meaning now. This is the first time they've shared a bed as lovers, even if Dean is dead to the world. It's surreal, but comfortable, and Sam lets Dean's steady breaths lull him to sleep. When he wakes, hours later, Dean's still sleeping, although he's turned during the night and is now curled into Sam, one arm and a leg thrown over him. It reminds Sam of sharing a bed when they were kids, but the memory is overlaid now with the newly awakened arousal, and the memory of Dean's skin under his hands. The temptation to touch Dean, to arouse him and drag him from sleep with kisses and caresses is strong, but Sam's not sure how Dean'll react and he's not comfortable enough with their transition to lovers yet to risk trying. Instead he gently disentangles himself, surprised that Dean doesn't wake, but amused by the sleepy snuffle that's his brother's only reaction. He stands under the shower, letting the hot water spill over him, welcoming another day and feeling hopeful and just plain happy for the first time in God knows how long. He knows things aren't going to be simple, or easy, but he's used to that and if Dean feels like this too, then it's worth it, whatever else they have to deal with.

"Dean. Sam." The sight of Dad is like ice water down his spine. He's just standing there, in the middle of the room, between the two single beds, like the last few weeks haven't happened, like everything is the same as it was before he left, the second time, before he walked away from his sons and left Sam to try and gather up the broken pieces of his brother. Sam's lust is forgotten in the initial shock, then drowned in the anger that follows hard on the heels of his surprise. He's standing close enough to Dean feel the faint tremors that are shaking his brother's body. There's no way to tell which emotion is making Dean shiver so; anger, relief, fear, or all three of them. The knowledge that it's probably fear is about the only thing stopping Sam from telling Dad that he doesn't have the right to just waltz in and out of their lives as he sees fit, or send them off on hunts that almost get them killed. But Sam can't complain about that, because the hunt going wrong gave him Dean; brother, friend, lover, and he can't regret that. The surge of protectiveness is just as strong as the anger, because Sam knows that Dean's worried, if not down right terrified, about what Dad will do if he finds out they're lovers. Dean's never said so, but Sam knows his brother. He knows too that if Dad finds out, he's going to blame Dean, and Dean's going to accept that blame. Sam's determined he's not going to let either of them do that this time. He's every bit as much to blame as Dean, maybe more so because Dean was shattered and utterly stricken when Sam pressed him down onto the back seat of the car; broken and vulnerable and so goddamned relieved to see Sam alive he'd have given him anything he wanted. All Sam had wanted was Dean and he still has no idea why he never realized that simple fact before the moment he sank into his brother's willing body. If there's blame here, it's Sam that should take it; if there's sin, it's surely more Sam's than Dean's. But what they've done doesn't feel like sin, though it should. It feels right and Sam's not giving him up. Not for anything, not even Dad. He made the mistake of walking away from Dean once, of letting his brother think he didn't care; he's not going to do it again. He lets his hand brush against Dean's; a simple, innocently accidental touch, but Dean's trembling seems to subside a little. Sam doesn't want to leave his brother's side, but there's no point making Dad angry or suspicious, so he walks across the room, fighting the urge to look back at Dean; to try and reassure him that it's ok, that they're in this together. Dad opens his arms, and Sam steps into the hug. It's awkward, but despite his anger, Sam can't help the relief at knowing Dad's ok. They stand like that for a long moment, then Dad slaps him on the back, and pulls away. Sam steps away, a pace or two behind Dad's right shoulder. He watches Dean move into John's embrace, and when Dean's eyes find his over Dad's shoulder, Sam tries to put as much reassurance as he can into the gaze they share. Dean looks so nervous, so unsure, so damned scared that Sam aches to be the one holding him. It hurts to see something they've done leave Dean so uncomfortable around a man he idolizes, and for a moment Sam feels the first flash of guilt. But it's drowned in the memories of touching Dean, of being able to hold his brother, of the connection they've created. He can't be the one embracing Dean now, so instead he tries to smile to his brother, knowing he's only partially successful. When Dad lets Dean go, Sam moves to stand beside his brother again, not caring if Dad thinks it odd. The apparently accidental way Dean shifts as he does, his shoulder brushing Sam's arm has Sam holding in a sigh of relief. Dad's grin turns to concern when he looks at Dean, and Sam remembers the ghoul, and the wounds that Dean wouldn't let him look at back in the graveyard. He curses to himself, wishing he'd insisted. The last thing they need is a lecture from Dad over hunting and tending to injuries. "You ok, son? What happened?" Dean half shrugs. "Ghoul took a swing at me. Sammy got her before she could take a real chunk out of me though." There are so many emotions in Dean's voice that Sam just can't separate them, and hope and love and worry and apprehension twist his stomach. "Should have been more careful, ghouls can be dangerous things." Sam has to bite his tongue. There's concern in Dad's voice, but also disappointment and reprimand. He knows what's coming next when Dad turns towards him. "Why didn't you take care of your brother sooner Sammy?" "It's Sam. He wouldn't let me. I thought it'd be better to save the inevitable battle until we were back here, when I could get a proper look." He knows he's talking too much, but he's been unexpectedly blindsided by the memory of kissing Dean in the graveyard, of thoughts of what he was going to do to Dean when they got back to this very room and he needs to do something to distract himself from that train of thought. If he thought Dad being around was going to dampen his desire for Dean, he was clearly wrong. This is going to be so much harder than he thought. He's glad that they got a room with two single beds, even if it was more from habit than anything else, because the last thing they need is Dad asking awkward questions right now. "Well, you best do that then Sam." Sam grinds his teeth. That 'do as I tell you and do it now' tone of voice has always gotten under Sam's skin and to be told he should be taking care of Dean by the man who didn't even stick around to see his son wake from a coma is infuriating. But he swallows the harsh words down, for Dean's sake. He grabs the med kit from his bag and turns back to see Dean stripping off his t-shirt, stiff with blood and ghoul guts. Sam sucks in a breath when he sees the gouges running across Dean's chest and stomach. Fortunately they aren't deep and they don't look as though they'll need stitches, but they must sting like fuck and they're going to drive Dean mad as they start to heal. Sam glances over at Dad and is shocked by the expression on his face. He follows Dad's eye line, and realizes that Dad's not seen the scars the demon that briefly inhabited his body had left on Dean. Sam's never seen his father look so emotionally open. It's all plain to see on Dad's face; sorrow, anger, grief, pain. Sam's own anger drains away, leaving him tired. He doesn't want to fight with his father anymore. Dad's just as fucked up as they are, and arguing is going to get them nowhere. All they'll do is hurt Dean, again. Sam’s exhausted, and he just wants to be alone with Dean, to patch his brother up and then fall asleep in his arms. Dean drops to sit on one of the beds like his legs can barely hold him up. He slumps down, shoulders hunched, chin almost touching his chest, hands hanging loosely between his legs. It's a physical ache to see Dean like this. They've come so far and despite everything, Sam's suddenly terrified that Dad being back is going to pull them apart again. Dean's a hell of a lot better than he was when they left the hospital and he's always played the stoic role far too well for Sam's liking, but Sam's all too well aware that the cracks are still there, that Dean is still fragile and vulnerable. The need to get Dad out of the room, so he can talk to Dean is overwhelming, but he clamps down on it, determined not to start an argument. He just needs to get Dean cleaned up and get Dad out of the room, as quickly as possible, before Dean retreats again behind the walls Sam's been patiently knocking down. Sam grabs the med kit and crouches in front of Dean. He rests a hand on Dean's leg, thumb gently stroking the inside of his brother's knee. It's the only touch he dare allow himself, beyond those needed to deal with Dean's injuries. He can feel how tense Dean is, and how miserable. Sam's almost sorry that he insisted on the tattoos, the deep and permanent bond that even now he can feel between them. Almost sorry. He hates that right now Dean's hurting and scared, but the selfish part of him doesn't care. They're bound together now, stronger and deeper than any marriage, any partnership, and nothing and no-one can change that. Just that knowledge calms Sam, and he takes a breath before giving Dean's knee a gentle squeeze and reaching for the gauze and antiseptic. **** Contrary to what Sam obviously thinks, John cares. And he knows his sons. The relationship between his boys has been many things over the years. There have been times when John has looked at the two of them, Sam and Dean, and felt like a stranger. It's been Sam and Dean, and John for more years than John can remember. The first word Sam said wasn't Mommy, as it should have been, it wasn't Daddy either, it was Dean. He knows he can blame no-one but himself for that, but that hurt. He shouldn't have been jealous of the way his boys clung to each other, of the way Dean cared for Sam, though he was barely old enough to look after himself, of the way Sam worshipped his older brother, but he was. As Sam grew up and hit his teens, the relationship between the brothers grew more and more strained until John was certain it would snap. But it never did, and it appears that not even Sam's leaving for college, John's harsh and instantly regretted words undoubtedly ringing in his ears, could sever that link. When John went underground, abandoning Dean without a word, he never expected his eldest to go straight to Sam. He should have. He should have realized that whatever the bond between them was, not even time or distance was ever going to break it. He's come to accept that his place in their lives is on the sidelines, that when they have each other, they don't actually need him. He doesn't like it, but he's come to terms with it. It is, after all, a situation of his own making. But watching Sam tend to Dean's wounds, he can tell something is off. There's something different about them. Individually, they seem the same, but together? It's as if something's happened, something fundamental, between them. Normally he'd chalk it up to another argument, because God knows, they've had enough over the years, but this is subtly different, and while there's definitely tension between them, it isn't the frustrated resentment he's used to sensing. He can't put a name to it yet, although he has no doubt that he'll figure it out in time. As long as it doesn't interfere when they're hunting, he'll let them work it out for themselves. John watches as Sam carefully cleans the jagged tears across Dean's chest. There's a tenderness in the way Sam touches his brother that John doesn't remember seeing before, and as much as it makes his heart clench for all that he's lost, he's pleased to see it between his sons. Sam moves, and John catches sight of the older scars, the ones obviously left by the demon that are still pale against the tan skin around them, and John’s smothered again by the weight of his shame and regret. He should have been stronger, should have fought the demon harder. The sound of Dean's voice, begging John to fight, to not let him die haunts John's nightmares. Some nights he can't sleep because his thoughts are filled with memory of bright red blood on his son's lips, and Sam's voice, agonized and terrified, calling for his brother. There are times when John honestly wishes Sam had pulled the trigger, so he wouldn't have to live with the guilt of knowing he was weak, that he didn't fight the demon enough, that it was wearing his form when it inflicted those wounds on Dean. Leaving the hospital before Dean woke is not something he's proud of, but he couldn't bear to stay and risk seeing disappointment, or worse, fear, in his son's eyes. John understands Sam's anger, hell, he's angry with himself, but he needed to get away, to get his head straight. He knew Sam would take care of his brother, and Dean's strong, a fighter. He's not sure he'd be back now, if it weren't for his telephone conversation with Dean. He's never heard his son sound so despairing, so vulnerable. Dean hasn't shown that kind of weakness for years, not in front of John. Not since he learnt to be exactly what his father wanted; the obedient soldier, who never displayed any frailty. Sometimes he hated what he had done to his sons, especially to Dean. It hurt to watch his son change from a happy, out-going child without a care in the world to a young man who gave every appearance of being gregarious, if shallow. John knew it was a lie. The open, affectionate child was slowly locked away from the world behind fortifications his own father forced him to build. He knows that Sam thinks it was all about his obsession with hunting the demon, with taking out his grief and anger at every evil thing he could find, and in truth, that was a large part of it. But that wasn't the whole of it. When the grief and the anger finally dimmed to a dull ache that's when the fear took hold. Fear for his sons. Sam's wrong. His obsession wasn't hunting, his obsession was making sure his children could defend themselves, making sure they knew what hid in the shadows. The thought of losing them too was more than he could bear to consider and he knows it made him tougher, stricter, less of a father and more of a taskmaster, and he regrets it, but he was driven by a terror that John can admit to himself he didn't know how to deal with. The sharp bite of remorse has him blinking back stinging tears. He focuses on his sons again, realizing that while he's been lost in thought Sam's cleaned Dean's wounds and wrapped his chest in clean bandages. Sam's standing over Dean, almost curled over his brother as he secures the gauze. He says something to Dean, voice too soft for John to make out the words, but he catches the tone; soft and affectionate. The tears are back, and he can taste the salt in the back of his throat. In trying to keep them safe, he's denied them so much, but at least they've always had each other. He knows it's going to seem like he's running once more, but he needs some time. Seeing the boys again has unsettled him more than he expected. He's hit by a wave of exhaustion. "Sam, you done?" Sam turns to face him, his hand resting on Dean's shoulder. "Yeah." John looks at Dean, and the defeated posture of his eldest child causes a physical ache. This isn't the Dean he knows. This Dean is hurting and while John can deal with any physical injury, he has no idea how to handle this emotional distress; he just doesn't know how to help him. "Dean." "Yessir." Dear God, should that hurt so? That Dean automatically calls him sir, not Dad. John knows that he's reaping the results of his own actions and that's a bitter, bitter pill to swallow. "You rest now, ok? I want both of you to get some rest. I've got a room down the hall and I think we could all do with sleep." He half expects Sam to protest, because that seems to be the way of it. John gives them instructions and Sam rebels. But this time Sam just nods, once, hand still resting on his brother's shoulder. He looks at Dean, willing his son to look up, but utterly terrified of what he'll see if he does. It's both a relief and a disappointment when Dean nods without raising his head. John leaves the small room, walking slowly down the hall to the room he took earlier that day. He shuts the door behind him, stepping over the salt line just inside the door. He feels older than his years; old and very, very alone. He kicks his boots off, then drops to the bed, suddenly too exhausted to even bother undressing, welcoming sleep, haunted though it is. **** Dean can taste the sharp tang of fear and guilt, bitter like the bile at the back of his throat. There's no remorse; he can't regret what they've done, but he still can't shake the nagging feeling that somehow he's betrayed some bone deep trust, despite the fact that Sam is old enough to make his own choices, and Dad's never really trusted either of them, though God knows, he's asked for it in return often enough. The bitterness that that thought provokes is a shock, though he knows it's always been there, hidden beneath his desperate need to keep the three of them together, to keep them safe. Christ, now he's starting to sound like Sammy and his psych 101 bullshit. Sam's hand is warm on his shoulder, fingertips stroking the scarred skin so gently that Dean suspects his brother isn't even aware he's doing it. Dean wants to lean into the touch, wants to pull Sam down onto the bed so he can cling to him and pretend that they're back in a world where only the two of them exist. But the thought of Dad, just a few doors away is enough to stop him reaching for Sam. He never thought that he'd resent Dad coming back, even if he resented him going away in the first place, but that's a large part of what he's feeling now. Resentment at the way Dad's said nothing about why he left, nothing about why he's back, nothing at all, in fact. As if they aren't deserving of an explanation. But then, they never have been, as far as Dad's concerned. Part of him is horrified at his own thoughts, at the disloyalty. Another part feels as though he's just been set free from jail, as though he's seeing sunlight for the first time in years. It's scary and liberating and he doesn't know if the sudden tightness in his chest is relief or terror. It's like a punch to the gut to realize how his whole world has been turned upside down since he woke up. But then his whole world consisted of Sam, Dad and hunting, and in one night, one single act, everything in that world has changed, though he no longer knows which night that was; the night Mom died, the night he went looking for Sam at Stanford, the night the demon possessed Dad, or the night he thought he'd lost Sam, only to end up pinned to the backseat of the car beneath his brother, terrified, grief-stricken, relieved and unaccountably aroused. "Dean?" Sam's hand slides from Dean's shoulder to curl carefully around his jaw, but Dean resists his brother's attempt to get him to look up. He can't escape when Sam crouches in front of him, one hand still resting on Dean's neck, the other on Dean's knee, tilting Dean's head back until he has no choice but to meet Sam's eyes. For a moment, Dean's sure that Sam's going to say something and he's equally certain that whatever it is, he doesn't want to hear it, not right now. Then Sam sighs, softly and his fingers stroke the back of Dean's neck and his thumb rubs the inside of Dean's knee. He straightens up, and before Dean can pull away, Sam's leaning in, kissing him carefully, as if he were something fragile. Sam pulls back and rests his forehead against Dean's and Dean can't help but rest a hand on Sam's shoulder and let the warmth and the affection he can feel in his brother's touch soothe him. He doesn't know if it's something that's grown out of the new side to their relationship, or the bond, or something else, but there's a comfort in having Sam close that he's never felt before and nothing and no-one is going to get in the way of that. Not even Dad. Because if Dean has to choose, he's going to choose Sam. XXXX There were so many things Sam had wanted to say to Dean last night. I'm sorry, I'm not sorry, I'm not giving you up, I don't regret this. But he didn't say any of them. Instead he gently undressed them both and pulled Dean down into bed. Dean didn't say anything either, not that Sam really expected him to, but he went willingly into bed and Sam's arms. Neither of them slept well and what rest they did get was fitful and broken. Sometime not long after dawn Sam wakes. He knows immediately that Dean's awake too. When they're close and quiet like this, in a way they never can be during the day, he can feel Dean most strongly through their bond. It's nothing specific, just vague impressions of Dean's emotions and a general sense of Dean. Usually it's comforting and soothing and a side of Dean he never normally gets to see; the man behind all the bravado and the barely concealed pain and the walls and defenses. This morning he can barely feel anything from Dean and the little that is filtering through is tense and uneasy. He's not really surprised, but it doesn't stop the flicker of hurt and the fear that Dean's already retreating, pulling away from him. He doesn't know whether it's fear of Dad finding out what they've been doing, or fear that somehow Dad being back is going to tear them apart, but he knows Dean well enough now to know that his brother is afraid of something. When the answer hits him, a second or so later, Sam wonders how he didn't see it straight away. All Dean has ever had is his family, Sam and Dad, and his very real fear is that somehow what they've done is going to destroy that and lead to the thing Dean fears more than anything else; being alone. Sam knows that before he finally got to see his brother, stripped of all his walls and Sam's own childish perceptions, it would have been a valid fear. Towards the end, before he left for college, and after, when he came so reluctantly back, he and Dad could barely manage to spend more than five minutes in the same room without arguing. Dean thinks this is going to be the same and that he's going to be forced to chose and when he can't, or if he makes the wrong choice, he's going to lose everything. Sam turns onto his side, so he's facing Dean. "I'm not going to leave." "I know." Dean's admission leaves Sam stunned. Dean sighs "I know you're not thinking of leaving Sam, but it isn't that simple." "What? I mean..." Sam has always hated the way Dean can turn his world upside down and inside out so casually. "I know you're not thinking of leaving...". As if the thought had never entered his head until Sam mentioned it. He doesn't know whether to shout for joy that he's finally got the message through Dean's thick skull, kiss his brother, or slap him for taking the 'annoying big brother' routine too far. "Sam, I'm not completely stupid. I might not be the psychic side-show in this family, but even I can figure things out." "Oh. So the problem is what, exactly?" "Dad's back, and that changes everything." "It doesn't have to." He knows he sounds like a petulant child, but he can't help it. "Yes, it does. How can it not, Sam? You think we can hide this?" "We can try." "From Dad? You honestly think he's not going to notice anything's wrong?" "It's not wrong, Dean." "I doubt Dad'll see it that way. And I can't see him being too happy when he figures out that his sons are fucking each other." "I don't care." He knows the minute the words leave his mouth that he's said the wrong thing. He can feel the tension in his brother's body increase and he can sense the uncertainty, the anger. "Obviously. It's not you that Dad's going to blame is it? What the hell do you think Dad's going to do when he finds out Sam?" Sam knows exactly what Dad'll do. He'll blame Dean. Not because it's Dean's fault, necessarily, but simply because Dean's older and he's supposed to the responsible one. "Hell, I'll be lucky if he doesn't shoot me on the spot." "Dean..." "Even if he doesn't, what then? I can't see him sticking around to play happy families, knowing that we're knocking boots." Sam has no answer for that. He can't go back to just being brothers, even if he wanted to, and Dean's right, Dad's going to realize and then there's going to be hell to pay, and no matter what Sam does, he can't see a way out of this that isn't going to hurt all of them, but Dean most of all. The euphoria of a few minutes ago drains away. "I don't... We can't go back." Dean sighs, resigned and weary. "No, we can't." "Would you want to?" He knows it's a stupid question, but Dean isn't the only one who needs reassurance now and again. "No, I wouldn't. God help us both when Dad finds out, but I don't want go back to the way things were." "What are we going to do then?" "I have no idea Sammy. We're just going to have to be careful and hope like hell we all survive." "We will." He can tell Dean isn't convinced, but he doesn't argue. "Come on, we should be getting up, Dad'll probably be here soon." Sam doesn't want to get up. He'd much rather stay here in bed and wrap himself around his brother, but the last thing they want is for Dad to find them like this, so he doesn't say anything when Dean gets up and heads for the bathroom. He stares at the cracked ceiling, and tries not to think about what'll happen when Dad finds out. **** When dawn rolls around, John's already awake. He's managed to grab about two hours sleep, and the rest of the time he's spent staring blankly at the stained and cracked ceiling, trying very hard not to think. It's pure habit that has him rising from the lumpy bed and showering, shaving and dressing. He learnt a long time ago that the only way to last the long haul is to think as little as possible. He walks down the dingy corridor, and knocks, using the code he taught his sons before they were old enough to read. Dean answers, shirtless and barefoot, and it's on the tip of John's tongue to reprimand him for opening the door unarmed, even with the right code. Dean turns, and John catches sight of the gun at his side, and he bites back the harsh words, feeling the faintest hint of pride instead. Dean's still subdued, and he merely nods before turning away and walking towards the bed, tucking the gun in the waistband of his jeans. The motion draws John eyes to the low slung jeans that his fingers itch with a parental need to pull up. The sight of the dark lines of the tattoo make him forget all about what his son's wearing. He knows Dean didn't have it before he dragged Sam from Stanford, and he's fairly sure he didn't have it the last time John saw him, pale and terrifying frail against starched white sheets in the hospital. He sees enough before the gun hides it from view to know that the tattoo is runic, and that it's protection of some sort. There's a flash of anger at Dean's recklessness, messing with old, powerful magic like that. But he can't deny that with the lives they lead, they need all the protection they can get. He lets it go for now, but mentally he makes a note to let Dean know he's not happy. As Dean dresses, John slumps into the hard plastic chair by the pitted and stained formica table. He's beyond tired and he can feel every single one of his years, and then some. Watching as his son moves around the room, hunting for socks, and pulling on his boots is so familiar, so soothing that for a moment, he feels almost calm. He leans his head back against the wall, and he can't stop his eyes from closing. He can still hear Dean, and it takes a few seconds before he realizes that it's unusually quiet. He's used to Dean humming under his breath, clicking his fingers, or tapping his feet to some beat only he can hear. This morning though, Dean's silent. It's a small thing, but John's starting to get the sense that it's a symptom of something more serious. Ever since last night, he's had the impression that something is out of kilter between his sons and whatever it is, it doesn't look as though they've resolved it. Before he gets a chance to say anything, Sam emerges from the bathroom, running late as always because Dean always gets to the bathroom first and whatever he does in there takes forever. John feels that sense of being an outsider again, because everything seems so commonplace, and yet it's wrong. Sam doesn't see John at first, and when he does, he falters slightly, almost imperceptibly. John would have missed it if he hadn't been watching. What the hell is going on here? When Sam turns to grab his bag and dress, John is left speechless. Seems Dean isn't the only one to be sporting a new tattoo. Runes again, between Sam's shoulder blades. John gets a good look this time and he can tell that the runes are indeed all related to protection, healing and positive energy. There are other runes that he's not so familiar with, but he's sure that they relate to bonds and kinship. Both his sons are wearing what appear to be identical, indelible marks and John has absolutely no idea what it means. He watches them as they move around the room and each other, Dean checking and readying weapons, and Sam dressing. The seemingly constant chatter of their childhood, and the usual banter of their teenage years is absent although at least the strained tension of their early adult years has vanished. Now there's just this odd rapport that he can't get a handle on. He can't be sure if that's down to his presence, or whatever the hell has gone on between them. They've always worked well together, but now, watching them, it's as if something has finally clicked into place. It's almost as if they don't need words anymore. As he observes them, he notices that while Dean barely looks at his brother, Sam can't seem to take his eyes off Dean. It's not obvious, it's not as though he stares, but his eyes are constantly darting towards Dean, following his brother around the room, as if he daren't let him out of his sight. John knows that Sam's been worried about Dean and if it wasn't for the tattoos, he'd probably just assume it was nothing more than that. But he keeps coming back to the tattoos, to the fact that both his sons are well aware of the seriousness of wearing marks like that. Which leaves John with the realization that something has happened, something that's changed their relationship in a fundamental way. It doesn't seem to have a detrimental effect, and he guesses he should be happy to leave it at that, but he can't help feeling that he's missing something important, something he should be seeing but isn't. He's not been the best of fathers, he knows that, but they're his sons, and though he might not always have shown it, he loves them. Whatever has happened to them, whatever has lead them to where they are now, he wants to understand it, wants to reassure himself that they are ok. And if he's honest, he wants to understand them, to find some way of being a part of their lives again. He's used to being alone, but being lonely, that he finds harder to handle. It's part of the reason he came back the first time, and selfish as it is, part of the reason he came back this time. For now though he has a job for them. **** A short while later, over breakfast, he lays out the details of the job. A relatively run-of-the-mill haunted house, save for the half dozen or so mysterious disappearances over the last 20 years. It should be a simple hunt, something to ease them back into the habit of working together. Dean is unusually quiet still, asking only a couple of questions. Sam doesn't look happy, his face getting that pinched look John became all too familiar with in the months before Sam left for college. But he doesn't say anything for once and John's glad. The last thing he wants is another row, another reason for Sam to push him away. When he's done, he waits for a response. Sam looks at Dean. There's a long few seconds where they just stare at each other and watching them the hair on the back of John's neck stands up. There's an intensity in that look, layers of meaning that he can't sift through before they're looking away from each other and Sam nods, looking unhappy but resigned. Dean leans back, stretching his arm across the back of the bench seat that he and Sam are sitting on. Sam sighs and as the waitress arrives to clear away their dirty plates, he leans back too, slouching down in the seat and letting his head drop back onto Dean's arm. John hides a grin, waiting for Dean to smack his brother and tell him to move. But the reaction doesn't come and he's struck again by that sense that something is different between the boys. It's like the answer is there, right in front of him, but he just can't quite grasp it. He orders another cup of coffee and heads for the men’s room, just to buy some more time to figure it out. He watches from across the room as the waitress leans over to fill up their coffee cups, making sure Dean gets a flash of her fairly impressive cleavage. Sam scowls and refuses coffee, while Dean grins at her, although John can tell there's no real interest behind the look and God knows he's seen Dean in action often enough to be able to tell. The waitress hovers for a second, then leaves, casting more than one backward glance in Dean's direction. John watches her leave, then turns back to the boys in time to catch Sam turning his head to say something to Dean. It's nothing specific, but there's something about the way Dean leans in to hear what Sam's saying; the way Sam turns his whole body to face his brother; the way Dean's hand shifts slightly to rest on Sam's shoulder, then slides up, fingers curling around Sam's neck, gently and absentmindedly stroking; the way Sam's face loses the frown and seems to light up when Dean laughs softly and shakes his head That's when it finally hits John like a fucking freight train. The strange atmosphere, the tension between his sons, the way Dean could hardly bear to meet his eyes, the tattoos. Every damned thing. Dear Lord, it's not possible, they can't have, they wouldn't have done that, surely? But it's impossible to stand here, watching them, seeing how close they are, how they act now that they think they can't be seen and not think that his sons have broken that ultimate taboo. Their body language just screams intimacy. The kind of intimacy that only exists between lovers. He wants to laugh, wants to dismiss this as a stupid idea, but he's spent too many years relying on his intuition to just ignore this, however much he wants to. It's a complete shock, and John has no idea what the hell to do about it. He can't bring himself to even think about the things his sons might be doing to, with, each other. How could he not have seen this coming? Could he have missed the signs? Was there something he could have done to stop this? When the hell did this start? Endless questions that he doesn't have any answers for. It's not the fact that they're both men because he couldn't care less about their sexual preferences, although he can't deny it's a surprise, but they're brothers, for the love of God. This is so wrong, so far outside of John's understanding that he has no idea how to handle it. He slips into the men’s room and stares at his own reflection. His shock and horror is plain on his face. He feels queasy and he would give anything to be able to tell himself that he's wrong, that there's another explanation for everything he's seen. But if there is another way to explain this, he's damned if he can see it. He splashes his face with cold water, trying to wrestle back some control over himself, over his emotions. This is too serious, too important to rush into. He needs to be absolutely sure that he's right. He needs time to think about how to deal with this. He raises his head and though his shock still shows in his eyes, his expression is more normal now. He takes a deep breath, and squares his shoulders. They still have a job to do and right now, focusing on a hunt will help him take his mind off of...this, at least until he's figured out what the hell he's going to do about it. Walking back out and facing his sons is not the hardest thing John's ever done, but it's definitely on the short list. It takes every skill he's ever learnt to slide back into his seat and not let his turmoil show. Sam and Dean aren't touching now, there's a careful distance between them, as if nothing's wrong. Now it's his turn to avoid catching their eyes and he can see the faint frown on Dean's face. He forgets sometimes that as well as he knows his sons, Dean knows him almost as well. It's all too easy to slip back into the old routine and he knows that his confusion makes him unnecessarily gruff when he tells them that they're leaving and heading straight for the hunt. When they're all packed and ready, he takes his truck, leaving Dean and Sam to follow in the new Impala. They could have taken one car, but John needs space. He can't handle being around them right now, not without doing something he's certain he'll regret later. He tries to focus on the hunt, but his mind won't stop replaying the scene in the diner. It's wrong, but even he can't deny the tenderness and affection between the boys and it's that he keeps turning over and over in his head, trying to reconcile the fact that he knows what they're doing is wrong, and the obvious love he can see between them. He needs to resolve it though, before it eats him alive, before it tears them all apart. XXXX They spend the morning checking out the house, and it's a relief to be able to throw himself into the job, to focus solely on the hunt. For a few hours he can push the unwanted knowledge to the back of his mind. Once they've got the lie of the land and they've gone over and over the plan until he's satisfied that they all know what they're doing, he tells them that they need to be back here before dusk. The boys share another look and John has to repress a shiver. He can tell that they want time alone and he forces his mind not to think about why. But he has no reason to insist that they spend the day together and in truth, as awful as the thought of his boys together in that way is, leaving them alone is sill going to be easier than trying to pretend that everything is fine. All John wants is to go back to his room and drink until he can't think of anything any more, but he knows he can't. When this is over though, he fully intends to get up close and personal with a bottle of whatever he can get his hands on. Instead he watches the boys climb into the new car and drive away. And tries to pretend that it doesn't feel as though his world is falling apart for the second time. **** Sam's relieved when they leave Dad. He knows he ought to feel bad, but it's been such a strain, trying to act naturally, trying to pretend that nothing has changed. It's a relief to get back to the motel, to the privacy of their room. He ends up sitting at the table, laptop open but ignored, watching Dean clean and prep the guns. It's so familiar and yet now it's also somehow perversely erotic. Dean's fingers are slick and shiny with gun oil and Sam can smell it from where he's sitting. He can't help but remember the first time they made love, in the back of the car. He's certain that he's never going to be able to smell gun oil again without remembering. A shiver of desire down his spine has him shifting on the hard plastic chair. Dean looks up and Sam can tell the exact moment that Dean realizes the direction of Sam's thoughts. The way his brother's pupils dilate so suddenly has Sam's stomach knotting with lust. Whether it's from the still forbidden nature of that lust, or because Dean can clearly read him well enough to pick up on Sam's arousal, he doesn't know and he doesn't care. He crosses the room, until he's kneeling on the end of the bed. Dean puts down the gun he was cleaning and just watches Sam. Sam reaches out and takes one of Dean's hands in his own, letting his fingers curl around Dean’s, sliding over slick skin. He watches Dean swallow, Adam's apple bobbing. He tugs on Dean's hand, until his brother is leaning forward enough for Sam to curl his other hand in Dean's hair and tip his head back far enough that Sam can lick a long slow stripe from the base of Dean's throat all the way up to his chin. He feels the shiver that runs through Dean and it gives him the courage to press his lips against Dean's ear. "You know, I don't think I'll ever be able to smell gun oil again without getting hard. Do you have any idea how hot it is to watch you cleaning the guns?" Dean shudders this time, harder than before and he exhales a quiet sigh. Sam pulls back in time to watch his brother lick his lips and Sam just has to kiss him, practically climbing into Dean's lap, biting and licking at Dean's lips as his brother slides oil slick hands under Sam's t-shirt, the contrast between the sleek feel of the oil and the gentle scrape of calluses making Sam arch and hiss. No matter how many times they've done this, it's still so damned good. Sam uses his weight and position to press Dean down, until he's lying across the bed, one leg wrapping around Sam's hip, giving Dean the leverage to arch up, one hand sliding down to cup Sam's ass and pull him even closer. He thinks he could spend the rest of his life like this, and all the pretending, all the strain of having Dad back is worth it for this, to have this connection with his brother. He manages to drag himself away long enough for them both to strip, then Dean's pressing against him, crowding him until Sam's sitting with his back to the headboard and Dean’s in his lap, spilling gun oil over the bed as well as Sam's fingers. The way Dean's body ripples as Sam slides his slick fingers carefully into his brother is breathtaking. Dean arches, head tipped back, and Sam can't resist licking his throat again, letting his teeth scrape over the tender skin. When they're together like this, right and wrong don't seem to matter anymore. "Enough." Dean's voice is breathless, rough with lust and need and Sam doesn't need telling twice. Watching Dean position himself, seeing every expression that flits across his face, the way he bites his lip as he sinks slowly down is quite probably the hottest thing Sam's ever seen. The urge to just drag his brother down and fuck him as hard as he can is almost unbearable. He lets Dean set the pace at first, but the sight of Dean riding his cock, the breathy moans that spill from his brother’s mouth, despite the way Dean’s biting his lower lip is too much. He wraps his hands around Dean’s hips and drives up, as deep as he can, over and over until they’re both sweating and panting and Sam can’t think of anything beyond the fact that there is nothing in the world that could make him give this up now. Dean finally breaks, wrapping his hand around his own cock and descending into low, desperate moans. It’s far too much, far too hot for Sam and he drives up, hands pulling Dean down, pressing as far inside his brother’s body as he can go, certain he must be hurting Dean, and utterly unable to stop. Aftershocks are still rippling through him when Dean freezes above him and orgasms with a groan, sending a wave of pleasure through the bond that has Sam gasping and shivering all over again. Sam’s vaguely aware of Dean shifting carefully off of him and collapsing beside him onto the bed. He can’t even contemplate moving yet, let alone thinking. Sooner or later they're going to have to leave the sanctuary of their room and face not only Dad but another hunt, but for now, Sam's content where he is. Eventually, the need to eat drives Sam to shower and dress. He leaves Dean showering, the temptation to join him is almost enough to make him forgo the late lunch, but he knows they need to eat. When he gets back, Dean is sitting on the bed, wearing nothing but a towel and damn, but Sam wishes Dad wasn't here, that they didn't have a hunt tonight. From the smirk on Dean's face, he's well aware of the reaction he provokes in Sam. It would be really infuriating, if it weren't so arousing. They spend the rest of the day channel surfing and swapping lazy kisses. But as the afternoon edges towards evening, Sam can sense the tension growing in both of them. It leaves an almost physical ache in his chest to see the way Dean retreats back behind those walls of his. He knows it's necessary to keep Dad from finding out, but he hates it, nevertheless. The drive back to the haunted house is silent and the atmosphere in the car is fraught with nerves and apprehension. Dad's already there, and Sam can see the tension in their father's posture even before they get out of the car. For a second he feels like a kid again, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He tries to convince himself that it's only his imagination, but he can't help the spike of fear that Dad somehow knows. He doesn't need to look at Dean to know that his brother thinks the same thing. The sense of foreboding isn't helped when Dad doesn't quite look at them and merely jerks his head towards the house in lieu of any greeting. When he looks at Dean, his brother doesn't meet his gaze either. A cold chill settles in Sam's stomach and he has to struggle to focus on the hunt. Now is not the time to be distracted. When they enter the house, they spread out, just the way Dad planned and Sam finds himself slipping back into the old routines as if Dad had never left. They sweep through the ground floor without finding anything except dust and cobwebs. Sam rejoins his father and brother in the main hallway. "Dean, check the basement. Sam, we'll check the first floor." Sam looks at Dean, tempted to refuse, unhappy with the idea of Dean checking the basement on his own, but Dean shakes his head. Dad gives him a sharp look and it's all Sam can do to hold his tongue at the way Dean's head drops and his shoulders hunch in an all too familiar defensive posture. "Meet us upstairs when you're done." Dean nods and heads down to the basement without a word. Sam watches him go, then follows his father upstairs. He manages to make it through the first couple of rooms before the need to say something gets the better of him. "You shouldn't have sent Dean off on his own." Dad glares at him. "He'll be fine on his own." "And you know that for sure?" "Your brother is quite capable of taking care of himself." There's just a hint of something in Dad's voice that makes Sam very uneasy. "Yeah, I know. That's not the point." Dad stops in the middle of one of the rooms and turns to face Sam. "No, the point is what the hell is going on with you and Dean?" Cold chills run down his spine and there's an awful queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. "What are you talking about?" "You know damned well what I'm talking about. I saw you in the diner. Did you really think I wouldn't notice? What the fuck were you thinking Sam? Letting your brother..." Dad looks caught somewhere between pained and sickened. "Don't. Don't you dare blame Dean for this." "Sam..." "No. We're not kids anymore Dad, hell, we never were. You can't blame Dean for this. If you have to blame someone, blame me." "How the hell can you just stand there and say that? Damnit this isn't right Sam. It's not..." Sam watches his father bite back the words. Not that it matters, because he knows exactly what Dad was going to say. "Not what, Dad? Not normal?" "Sam, it's not right. Other people..." "We're not other people though, are we? We're certainly not 'normal'. God knows, you've told us that often enough." "That isn't what I meant Sam, and you know it. This is just...wrong." Anger and the faintest hint of betrayal bubble just under his skin, prickling and burning. He'd not really expected any other reaction, but he can't deny that he'd hoped that if anyone might understand that normal and right have never had much of a place in their lives it would be Dad. "I don't care if it's not normal, and I don't care about other people. It doesn't feel wrong, Dad." "Sammy, I can't, I won't condone this." "I'm not asking you to. Honestly, I don't need your approval. I couldn't care less how you feel about it. You can ignore it, pretend it doesn't exist, whatever the hell you like, but don't you dare take off again like you did last time." "Watch your mouth, boy." Dad's voice has dropped to a growl, but that tactic hasn't worked since Sam was thirteen years old, and now it just irritates him. "No. You don't get to hurt Dean like that again. Not this time. You damn well put him first for once and you stick around. Because I'm telling you now, if you walk out again, you don't get to come back." "Don't take that attitude with me, Sam, I'm not..." "Not what? Not in the wrong? No, you never are. Even though you walked out of the hospital while your oldest son was still in a coma. But you're not the one with the attitude problem." "Damnit Sam. I had no choice, you know that..." "Don't, ok? Just don't. I don't want to hear that you had no choice, that you were doing it to keep us safe. You had a choice. You could have stayed." The shine of tears in Dad's eyes is completely unexpected and it throws Sam off balance. "And you think I don't regret that choice? But damnit Sam, after the cabin, after what the demon did to Dean, I just... I wanted you boys safe, and I wasn't sure me being there was such a good idea." He's never seen Dad so open, so vulnerable, and his anger drains in the face of his father's obvious distress. He's never doubted that Dad loved them, in his own way, but he's never seen such a blatant display of it before. "Dad, I get it, but all we've ever done is leave Dean. Mom, me, you. Don't do it again, not without a word, please." "What can I say to him? What can I say to either of you? I can't just ignore this, not this, Sam." "And you're not going to try, right? Damn everyone else. Same as always. Same selfishness." The anger rushes right back, making his head spin, and raising his voice. "Is this a private argument, or can anyone join in?” Sam turns to see his brother standing in the doorway, and the hurt in his voice and his eyes is all too obvious “On second thoughts, I won’t bother, I think I know how this one ends." "Dean..." In any other situation, the fact that he and Dad both say Dean's name at the same time would be amusing. Right now, with Dean radiating anger and resentment, it's anything but. "Forget it, ok? I'm sick of the fact that you two can't spend five minutes in the same room without it turning into a pissing contest, even on a hunt. It's getting really, really old. Oh yeah, and did I mention that we're on a hunt?" "Dean, I'm sorry." He takes a step towards his brother, wanting, needing to soothe the anger and the pain he can feel like it was his own. The sense of futility that seeps through is weary and resigned and he realizes again just how little he really understood his brother. "Don't." It's unbearably ironic that Dean is echoing Sam's earlier words. His brother's voice is all brittle edges and jagged misery. "I don't want to know. Just save it for later, then I'll happily leave you to kick seven kinds of shit out of each other. Just don't expect me to stick around to referee this time." Dean sounds so tired, so despondent that Sam moves forward without thinking. His hand falls onto Dean's shoulder. It's an entirely innocent gesture and all Sam wants to do is reassure his brother, apologize, anything to erase the bleak look on Dean's face, but there's a choked noise from behind him. Dean's eyes shift, looking over Sam's shoulder towards Dad. For a moment Dean's expression is confused, then, as Sam watches, he sees the realization dawn on his brother. Dean's gaze flicks back to Sam, and even without the bond, Sam would have been able to read every emotion churning in his brother's eyes. With the bond it's like being hit in the face with a brick, and he feels sick at the guilt, shame, betrayal and fear Dean feels. Underneath all that though, he catches the faintest hint of relief and the tiniest sense of hope. Then everything settles, and all he can feel is determination. He meets Dean's gaze and despite his concern for his brother, he can't help the entirely selfish surge of possessiveness that if Dad forces him to choose, Dean's going to choose him this time. There aren't words for how he feels when that realization hits. He's known the truth for a while, but to actually see it is nothing short of breathtaking. He doesn't think he's ever loved his brother more than he does at this moment. When Dean raises his hand and cups Sam's cheek, thumb brushing lightly over his bottom lip, it's like time stands still. He knows how Dean loves, respects and admires Dad; hell, he practically worships the man, and he's still going to choose Sam. With nothing more than a look and a touch so lightly it's barely there, he's declaring how he feels, knowing that Dad is watching. He knows in this moment that there is nothing he won't give or do for his brother. He finally understands the depths of Dean's devotion, of Dean's love and it's humbling. Dean doesn't take his eyes off Sam, but when he speaks, Sam knows he's talking to Dad. His brother doesn't move his hand, and Sam can feel the bond, strong and alive, between them. "That's what this argument is about? This?" He strokes his thumb over Sam’s lower lip again and Sam fights back a shiver at the gentle touch. Dad makes a harsh noise, then clears his throat. "Yes. Goddamnit Dean..." "Save it." Dean's voice is strangely calm and he doesn't raise his voice, but Sam would swear that he hears Dad's mouth close with an audible snap. "You can accept it and deal with it, or you can reject it and leave." Sam can feel the surge of hurt at the thought, but Dean barely pauses. "But you can't stop this and I'm not going to let you even try." "For God's sake Dean, you're brothers. This is wrong. It's sick." Dean's hand drops, fingertips brushing feather-light over Sam's neck. He looks as though he's been suckered punched and Sam can feel his despair. "Worse than the monsters we hunt?" Dean's voice is a whisper and suddenly Sam's terrified, paralyzed by fear as Dean takes a step back. The hand that had been resting on Dean's shoulders clutches at nothing but air. The growing sense of horror and dread rises and he feels sick. "No. Dean, no." But Dean's out of reach, and Sam can practically feel his brother throwing up walls as he watches. That's when the vision hits him. He's walking down a corridor, at the end of which he can see a heavy oak door. It's a scene straight out of one of the old Hammer Horror films Dean used to like so much. He can smell the iron tang of blood, and the sickening scent of decay, thick and cloying. The smell gets stronger, the closer to the door he gets, and he's truly terrified at what he'll find beyond it, but he can't give up. Dean's here somewhere, and Sam needs to find him more than he needs to breath. The heavy door isn't locked and it opens with a soft creak when he pushes it. The stench becomes almost tangible, rising from the bloated corpse lying in the middle of the room, making him gag until he tastes bile. It's only once he's got himself under control and takes a second look at the body that the horror truly sets in. Though the body is bloated beyond recognition and the face is nothing but a roiling mass of fat, white maggots, the ripped jeans, the silver ring and the leather jacket are unmistakeable. Even without those things, Sam would know. That's when he drops to his knees and throws up, over and over until there's nothing left and his body aches with the strain, though it's nothing compared to the hollow ache in his soul. When the vision stops, he's not at all surprised to find himself on his knees. The sensory after image is so strong that he can still taste bile and the smell of death and fear has him reaching blindly out, knowing that Dean is close by, but needing to touch, to reassure himself that his brother is alive, not a rotting corpse. His stomach heaves at the though, but he fights back the urge to throw up. All he wants is to get Dean out of this house and as far away as possible. He knows that the vision was centred on this house and Dean isn't safe all the time they stay within these walls. He's damned if he's going to take the slightest chance of that vision coming true. "Sam. Sammy. You ok? Talk to me Sam. What did you see?" He wants to grab Dean and never let him go. He wants to kiss his brother until they can't breath. He wants them out of here, but his body won't co-operate and all he can do it tighten his grip on Dean until he's sure he must be leaving bruises. Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't pull away, just wraps his arms around Sam, pulling him close until Sam's practically sitting in Dean's lap. He can feel Dean's concern and it almost drags what Sam's sure would be a hysterical laugh out of him. Dean's concerned for him. He buries his head between Dean's neck and shoulder and wills his body to work with him. "Sam...?" It's a shock to realize that Dad's still here, and more so to hear the concern and uncertainty in his voice. He raises his head from Dean's shoulder. "We need to leave. Now." He can hear the frantic, cracked tone in his own voice but he really doesn't care, so long as they go. Dean looks at him and for a second Sam thinks he's going to start asking questions that Sam isn't sure he's ever going to be able to answer. He focuses on his brother's familiar features, trying to erase the memory of rot and decay. He can hear Dad behind him, asking questions with increasing irritation, but he pays no attention. All he can do is cling to Dean and trust his brother to understand. When Dean nods, stands and gently pulls Sam with him, an all too familiar look of determination on his face, he worries that Dean's going to try and dump him in the car and carry on the hunt without him. Instead, Dean wraps an arm around Sam's waist, and drapes Sam's arm over his shoulders. The relief when Dean turns his head towards Dad and interrupts whatever it is Dad's saying is so strong that his legs almost buckle. "Dad. We need to go. C'mon, help me get Sammy out of here." "We can't abandon the hunt, we haven't found the bones yet." "Screw the hunt. We can come back tomorrow and burn the whole damned place to the ground, but right now, we are leaving." He's heard that tone of Dean's before. But he has never, ever heard Dean use it when he's talking to Dad. For a second he waits for Dad to flip, but he hears him take a deep breath and then suddenly Dad's at his side. "I'll take Sam. You make sure there's nothing between us and the door." Dean's surprise mirrors Sam's, but Dean just nods at Dad and lets him take Sam's weight. Dean squeezes Sam's hip quickly before sliding the arm around his waist away. It's all he can do not to reach out and grab Dean. The loss of physical contact leaves him shaking and exhausted, leaning heavily on Dad as Dean draws his gun and prepares to lead them out.

Dean wakes to the feel of morning sun on his skin. He's sated and lazy; relaxed in a way he hasn't felt for a long time. He stretches, enjoying the way his spine pops back into place, then sits on the edge of the bed. He'd half expected to wake up and find Sammy gone, no matter what his little brother might have said in the heat of passion, but Sam's clothes are still strewn around the room, and he can hear the shower running. Dean knows it's stupid beyond belief, but he's starting to believe that just maybe, Sam actually means what he says. Every time Dean's been certain his baby brother will up and leave, he's turned out to be wrong, and not only has Sam stayed, but he's gone out of his way to try and convince Dean that he's not leaving. There's an earnestness, an honesty in Sam's declarations that Dean hasn't heard for years, and Sam's only ever used that tone when he's desperate to prove he's telling the truth. Dean remembers the feel of Sam's hand, warm and gentle against his cheek; the horror and the delight of hearing Sam promise him forever. Dean's all too well aware that forever probably isn't going to be as long for them as it would be for other people, but he's cool with that, really. And if he gets to spend that time with Sam in his life, in his bed, he's greedy enough to grab it with both hands. It surprises Dean, a little, how Sam seems to be dealing with what's happened and how little regret he's shown. If Dean had ever given this situation any thought before it happened, he'd have figured Sam would be in the midst of a major fit of angsting by now. The moments of worry have been few and far between, and by Sam standards, barely worth mentioning. Of course, that could all change, but the fact that Sam's still here gives Dean some hope that things might work out after all. He's contemplating whether sneaking into the bathroom and joining Sam in the shower would result in a freaked out Sam trying to kill him, when his cell rings. Dean scrambles for the phone, not needing to look at the caller display to know who's calling. It can only be one person, and his lecherous thoughts about his brother evaporate. He takes a deep breath, and then flips the phone open. "Dad..." "Dean. You ok son?" Ridiculous how such a simple question can fill him with such contrasting emotions. Overwhelming happiness that maybe Dad actually cares, shame over what he's done with Sam, and a tangled mix of sadness and relief and anger that he's not here with them. "Yeah. Just about." He can't hide the bitterness, can only hope that it masks the fear and the remembered horror of thinking he'd caused Sam's death. "Dean. What is it? What's happened?" Dad sounds, not panicked, exactly, but worried, his voice taut with tension and worry. Dean tries not to feel a perverse sense of satisfaction at the sound. God knows, he loves Dad, but sometimes even he can't help but feel a little resentful of the fact that no matter what he does, it's never been quite good enough for the great John Winchester. Usually, he buries that part of him, as deep as he can, but his emotions have been scraped so raw of late that he can't ignore it the way he used to. Either that or Sam's starting to rub off on him, and damnit, but that's not a thought he needs hen he's on the phone to Dad. "We're fine, Dad." It's not an answer, not really, and definitely not to the question Dad asked, and Dean knows that he's not going to get away with the evasion, but he needs time to think, time to figure out how to deal with this. "Damnit, tell me what happened, you hear me?" There's a familiar note in Dad's voice, one that Dean's heard damn near every day since he was four. A tone that says 'how the hell did you screw up this time?'. "Yessir, I hear you." He takes a breath, resentful, resigned, and just so damned tired. "It didn't go quite as smooth as it should, and..." he has to stop, caught again by the gut-wrenching grief at losing Sam "..but we're fine." "What do you mean, 'didn't go as smooth as it should'? Dean..." "Don't." He's not sure which of them is more surprised by the sharpness of his tone. "We weren't ready...to go hunting again. We...I wasn't ready. Damnit Dad, Sam nearly..." he nearly chokes on a sob, but swallows it down "I screwed up, because I wasn't ready, because I couldn't...God, Dad..." He can hear the fear in his own voice, even though he's whispering by the end. "But Sam's ok? You're both ok?" Dean wants to laugh. Ok? Not even for Winchesters could nearly getting your brother killed, and then fucking him be considered ok. "We're in one piece, and we're alive. Does that fall into your definition of ok, Dad?" "Dean, stop. I...thought it would help you. I...I guess I should have listened to Sam." Dean shudders, hot and cold by turns. "Sam? You've talked to Sam?" Betrayal, hot and strong leaves the taste of bile and ashes in his mouth. "Yeah. Before I sent those co-ordinates. He told me then that you weren't ready." Dean can hear Dad take a breath, but he can't seem to quite get past the fact that Sam's still hiding things from him; still keeping Dean at arms length. Sam spoke to Dad and never said anything; Sam tried to protect him; Sam knew better than Dean or Dad. He doesn't exactly like his brother's new protective streak, but he can't deny that it warms him more than it should. "Dean. I'm...sorry. Sam begged me not to send you on a hunt, maybe I should have listened to him." It's like someone's tipped a bowl of ice water down Dean's back, and the first thing he thinks is that the Demon's got to Dad again, because he's never heard Dad admit to a mistake, let alone apologize. "Dad....?" "I just, I want you boys to be safe. That's all I've ever wanted." Not all, Dean thinks, but he keeps the thought to himself. He's pretty certain it's guilt talking now, and that sooner rather than later, Dad's going to be sending more co-ordinates, and eventually he's going to go after the demon again "I know Dad." There's a pause, and Dean can hear Dad's breathing, and he wonders briefly whether his life could possible get any more surreal. "Is Sam there?" "He's in the shower. You want me to get him?" "No. I'll call him later. Dean, you take care of him...and yourself, you hear. You boys...you're...just watch yourselves, ok?" Dean hears the bathroom door opening, and he turns to watch Sam, towel slung low on his hips. The sight is distracting, but with Dad on the phone, and the knowledge of Sam's deceit, however well intentioned, it's relatively easy to keep his libido under control. "Yeah. Yes sir. Bye Dad." **** Sam wraps a towel around his waist, and feels an unfamiliar tingle of something remarkably like anticipation over his skin. He's lost count of the number of times he's faced Dean wearing nothing more than this, and sometimes less, and thought nothing of it. That's all changed now, and though Sam still finds it strange to think of Dean in that way, he can't deny the sexual thrill the thought brings. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, finding it hard to reconcile the fact that despite everything that's happened, he doesn't look any different. He looks relaxed, calm, more at ease, but essentially the same. He doesn't know whether to be pleased or disappointed that the happiness he feels bubbling just underneath his skin doesn't show. He knows they're going to have to be careful, but he also wants the world to know, to see how happy they are. It's exactly the same way he felt with Jess, the day he decided he was going to ask her to marry him. It surprises him that he doesn't feel guilt for comparing them, Dean and Jess, but though he loves them both, it's in completely different ways. Jess was his normal, his white picket fence and 2.5 kids; she understood Sam, even if she didn't really know him. Dean is his rock, his support, the constant in a life of change and uncertainty, and the only person who has ever really known Sam, even if he hasn't always understood him. He steps out of the bathroom to find Dean sitting on the bed, phone held to his ear. The look on Dean's face tells Sam who his brother is talking to. The happiness drains from Sam when he sees the look in Dean's eyes as he watches Sam. "Yeah. Yes sir. Bye Dad." Dean lowers and the phone, and snaps it shut, without taking his eyes off Sam. Sam can sense the cold anger, and he knows Dad's told Dean about the first phone call. "Dean, I..." "Were you going to tell me that Dad called?" Dean's voice is cold, and Sam has a sudden flash of premonition, of the ways this conversation could go, and it's shocking to realize that this moment could be the beginning of something special, something important in a way Sam can't quite grasp, or the end of everything Sam holds dear. And everything rests on how Sam answers. "I'm sorry. I should have told you, but I was worried. I didn't think we were ready to start hunting again so soon, and I asked Dad to understand but he... I'm sorry Dean, I still should have said something." Dean's expression doesn't change for what feels like eternity, and Sam wonders if he got it wrong after all. The fear of being the reason everything falls apart wracks his body with cold shivers. "Dad said you were pretty mad at him. That you told him not to send us on a hunt." Sam still can't read Dean's mood, all he can do is wrap his arms around himself, and hold his breath. Dean looks away, and throws the phone onto the bedside table, as if in disgust. "I told him you were right. That I hadn't been ready, and that I'd nearly got you killed." That Dean would admit he wasn't a superman, to Sam; that he'd admit to Dad that he'd screwed up gives Sam hope that he made the right choice after all, and shocks him speechless. Dean lifts his head and meets Sam's eyes. "I'm mad you didn't tell me he'd called but... I guess I know why you did it. But you can't make those kinds of decisions for me, Sam. I don't need you to protect me. I'm too damn tired to fight about this shit all the time." Sam can't help thinking that Dean needs exactly that, because he spends so much time protecting Sam that he forgets about himself. He bites his tongue, because as open and honest as Dean is right now, Sam's pretty sure Dean's not going to want to hear that. "Yeah, I know. I am sorry, man. No more secrets?" Dean looks for a moment as though he's going to say something else, then he snaps his mouth closed, and nods. The relief sweeps through Sam, and he's glad that he's got his arms crossed, because he's certain his hands would be trembling otherwise. "So, you leave me some hot water? I know there's a lot of you to wash and all, but dude, what the hell do you do in there?" Dean raises an eyebrow and leers at Sam. Sam isn't sure whether to laugh or cry at the knowledge that he got it right. He wants to slap Dean for being the same smart-ass brother he's always been. He wants to press his brother down onto the bed and kiss and touch him until Dean can't think of anything but Sam. He wants to fuck that ridiculous smirk off of Dean's face. He's across the room and in Dean's lap before he knows it, hands cupping Dean's head, fingers cradling his brother's skull, marveling at the way Dean lets him angle his head so that Sam can lick those far too tempting lips, and draw Dean into a deep, hot, wet kiss. He pulls back, taking in the faint flush over Dean's cheeks that highlights the freckles, and the way his lips look slick and plump and completely fucking illegal, immoral and utterly sinful. When Dean opens his eyes, Sam can barely see any color at all, and he knows exactly what he wants. "Dean. Fuck me." "Christ Sammy." The sound of Dean's voice, breathy and deep makes Sam shiver. The way Dean's hips jerk, pressing his cock against Sam's ass through the towel and Dean's boxers makes Sam groan. "Come on, do it. I want this Dean. Fuck me, damnit." Dean actually growls, honest to god, and Sam didn't think that shit happened outside of dodgy novels and bad porn. "Fine. You want to get fucked? I'll fuck you, little brother, I promise." Dear God, hearing Dean talk like that, hearing that reminder of how many lines they're crossing shouldn't be so damned hot, but it makes Sam pant and has him grabbing Dean and slamming their mouths together. Dean gives as good as he gets, tongue chasing Sam's, teeth nipping at Sam's lips. Dean shifts under Sam, and then he's standing, somehow hooking his arms under Sam's legs. He takes two steps, then dumps Sam on the other bed, following him down until he's leaning over Sam, arms braced on either side of his body. His expression is suddenly serious, and Sam knows that while Dean may not worry about morals, he does worry about hurting Sam. It's written all over his face. No matter that Sam's hardly a kid anymore, Dean still wants to be his big brother. Sam knows that if he ever indicated that he didn't want this, Dean would never touch him again, even if it killed him. Sam doesn't know what the hell he ever did to deserve that kind of devotion, but he does know now is not the time for Dean to start with this crap. "Sam....." "I know. It's fine, Dean." He reaches up and pulls Dean down into a kiss, then slides his hands under the waistband of Dean's boxers and pushes the thin cotton down, until they end up around Dean's ankles. When Dean tugs at the towel, Sam braces his feet and lifts his hips so Dean can pull it away and drop it onto the floor. Skin against skin, and Sam wraps a leg around Dean's hips as his brother rocks into him. Dean stretches a hand out, and fumbles with something off to the side. Sam doesn't really pay much attention, until Dean lifts off a little, and a hand slides between them, and wraps around Sam's cock, slick and tight and hot. The firm stroke has Sam throwing his head back, hips arching up to follow the motion of Dean's hand. Shockingly hot, and damn, Sam can't believe he'd forgotten how good Dean is at this. He's so caught in the pleasure of Dean’s hand fisting his cock that the slow slide of the finger inside him almost doesn't register. Lips and teeth drag over his throat, pain edged pleasure distracting him when another finger joins the first. The third finger burns enough that even the words Dean's whispering in his ear can't quite drown it out, but he doesn't care. He doesn't resist when Dean moves him into position, doesn't care about the undignified and vulnerable position. He holds his breath, trying not to show how much it burns as Dean slides slowly into him, concentrating on the lewd words and soft endearments Dean’s mouthing into his neck, breath hot on his skin instead. Dean’s movements are slow and careful, and the pain shifts, fades, and melts into pleasure. Dean keeps the same pace, pulling back, then driving in, deep, so deep. Sam wraps his legs around Dean’s hips, one hand clutching his brother’s bicep, the other around the back of Dean’s neck. He doesn’t even realize he’s talking out loud until he hears Dean answer, and then Dean shifts, gets a better angle and suddenly he’s fucking Sam in earnest, hips driving hard, with almost bruising force and Jesusfuck, it hurts, just a little but oh God, it’s good. Sam wriggles his hand between them and strokes his cock, knowing it’s not going to take much, but needing to come. When Dean raises his head, looks Sam in the eyes, drives in hard once more and freezes, it’s the look in his eyes, that makes Sam shudder, makes him fuck his hand frantically until he’s coming, body clenching around Dean’s cock, leaving them both gasping and riding the aftershocks. Dean pulls out gently, and Sam bites his lip to hide the wince. Dean half rolls, half falls to the side, and Sam rolls carefully over to face him. He forgets the discomfort when Dean drapes an arm over his waist, and pulls him in for a slow, gentle kiss. Sam still doesn’t understand how it can feel so right, but he doesn’t care. He can’t have normal, anymore, but he can have this, and he’s fine with that, he really is. Eventually Dean pulls away, and drops onto his back, though he leaves one hand resting on Sam’s hip. "So, what did Dad say?" "Jesus Sammy, you sure know how to kill the afterglow." Sam laughs, wondering how the hell he got to a place where not even the mention of their father can dispel the pleasure of lying in Dean's arms and enjoying the faint ache that reminds him that he's just let his brother fuck him six ways to Sunday. ***** Sam's too sated and lazy to call Dean on his evasion right now, unwilling to risk spoiling the mood by pushing Dean too hard. He needs to know that Dad didn't give Dean a hard time for what happened. He feels this ridiculous urge to protect his brother, even from their own father; especially from their own father, though he knows it's both pointless, and will be unwelcome. Dean has a blind spot the size of a small continent where Dad's concerned, although given what he told Dad, Sam has some hope that that might change now. They lie quietly for a long time. Sam listens to Dean's soft breathing and the muted sounds from outside, drifting into the room, as if from a long way away. It feels as though they're isolated, insulated from the rest of the world. Alone together in this room, they can be themselves, they don't have to pretend. Outside is full of people that Sam's knows will want to label them, condemn them for what they've done. People who won't, or can't look beyond the fact of their blood relationship or their gender to see the truth; that this physical relationship is nothing more than an extension of the bond that's always existed between them, even when Sam tried to deny it, tried to pretend he couldn't feel the pull towards Dean. It makes Sam want to never leave this room, to stay here, safe and shielded from the rest of humanity. He knows it's childish and foolish, but lying next to Dean, watching the morning sun paint his brother's body with light and shadows, he can't help but indulge the fantasy. Dean's hand still rests on Sam's side, thumb lightly stroking the sensitive skin over Sam's hip bone, slowly, rhythmically, and Sam's certain Dean isn't even aware he's doing it. The touch is both comforting and sensual, and Sam just lets himself enjoy the affection in his brother's touch, the closeness, and the hope that maybe this time they won't screw this up; that things might actually work out between them. Sam doesn't expect it to be easy. Apart from the outside world, Dean is almost pathologically allergic to discussing anything emotional. Sam used to think that Dean didn't care, didn't really feel anything. It was only as an adult he realized that the opposite is true. Dean feels things so deeply that the only way he can deal with them is to bury them, to put up walls and barriers and keep people out. It dismays Sam to know that the only way to get Dean to open up is to break him. Though Dean's been more open these last couple of days, Sam knows it's because his brother has been pushed so far his defenses have been cracked wide open, so that every raw, bleeding emotion is laid bare. There are so many reasons they shouldn't be doing this, from the fact its illegal; it's incest; it has the potential to hurt them both, very badly; to what would happen if Dad ever found out. Sam doesn't care, though. He lost his brother once through his own stubbornness; he's not going to make the same mistake again. It hurts though, to know that Dean's suffered through both Sam and Dad's ruthless obsessions. He's never asked for anything, never done anything but be there, right behind them, putting their needs before his, every damned time. He wishes he'd seen this before, but Dean made it so hard; keeping everyone out, refusing to admit to how much they hurt him with their carelessness, their refusal to see anything beyond what they wanted. Sam sighs and shifts on the bed. Dean stops stroking for a second, and Sam can feel the sudden tension as if he's still worried, after everything, that Sam's just going to up and leave. When Sam relaxes, trying to use his body language to tell Dean all the things he knows Dean won't let him say, the tension drains out of his brother and his thumb resumes the gentle stroking. Everything feels languid, slow and lazy, so unlike most of their lives. Sam's almost tempted to give into the lure of sleep, just so he can have the pleasure of waking up next to Dean, but he wants to enjoy this quietness, this brief lull. He knows that they need to get up soon, and finish the job they came here to do, but not yet. He watches Dean, his brother's sprawled on his back, eyes closed, breathing slow and deep, almost asleep. Sam finds the knowledge that he can just reach out and touch Dean, run a hand over the warm, tanned skin of his chest or arms, cup his face and kiss him, stunning. He can't quite get his head around how everything so familiar seems new, somehow. "Sam, stop staring at me. You're giving me a headache with all that thinking." That's just so typically Dean that Sam has to smile. Sleeping with Dean doesn't make him any less of a smart-ass, but it does make that attitude a little easier to deal with. "What makes you think I'm looking at you?" "Dude, I can practically feel it. Just stop, ok?" Sam moves closer, until he can see his breath stirring Dean’s hair, despite the amount of gel he puts in it. The little shiver that Dean can't hide sends a matching shiver through Sam. "I thought you liked having people look at you, Dean." "Looking is one thing, staring is something else. And will you quit breathing on me." Dean moves away, but Sam catches hold of his bicep, and Dean stops moving, frozen in place. Sam bites back the retort he was going to make and loosens his grip on Dean's arm. "It's just, well, it seems different...now. Like I'm seeing you differently somehow." He watches Dean's face, wishing Dean would open his eyes so he could get a handle on what Dean's really thinking. When Dean tenses under his hand, Sam realizes Dean's taken that statement completely the wrong way, again. "Different good, Dean. It's just, it takes a bit of getting used to, you know. It's like I've always looked at you as my brother and now I'm having to look at you as my..." He trails off, suddenly shy and unsure about saying what he's thinking. "Lover?" Dean's voice is neutral, and his eyes are still closed. The tension in his form hasn't abated, but it hasn't increased either, which Sam takes as a good sign. "Yeah. It's just, odd. Doesn't mean I don't like it though." And wouldn't you know it, Dean chooses the moment Sam's certain he's blushing to open his eyes and turn to face Sam. They watch each other for a moment, then Dean reaches over and brushes strands of hair off of Sam's forehead. And Sam's floored, yet again by this gentle, tender side of Dean. It makes him sad that he could have gone the rest of his life without ever seeing his brother like this; open, trusting. He's always known Dean loved him, he just never understood how much. It's moments like this, more than the sex, more than anything else, that quell the lingering doubts, the last vestiges of shame and unease Sam feels. Dean leans forward, and his eyes close again and Sam is suddenly, irrationally fascinated by the sight of Dean's eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. He keeps his eyes open as Dean kisses him, slow and gentle. There's almost nothing sexual about the kiss, and Sam thinks that he was right, he really could spend hours kissing Dean like this. When Dean pulls back, Sam leans forward, trying to recapture Dean's mouth. He opens eyes he doesn't remember closing when Dean laughs, low, deep, sexy as hell and Sam can't remember why he isn't supposed to find that sound arousing. "Later, Sammy. Much as I'd like to stay here all day, we've got things to do." Sam sighs. Too much to hope that Dean would forget about the coach. But the promise of later makes the prospect of hunting down the ghost more bearable. He watches Dean walk across to the bathroom, completely unselfconscious about the fact he's nude. Sam can't help but watch, and can't help but feel a little like a voyeur while he's doing it. When Dean shuts the door, Sam flops down onto his back and stares at the ceiling, letting the calm wash over him, hoping it will be enough to see him through the storm he's sure is going to come, sooner or later. **** When Dean gets out of the shower, Sam goes to clean up, again. They dress and load up the car in relative silence. Not tense and strained like it was after Sam had left Stanford, but comfortable, familiar in the way it was when they were kids. They’ve always worked well together, even when they were fighting, or didn’t understand each other. Dad used to go off at them sometimes, used to tell them that they spent too much time watching each others backs, and not enough watching their own. Sam used to find that ironic, in a bitter kind of a way, because he’d thought that was exactly what Dad had wanted. But then, logic has never really been Dad’s strong point. When the car’s loaded, they get in. Sam doesn’t ask Dean if he wants to drive, and Dean doesn’t offer. The drive to the bridge is made in silence too, but the closer they get, the more Sam can sense the tension and the unease in Dean. Sam can feel it too; this place is so charged with feeling, with emotion for them, that it’s almost tangible. He wants to offer comfort, and reassurance, but there’s nothing he can say that isn’t going to sound trite and patronizing, at least to Dean. He settles instead for resting his hand on Dean’s knee, wincing slightly at the way Dean jumps at the touch. He’s about to draw his hand away when Dean relaxes, exhaling softly, letting some of the tension drain away. Sam leaves his hand there for the rest of the drive, not sure which of them needs the contact and the reassurance more. When he parks, he deliberately doesn’t park in the same spot they did the night before, and God, how can it be only a few hours ago that they were here? It feels like half a lifetime. He turns to face Dean, but whatever he was going to say just flies out of his head at the look on his brother’s face. Dean’s staring at the bridge, and his expression is a churning mix of guilt, despair and anguish. He looks torn open again, like he did last night, when he thought Sam was dead, and it was his fault. Sam reaches over, catches Dean’s hand and squeezes. “Dean, hey, Dean. It’s ok. I’m fine. We’re fine.” He keeps his voice soft, gentle, trying to keep his confused emotions from bleeding through. Dean tears his eyes away from the bridge and looks at Sam and his eyes are so blank, that for a moment, Sam thinks Dean doesn’t even see him, then he blinks, and focuses. “Sam….” His voice is hoarse, like he’s been shouting, or crying and it makes that need to protect him rise up in Sam again. He wonders if this is what Dean’s always felt and it’s just another thing that Sam could kick himself for not getting. God knows, Dean has his faults and Sam could list every one, but Sam should never have taken his brother so much for granted. He’s just about to say so when Dean shakes his head slightly and blinks slowly again, like he’s trying to clear his thoughts. When his eyes open, they’re bright with what Sam suspects are tears, but they focus, and in a second or two, it’s as if nothing had happened. It makes Sam’s head spin, how fast Dean can hide behind the walls Sam and John have helped him build. “Come on, let’s get this done and get out of here.” And there’s nothing that Sam can say to that, not when Dean’s closed off like this. All he can do is follow, and hope just being here is support enough for Dean to get through this. **** The bridge doesn’t look so imposing in daylight, but Dean still feels a chill run through him. He can still see the moment the coach plunged over the edge, every time he closes his eyes. He can feel the horror at losing Sam, at knowing he could have stopped it, and didn’t. He has to get out of the car, away from Sam’s scrutiny and concern; concern he doesn’t deserve. He shoves his hands in his pockets, and waits for Sam to get out and open the trunk. The calm laziness of the morning seems to have burnt away, and now Dean just wants to get this over with, and get the hell away from this place. He wants to put this place, this area, hell, this whole damned state as far behind them as he can, then he wants to find a halfway decent motel and a liquor store, and then he wants to lock the door and lose himself in Sam, in the knowledge that his brother is alive and well, and here. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him, watching him, as if Sam’s afraid to let Dean out of his sight for even a second, and isn’t that ironic, when by rights it should be Dean checking on Sammy. It still sickens Dean that the one time Sam needed him, he fucked up, and damned near cost his brother his life. He can’t bring himself to look at Sam and see the worry in his brother’s eyes. Sam thankfully doesn’t say anything, but his fingers trail over Dean’s when he hands him a gun, and Dean’s hand moves by itself, wrapping around the weapon and Sam’s fingers. Sam tangles their fingers and it feels somehow symbolic of their lives; of everything they are, standing in the pale sunlight, holding on to each other, the gun caught between their hands. It’s so close to everything Dean has ever wanted, everything he’s ever wished for that for a moment he thinks he’s going to embarrass himself and break down, but Sam squeezes him fingers one last time, and slowly draws his hand back, leaving the solid weight of the gun in Dean’s hand. Dean stopped praying many years ago, and he stopped hoping for dreams to come true before that, but right now, he’s prepared to do both, if he can just have this; have Sam with him. He looks up, and finds Sam watching him. He smiles what he knows is a weak smile that’s fooling neither of them, but Sam doesn’t call him on it, just smiles back, and hands Dean the can of gas. Dean doesn’t know what he’s ever done to deserve Sam, but he thanks whoever is listening for his baby brother. They grab shovels, and walk to the edge of the bridge, side by side, and just knowing that Sam’s there, that he’s real and whole, and that Dean can just reach out and touch him helps him ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach. He tries not to look at the spot where he watched the coach tumble into the ravine below, and concentrates instead on the feel of Sam’s arm brushing gently against his as they walk, a subtle reassurance that Dean's grateful for. The only way to get to the bottom of the gully is to clamber and slip down the steep embankment, and by the time they reach the bottom, they’re both muddy and bruised and the skin of their hands is scraped and sore. Dean thinks that all he needs to make the experience complete is for it to start raining. He keeps that thought to himself though, because with his luck lately, there’s no point tempting fate. They’ve got no idea where the body of the missing passenger could be; it’s been almost a hundred years since the coach went over the bridge and although the stream is barely more than a trickle, a hundred years ago it was a decent sized river. Dean looks down the river bed. The body could be almost anywhere down stream. It was going to be a long day. A couple of hours later, they’ve worked their way about a quarter mile down stream. Dean’s jeans are stiff with sticky mud, and Sam’s back is covered up to his neck where he’s landed on his ass at least twice that Dean's seen. In the end, they find the remains through sheer dumb luck when Sam falls over his own too-damned-long legs for the third time, and ends up on his hands and knees, face-to-face with the empty eye sockets of a human skull. The look on his face is half surprise, half annoyance, and in any other circumstances Dean would be delighted to tease him endlessly over it, but right now, he just wants to get this over with and get the hell away from this place. He wants to a hot shower, hot food and about a week of sleep. He tries not to dwell on the fact that he also wants to press Sam down onto cool, clean sheets, and wrap himself around his brother until he can't tell where Sam ends and he begins. It takes a while to locate all the bones, and they end up having to dig some of the smaller ones out with their fingers. Dean's not entirely sure they get them all, but frankly, he really doesn't care anymore. He's filthy, and certain he's got slime in places he doesn't want to think about. Sam salts the pile of bones, and Dean douses them in gas. He tosses a lit match onto the makeshift pyre and sees the flames stutter, struggling to find a hold on the damp and muddy bones, despite the half gallon of gas he used, before catching and flaring into life so strongly that he and Sammy have to take a couple of steps back. He can tell Sam wants to be going, but he stays put, watching the bones slowly char and blacken, before crumbling into ash. There's a vindictive sense of satisfaction at destroying the thing that nearly killed Sammy, and something that comes perilously close to gratitude for being the reason he spent most of that morning in his brother's arms. He waits until the last of the yellowed bones is nothing more than dust, then shoves his hands in his pockets, and turns his back on the remains. Sam's standing a couple of feet away, watching him. "We done here Sammy?" "Yeah. You ok?" No. Yes. I don't know. I've never been happier, and I know it won't last, because nothing good, nothing that I want ever does. "Yeah. I'm good. Let's go, I need a beer." Sam doesn't look convinced, but he says nothing, just follows Dean in scrambling back up the embankment, and back to the car. They load up the gear, change out of the filthy clothes and climb into the car. They drive until it's dark, and Sam looks like he's about to fall asleep at the wheel. He finally pulls into the first motel they find, and while it's hardly the Ritz, neither of them cares. Dean's uncertain, not knowing if Sam will want to share a bed; not knowing quite how he feels about asking. But sometimes having a psychic freak-show for a brother is a blessing, because after they've stripped down, too tired to do more than a token clean up, Sam slides between the thin sheets, leaving Dean standing beside the bed, a little unsure; a little nervous, as if sharing a bed was somehow worse than fucking his brother. Sam just reaches out, grabs Dean's wrists and pulls him down, until he slips in next to Sam. Once they've arranged themselves, Dean on his back, one hand under his head and Sam on his side, one hand resting on Dean's stomach, the jitters and the nerves seem to dissolve. It feels so comfortable, so right to have Sam curled around him like this that Dean drifts into sleep within minutes. For once, his dreams are peaceful. **** Sam wakes sometime before dawn, jolted sweating and shaking from a nightmare. He remembers Dean was missing, and he and Dad were hunting for him. Sam can still taste the terror and despair, and the gut-wrenching fear that he'd never find him, or worse, that he'd find him too late. His heart is racing, and he feels sick with the knowledge that this isn't so much a nightmare as a premonition. He has to reach out and touch Dean, curl himself around his brother's body and rest his hand over Dean's heart, needing the reassurance that Dean's here, and safe, and Sam's. He lost Jess because he didn't pay attention to the warnings. He's damned if he'll lose Dean the same way. He's just found his brother again, just discovered the person behind the walls, and he'll die, he'll kill before he lets anyone, anyone, take that away from him again. The need to protect Dean, to keep him close and to guard him is so strong that it surprises Sam. He's never thought of himself as a particularly possessive person before, though he's always wanted to keep the people he cares about safe. He wants to hide Dean away, to keep him safe from anyone who might seek to harm him. The idea of even trying to keep Dean locked away from the world is so ridiculous, so utterly impractical that Sam can't help but be amused. But as he watches the first light of dawn brighten the sky outside, an idea begins to take shape. He drops a kiss onto Dean's shoulder, and slides out of the bed, grabbing the laptop and sitting cross-legged on the other bed, attention caught between the computer and the temptation of crawling back into bed with Dean. Eventually, he has what he was looking for, and he grins at the paper in his hand before tucking it carefully in his wallet. He closes the laptop, and rejoins Dean in the other bed, pressing up against Dean's back, one arm wrapped around his brother's waist. His brother. His lover. His to protect, his to love, and screw anyone who doesn't understand. It's not normal, even for them, but it's all they have, and it's enough to make Sam not care about trying to be normal anymore. He holds his brother as the sun slowly rises, surrounded by the sight, sound, feel and scent of Dean. Thoughts and plans roll through his mind, and he's well aware that his plan isn't foolproof, and he's still got to persuade Dean to go along with it, but it's the best idea he's got. Eventually he slides into sleep, pressed as close to his brother as he can get. ***** Weak sunlight filters between the cheap curtains, waking Dean. He finds that Sam's wrapped around him like a human blanket and he allows himself a few minutes to enjoy the feel of Sam's arms around him. If Dean could keep one moment in time, could preserve one memory above all others, he thinks that maybe it would be this one, when it feels as though everything and anything is possible, and that he might be allowed to keep what he wants. Sam shifts behind him, and presses closer, burying his face in Dean's neck, breath tickling the sensitive skin. The rush of lust is sudden and intense. He holds his breath, teeth pulling at his lower lip, a little uncertain as to whether Sam is asleep or awake. Sam settles and his breathing evens out. Dean exhales and relaxes, at least until his bladder starts complaining. He manages to slide out from under Sam's arm without waking his brother. Once he's relieved himself, he catches sight of his reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. For the first time since he left the hospital, he doesn't turn away. Instead he takes a long look. Dark circles under his eyes, skin just a little too pale, eyes a little too dull. He can see why Sam's been so concerned about him. What he can't see is any outward sign of the way his world has changed. He can't see any visible evidence of the fact he's slept with his own brother. Incest. He repeats the word to himself, waiting for the shame, the disgust, the horror to kick in. But it's just a word, and he looks exactly the same as he did before he knew what it felt like to make love to his brother. This isn't the first line he's crossed, and every time he expects to see some outward sign of the dark stain he's sure must be spreading across his soul. He's killed, he's lied, cheated, slept with more people than he can honestly remember, broken damn near every law, and now he's dragged his brother down with him. If he were stronger, he should make Sam leave, drive him as far away as possible, even though he knows that Sam's capable of making his own choices. But Sam's his one weakness, the one thing Dean can't give up, not now. He looks away from the mirror and scrubs a hand over his face. He still feels a little off-balance, uncertain of himself and he doesn't like it. He needs to pull himself together before he makes another mistake. It's still a kick to the gut, the memory of almost losing Sammy, and Dean's not going to go through that again. He has to be alright, has to get a grip. He drags himself into the shower, and stands under the hot water until his skin is bright pink and the bathroom is filled with steam. The motel soap is cheap and harsh, and the chemical smell of it makes his eyes water and his nose itch, but he uses it anyway, allowing the familiar, soothing actions of washing and shaving to calm his thoughts, to soothe the jumble of wants and needs and hopes. It feels as though he's been confused since the moment he woke up in the hospital, and frankly, he's getting a little sick of it. He's sick of living with the fear that Sammy's going to up and leave again; sick of trying to live up to Dad's expectations and share in his obsessions; sick of feeling fragile and out of control, of hurting and not knowing what he needs to make it stop, or of being too scared to take what he want, what he needs, in case it's taken away from him again. He wants his old self back. He wants to be able to hide behind the shallow, vain, arrogant mask he so carefully created, but he fears that it's shattered beyond repair. Sam’s not going to let him recreate the mask anyway, and as much as Dean wants Sam, the thought of baring his soul anymore than he already has is a terrifying one. He doesn’t even know if he’s capable of being that honest, of being that vulnerable. But he knows that he’s still going try, because he’s always given Sam what he wants, and he probably always will. He’s not sure just how he feels about that right now. He takes another long look at his reflection in the mirror, then wraps a towel around his hips and heads back into the bedroom. He's not surprised to find Sam awake and messing about on the laptop. He's half hopeful, half afraid that Sam's found them something else to chase. He doesn't want to put Sam at risk again, but he knows he needs to get back to doing the only thing he's ever really known, because without the hunting, what purpose does he have? "Uh, Dean?" Dean feels his heart sink a little. He knows that voice. It's Sam's 'I know you're probably not going like this idea, but I'm going to say it anyway because I know I'm going to get my own way eventually'. Dean hates that voice, it's gotten got him into more trouble than anything else. "Yeah." He doesn't daren't look at Sam. It's hard enough to refuse Sam at the best of times, but with the change in their relationship, Dean really doesn't need the added distraction of Sam in nothing but boxers, sitting cross-legged on the bed. "I, uh... I." Sam coughs, and Dean realizes his brother is nervous, though it doesn't make him any less wary, it does please the more sadistic side of his nature. "What?" Sam takes a deep breath. "Dean, I want us to get tattoos." Dean makes the mistake of looking over at Sam. He sees the hopeful expression that has so often gone hand in hand with the ‘voice’, and he knows he’s doomed. “You want what?” “Tattoos.” His expression shifts, becoming serious. “I, I had a dream Dean. A premonition. About…us…you.” His expression melts into distress, and fear settles in Dean’s gut like a lead weight. “You were…missing, and I couldn’t find you.” Sam’s voice fades, distressed and unhappy, and he drops his eyes to his lap. Dean crosses the room, and cups Sam’s chin. He can’t help the small, selfish part of him that never ceases to be warmed by such demonstrations of how much Sam cares. “Sammy, it’s ok. Maybe it’s just a dream.” He doesn’t know which of them he’s trying to reassure. “It wasn’t.” “You sure?" “Yes. Dean, I'm not going to make the same mistake with you that I made with Jess.” “Sam, Jess… her death wasn’t your fault.” “Don’t, ok?” He pulls away from Dean. Dean wants to hold Sam, wants to shake him until he can convince his brother that nothing he could have done would have saved Jess once the demon had decided to kill her. “Sam…” “It’s not about Jess anymore. It’s about you, now. If anything does happen to you, if you should… disappear, I need to know I’ve got a way to find you.” “Well, ok, but I still don’t see how a tattoo is going to help. Unless you’re thinking of writing ‘Property of Sam Winchester’, and I love you man, but you can forget that idea.” Sam manages a grin and much to Dean’s relief, shakes his head. “No. I did some research, and I think the best thing is a rune spell.” “A what?” “A rune spell. You know, runes. The druids used them to…” “Sam. I know what runes are. Don’t look at me like that, I do. So what kind of spell?” “Protection, bonding, healing, kinship, positive energy.” He hands Dean a scrap of paper inscribed with seven runes, their names and their meanings. It makes Dean realize that Sam’s serious about this. Dean wants to refuse. He’s not real keen on the idea of something so potentially powerful being permanently etched on his skin, but Sam’s so earnest, so sincere, that it’s pointless to resist. “And you want me to get this as a tattoo?” “Both of us. I want both of us to have this tattoo.” “And I suppose you’ve already figured out where to go to get this done?” Sam has the grace to look slightly sheepish, but it’s little consolation against the realisation that Sam’s got this all planned out. “I’ve found someone who knows how to empower the spell at the same time as tattooing it, and they’re only a couple of days from here.” Dean sighs. “Ok, fine. If it’s going to make you feel better. Anything to stop you acting like girl all the damned time.” Sam rolls his eyes, then grins, grateful and loving and Dean can’t help but lean down and kiss his brother. He meant for it to be a quick kiss, chaste and restrained. But Sam opens his lips and then they’re really kissing, deep and wet and when Sam slides a hand around the back of Dean’s neck and pulls, Dean goes willingly. He ends up sitting in Sam’s lap, thighs spread over Sam’s. Dean wonders if this is always how it’s going to be between them. Wonders whether he’ll survive if it’s taken away from him again. Sam tugs the towel away from Dean’s waist, and twists until Dean’s flat on his back on the bed, under his brother. Sam trails his mouth over Dean’s jaw, down his neck, fingers stroking over Dean’s chest, a hint of nail making him arch towards Sam. There’s something almost reverent about the way Sam touches him, and it makes Dean feel ten feet tall, and totally unworthy of that adoration. He tries to move, tries to reciprocate, but Sam presses him back down, and whispers “Let me do this” against the skin of Dean’s stomach. He can’t help the way his hips jerk, and his breath catches when Sam slides his mouth slowly down over Dean’s cock. Christ, it’s the dirtiest and the hottest thing Dean can imagine, and he doesn’t know whether he’s furious, jealous, or grateful that this clearly isn’t the first time Sam’s done this. Sam’s tongue flicks against the underside of Dean’s cock, and somehow he’s got hold of the lube, because one of those freakishly long fingers is sliding into Dean and fuck, that’s good. He’s not used to letting someone else take control, but he trusts Sam, trusts him with his life, his soul, and whether he wants to or not, with his heart. If it were anyone but Sam, he’d be vaguely embarrassed by how quickly he comes, but he’s too surprised by the rush of orgasm to care. He’s still too sated and boneless to move, even as Sam crawls up his body, and kisses him, making Dean pull faces at the taste. The slow slide of Sam’s cock inside him dispels some of the lethargy, and he arches into his brother, hands clutching at Sam’s shoulders, hips catching Sam’s rhythm. Sam’s gentle, his strokes are long and slow, but deep, and the sensation is right on the edge between pleasure and over sensitivity. It doesn’t take too long before Sammy’s motion becomes erratic, and then he freezes, buried as deep as he can get in Dean’s body, shuddering and gasping Dean’s name, over and over. Sam pulls back, making Dean wince slightly. “Damn, I’m sorry…” “Sam, shut the hell up. You ruined the last afterglow, let me have this one in peace, ok?” Sam laughs, and slumps next to Dean. The atmosphere between them is easy, comfortable. If this is the way they’re going to spend all their mornings, Dean thinks that maybe he doesn’t want his old self back, after all.

He doesn't like Dean's attitude, but he knows that now is not the time to call his son on it. Sam's pale and sweating, leaning heavily on his arm. Dean leads the way, alert and cautious. Sam stumbles, despite John's help, but he doesn't let John stop. They need to stay focused, but he needs to know what Sam’s vision was. "What did you see?" The shudder that runs through his son's body makes John nervous, despite himself. Whatever it was it clearly wasn't good, and from the way Sam doesn't take his eyes off Dean, John reckons it must have been about Dean. "It was...I..." Another shudder, and Sam swallows hard, as if he's fighting back the urge to puke. "I'll explain later. I just want to get out of here." The way he says it, John's suddenly not so sure he wants to know what the vision was after all. They head down the stairs, Dean still leading, gun sweeping the wide hallway. He's halfway to the door when he slows and looks back over his shoulder, eyes looking for Sam. His eyes are concerned, though his expression is grim and determined. He meets Sam's gaze, and some of the tension seems to leave Sam. He stands a little straighter, leans on John a little less. Dean looks back towards the door as he takes another step. He doesn't get to take a second step, because there's a sound like the building is being torn apart and a hole somehow opens up in the floor right beneath Dean's feet. John watches in shocked horror as his eldest son drops like a stone, dimly aware of Sam screaming for his brother. Sam pulls away, and lunges for the rip, but even as he reaches it, the hole closes, leaving Sam scrambling desperately at the floorboards, nearly sobbing in frustration. John can't move, he's literally frozen in place, shocked to the core. He finally manages to pull himself together and heads for Sam, who's slamming his fist into the unyielding floor, his vocabulary reduced to 'Dean' and 'no'. "Sam. SAM. We need to get out of here and figure out what to do." "No. We can't leave Dean here. We have to find him." "We will. But we need to figure out what we're dealing with here. We're no good to him if we go stumbling blindly about." Sam takes a gulp of air, then another. John watches as he stands and turns to face John. His eyes are red and he's still far too pale, but he has that stubborn set to his face that John remembers all too well. "No. I'm not leaving without Dean." "Sam, don't be stupid. We're not leaving Dean, we just need to regroup." "I am not leaving. I won't abandon him in this place. I... the vision, it was about this place. About what it'll do to him if we don't find him." "What do you mean? What will it do to him?" John has a terrible sense of foreboding. "The vision, we were looking for Dean, here, in the house. And I, we found him...but..." Sam looks as he's going to be sick and this time John is quite certain he doesn't want to know, but Sam carries on anyway. "He was dead. Decaying. There were...maggots, everywhere. God, his face..." Sam's voice is trembling and John can't blame him. Just hearing Sam describe it is horrible enough. He can't imagine what it must have been like for Sam to actually see it. He takes a breath, trying to think past the paralyzing fear that they might already be too late. He rubs a hand over his face. Whatever he might feel about what's been going on between his sons, he's damned if he's going to lose his eldest son to whatever the fuck has taken him. "Ok. We need to search the house. We'll start in the basement." "No. We need to go up." "Sam, he fell through the floor." "I know, but he's upstairs, I know it, I can feel him." "You can what? What the hell are you talking about?" "We… I had a feeling that something might happen to Dean. We got tattoos..." "Runes." Sam looks surprised. "I saw them. I know what runes look like Sam." "Yeah. We, well, we used them to create a bond. So I could find Dean if anything... if anything happened." He's shocked. What they've done is permanent. He knows just how powerful those kinds of spell can be, and to have them as tattoos... dear God. He's damned well taught them enough that they must have known that. What they've done is deadly serious and John doesn't know whether that makes it better, or worse. "Alright, well, we'll talk about that later. Right now we need to find your brother. You fit to go hunting?" "Yessir." John takes a long, hard look at Sam. It's clear that Sam isn't anywhere near fit to be backing anyone up, but John knows how stubborn his son is and that any order to go wait in the car would be ignored. As much as he hates the thought, there's no way Sam is going to sit this one out. He can't condone what they've done, but, even though he can barely stand to admit it, even to himself, he understands. Bad enough that it's Sam's brother, worse still that he's his... He can't. He can't even think of the word in the context of his sons. He pushes everything else to the back of his mind and puts all his energy into concentrating on finding Dean. "I'll lead, you cover our asses." "But I know where we need to go." "You're in no state to be leading, not when we haven't got a clue what we're dealing with." For a second he thinks Sam is going to argue, but he watches as his son bites back the words and simply nods. "Lets go." He starts up the stairs, trying to fight the urge to rush. He's never been so scared. The thought of losing Dean is terrifying and he's honestly scared about the effect that loss would have on Sammy. He could lose both of them tonight. And if he did, what point would there be then? What reason would he have to carry on. Revenge against the demon that took Mary would be meaningless, if his sons were dead, or worse. He transfers his gun to his other hand, and wipes the sweat away. He can't afford to let the fear get a hold, or they might as well give up now. He's never given up on a hunt and he's damned if he's going to start now. **** Dean opens his eyes to complete black and a pounding headache. He remains still, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Five minutes later he can still barely see his own hand an inch or two in front of his face. He's relieved that the knock to the head hasn't left him blind, but the almost total darkness is unnerving, and it's going to make finding his way out of wherever the hell he is that much harder. He sits up and gropes around on the floor, trying to figure out if his gun is nearby. After turning in a complete circle, he gives up. The damned thing could be within half a foot of him, but unless he got lucky, he'd never find it. He tries to remember how he ended up here, but although he can recall finding Sam and Dad arguing again and the awful, sinking, realization that they were arguing because Dad had found out about Sam and him, and Sam's vision, everything after that is a bit of a haze. He rubs the back of his head gingerly, wincing when he finds a sore spot. He's presumably still in the house somewhere, in a room of some description he assumes, but beyond that, he's not prepared to make any further guesses. There's no sound at all, though he strains to catch something. He has no idea how big the room he's in is, where the walls are, what shape the room is or anything. He reaches into his pocket for his cell phone. He flips it open, and curses loudly when there is no response. No amount of button pressing and shaking and banging it on the floor seems to work. He pockets the phone and stands cautiously, hands held out in front of him. He shuffles forward, carefully. The last thing he needs is to fall over some random piece of furniture that he can't see and sprain or break something. It's very unnerving and he's not sure whether he feels claustrophobic, or agoraphobic. It feels simultaneously as though walls he can't see are closing in on him and that he's all alone in a huge empty void. He wipes sweaty palms down his jeans and wishes he still had his gun. It's nothing concrete, no sound in the unnatural silence, no movement in the stillness, nothing moving in the impenetrable blackness, but he knows, with a sudden certainty that raises the hair on the back of his neck, that there's a presence in the room. His skin breaks out in goose bumps as that sense of something seems to creep closer. The smell hits him next, the sickly sweet stench of death and decay that he's all too familiar with. The reek is so strong that it makes him gag. Swallowing back the bitter bite of bile, he backs slowly away from the direction he thinks the thing, whatever it is, is, one hand reaching out behind his back, one in front of him, wanting to find a wall; to get his back against something. His foot catches on something and before he can steady himself, he overbalances and lands heavily on his ass. The smell is stronger, and he has a horrible thought that he knows exactly what it is he's tripped over. Nevertheless, he gets to his knees, and reaches blindly out until his hand connects with the object on the floor. It takes a couple of seconds before he realizes that the movement under is fingertips is a mass of writhing, wriggling maggots. "Oh fuck." He yanks his hand away and scrambles backwards as quickly as he can across the floor until his back finally hits a wall. He can still feel the fat, squirming maggots against his skin and it makes him shudder with revulsion. The darkness is oppressive and for the first time, he's just a little afraid. He's never been scared of the night, even when he learnt what evil dwelt in it, but right now, he's prepared to admit that he's seriously freaked out. There must be a way out of this place, away from the rotting, maggot-ridden corpse. He takes a shallow breath. Then another. Finally he pushes himself to his feet, back still braced against the wall. He puts his hands flat against the wall and begins to edge slowly around the room, feeling for a door, a window, any way out of the room. He counts the corners, and when he reaches five with no sign of anything but bare walls, he stops, sliding down the wall. He draws his knees up, wrapping his arms around them and resting his forehead on his knees. Sammy'll be looking for him. All he has to do is stay calm and stay alive until Sam finds him. He just hopes that Sam hurries the hell up. **** When the wave of emotion from Dean overwhelms him, he and Dad have just finished searching the last room on the first floor. They've gone over every inch, torn the place apart, damn near, but there's just no sign of Dean anywhere. He's already slightly panicky when the sensation hits. He gets revulsion, loneliness, unease and the faintest hint of fear. He sees nothing but darkness, although he can sense the other presence in the room. It's this other presence that scares Sam most, because he can feel its malevolence, even through the bond, although he doesn't think that Dean is aware of it. He tries to reach through the bond, to send Dean some reassurance. For a second, he's not sure whether he succeeds or not, but then he gets something back. The emotions are so jumbled he can't identify them all. What he does recognize is relief and trust. As quickly as it came, the vision and the connection are lost, as if someone slammed a door between him and Dean shut. The suddenness leaves him shocked and gasping. He blinks and instead of darkness, he finds Dad in front of him, hands wrapped around Sam's biceps. He recognises the look on Dad's face as worry, but he still feels a little distracted. "Sam. What the hell happened? Sam? Talk to me, damnit." "I felt Dean. I saw what he's seeing." "What? What the...? How can you see what he's seeing?" "The bond." Dad just looks at him for a second and Sam wishes circumstances were anything other than what they are, because he'd really like the opportunity to appreciate the look of almost stupid incomprehension on Dad's face before it melts into fear and anger. "How... My God, what have you done?" "I needed to know I could find him. I, we, wanted something permanent." "Do you have any idea what you've done?" "Yes. I know exactly what we've done. Now can we argue about this later. I want to find Dean and get him the hell out of this house." Dad looks as though he's going to argue and Sam spares a thought for the fact that Dean was right; he and Dad really can't spend five minutes in the same room without arguing. But Dad visibly swallows down whatever he was going to say, for at least the second time tonight. "Ok. Then we keep looking." The look on Dad's face indicates that he's not done talking about the relationship between Sam and Dean. It's a conversation Sam isn't looking forward to, but all he wants now is to find Dean as quickly as possible. He tries to feel for him through the bond, but what he gets is vague and indistinct. He fights back the panic, pushes off the wall and lets Dad lead the way out of the room as they head for the top floor of the building. **** They've been searching for hours. They've been through every room in the house at least once, from top to bottom and they've found nothing but dust and cobwebs. There's no sign anyone else has been here for years. It's as if Dean has just vanished. Sam's visibly shaken and panicky, and frankly, John's not much better, though he's had more practice at hiding it. Living the life they've lead, he's always dreaded the day one of his boys was seriously hurt. But not knowing what's happened to his eldest son, that's a whole new level of torture that he's never considered. He'd never realized anything could be worse than the gut wrenching twist of fear whenever his sons had been hurt. Sam's sitting on the stairs, head in his hands, looking as though his whole world has ended. John has no idea what to say to him. Anything he might once have said about getting Dean back seems inadequate now, somehow. He can't understand, let alone excuse what they've done, but he can understand Sam's despair. His heart aches for the fact that his youngest child has had to go through this pain not once, but twice. He's determined that Sam won't have to suffer the loss of a loved one for a third time. They are going to get Dean back, no matter what it takes. John'll sacrifice damn near anything to save his sons. He doesn't care how long it takes, he'll find Dean. Everything else is irrelevant until Dean's safe. "Sam." Sam doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge John in anyway. He reigns in his automatic irritation and walks over, crouching down in front of his son. He hesitates for a moment, then reaches out, and catches one of Sam's hands in his. "Sam. I swear we're going to get Dean back. I promise. But we need to figure out what the hell we're dealing with here." He can feel Sam tense and when he attempts to pull his hand out of John's and stand, John just tightens his grip and pulls him back down. "I know you don't want to leave until we find him, but we need to do some research. We... I must have missed something. Once we understand this thing, we'll come back and we'll find him, Sam. We're not helping him by exhausting ourselves stumbling around blindly." "Ok. But I'm coming back at dusk, no matter what." Sam's voice sounds small, but defiant. "We'll both come back. I'm not leaving him here either. I want him back too, Sam." He can't help the way his voice cracks just a little. He realizes now that he never really understood just how much it's Dean's presence that keeps them together, keeps them sane and whole. Sam looks up at the catch in John's voice and his eyes are filled with unshed tears and grief. It's pure instinct that has John pulling his son into his arms, letting Sam clutch at him with desperate hands and bury his face in John's shoulder. He holds his son tightly, gently stroking his back, trying not to let his own tears fall. "Oh God, Dad. I want him back. I want him back so much." John knows that he bears the blame for the shift in his sons’ relationship. He forced them to grow up too fast, forced them to rely on no-one but each other. He taught them that the normal rules didn't apply to them. He hates the thought of what they've done, but in the face of Sam's honest and open misery, he can't condemn them. "I know, Sammy, I know." He has no idea how long he kneels there, trying to offer what solace he can, trying not to transmit his own fears, but by the time Sam pulls away, rubbing his hand over his face, John's knees are screaming and his back is aching. Sam hasn't needed, or wanted, John's comfort for a long time and it makes John realize how much he misses his sons. "Come on, let's get back to the hotel and find out what's going on." Sam nods, and they both stand and walk to the front door. John walks through, going a few steps before he realizes that Sam's not with him. He turns back to find that Sam's on the threshold, looking back into the house. John can't see his face, but he can tell from the body language that it's killing Sam to have to leave, knowing that Dean's in there somewhere, alone. John's never had much time for gods, but he whispers a quiet prayer for both his sons, because if they don't get Dean back alive, he doesn't think Sam's going to survive. He doesn't know if he will, either. ***** It's already afternoon and although Sam hasn't slept in over twenty-four hours, it's the last thing on his mind. He's living on coffee and fear. He's also ready to throw the laptop across the room because despite spending so long in front of it his eyes are gritty and his neck is killing him, he hasn't found one damned thing that is going to help them get Dean back. Dad's been to the library, spoken to half the town, searched through his journal and rung people Sam hasn't even heard of. Nothing so far has told them anything they didn't already know. They've got about an hour before dusk, and Sam can feel the despair clawing at his guts. It's that desperation that makes him click on the last link on his search page. At first glance, it's the usual run-of-the-mill, poorly designed ghost web page. He's about to close the browser and start getting his stuff together for tonight when he sees in the index a page about the house that's taken Dean. He clicks and what he reads finally gives him some hope. **** "You're kidding me? A secret room?" There are times when Dad and Dean sound so alike and right now, that hurts more than Sam would have thought possible. "It looks as though when the house was originally built, there was a room that wasn't on the plans. A room that shouldn't exist. The doorway is apparently in an outside wall, but the room can't be seen from the outside of the house. Some people thought it was a gateway." "To where?" Sam shrugs. "To Hell, I guess." "Right." "Anyway, no-one knew about this room until one day the owner and builder was found dead, half in and half out of the room. There wasn't a mark on him and no-one could figure out why he died. The local people decided to ward the room, so that no-one could accidentally stumble into it and then they built another wall in front of it, to make doubly sure." "So how is this linked to... people disappearing? We didn't find that room." Sam knows that Dad was going to say 'Dean' rather than 'people' and he has to swallow down his own panic again. "I think that if that room was a doorway to somewhere else, maybe something came through. Something that killed the original owner and has now found another way to take people who venture into the house." "But what does it want them for?" "No idea and to be honest, I don't care. I just want to find that room and get Dean out." "You know where to look?" "Yeah." "You know how to break the wards and open the door?" "I think... Yeah." "Good." Dad accelerates and Sam goes back to praying that they're in time. **** Dean's been sitting in the same spot for hours. He has no idea exactly how long it's been as his watch appears to have stopped, probably around the time he ended up here. He knows he's been here a long time. Several times he's felt that same presence and more than once, something cold and clammy has brushed against his face. The touch makes him shudder with revulsion and brings with it the stench of decay, so strong it makes him gag and reminds him of the corpse, somewhere in the room. Not that he's forgotten it, as such. It's kinda hard to forget something like that, but most of the time he can push it to the back of his mind. He's hummed his way through every song he can remember, at least twice over. Then he's sung them until his throat is dry and sore. This is worse than flying; at least on a plane he can see. Here he feels helpless, alone and vulnerable and he hates it. It's that hate, that anger that he clings most fiercely to, using it to dampen the fear that gnaws constantly at him. He has to get through this, has to survive, because he can't leave Sam, not now. Not after everything they've been through, not now that he's finally allowed himself to start believing that Sam's his, that this time Sam'll stay; not for revenge, but because he wants Dean. He’s just too damned selfish to give that up, and no damned spirit is going to take it away. Not without a fight. Nevertheless, he hopes Sam finds him soon, because despite shifting positions several times, his legs are starting to cramp from sitting on the floor all day, he's tired and hungry and he just wants out of here, damnit. He tries taking deep breaths, beating down the panic, but then the lingering reek of rot and desolation seems to coat the back of his throat until he's choking on it. Oh God, let Sam find him soon. **** Sam's out of the car before it's even stopped moving. By the time John leaves the car, Sam's at the door, forcing John to break into a jog to catch up with him. He hopes that they aren't too late and just the thought leaves him sick with fear. They both race up the stairs, Sam's longer legs keeping him ahead of his father. John doesn't ever remember this combination of dread and anticipation running through his veins before, leaving him cold one minute and sweating the next. He's never been on a hunt where the stakes have meant so much to him, not even when he though they had the demon in their grasp at last. Sam races down a corridor, only to stop so suddenly, half way down, that John nearly crashes into him. "What the fuck, Sam?" When Sam doesn't answer, he looks at his son, only to find he's trembling and his face is deathly pale. "Sam. What the hell is wrong?" "My vision. This is the hallway from my vision." Fuck. John would give anything to never hear that raw desperation in his son's voice again. "We're not going to lose him Sam, you hear me. We're not." Sam still looks shaken but he nods and hefts the sledgehammer he's brought with him. John reaches out and grips Sam's shoulder, trying to offer what comfort he can. After a second's pause, Sam copies the gesture and John has one of those rare, treasured moments when he feels a deep connection to his son. It only lasts a moment, then Sam's pulling away, walking to the end of the corridor. He takes a deep breath and then draws the sledgehammer back. The first blow drags John out of his reverie and he follow Sam, lifting his own sledgehammer, timing his first blow to hit on Sam's upswing. It feels like forever before the wall finally gives way and starts crumbling beneath their blows. Whoever built it was serious about keeping people out. It worries John that despite the precautions, whatever is in that room has found a way to reach out into the rest of the house. He tries not to think about it, concentrating instead on maintaining a steady rhythm with the hammer, letting the physical activity bring him some measure of calm. He's so caught up that it takes him a second to realize that Sam's stopped. He pauses, mid swing and Sam darts forward, scrabbling at the crumbling brickwork, pulling bricks from the wall with his bare hands. John drops the hammer and grabs a crowbar from his bag. "Sam, move." Sam gives no indication that he's heard John, still pulling at the masonry like a man possessed. John grabs one of his wrists, and hauls him out of the way, dodging his other arm as it flails at him. "Damnit Sam. You're going to tear your fingers to shreds. Now move. Get the other crowbar and help me." He doesn't wait to see what Sam does, turning his attention to the wall. He hears Sam take a shaky breath behind him and then his son is beside him again, helping him pry loose the bricks. It takes them a while, but eventually they've cleared a slightly larger than door sized hole in the wall. A couple of feet behind which is nothing but another blank wall. John has to restrain himself from smashing the crowbar into it in frustration and fear. "Fuck." "No, no. The door was warded, they must have used one of those wards to hide it." "You know how to find it?" "Yeah. I think so. Hang on." Sam dives back to his bag, digging around for a second before moving back to the wall with a scrap of paper and a stick of chalk in his hand. John raises an eyebrow; he can't help it. Sam ignores him steps up to the wall. John can see how his hand is shaking when he raises the chalk, but before it touches the wall, the shaking stops, and Sam's hand is steady as he begins to draw a rectangle, all the while reciting something under his breath, a little too quietly for John to make out what language he's speaking, let alone what he's saying. It's not until Sam finishes the rectangle that John realizes what he's drawn. A door. Despite himself, John can't help but shiver. A gateway to hell. These things always seem faintly ridiculous, until you're standing in front of them. If that really is a gateway, God knows what's in there. God knows what state Dean's going to be in. John offers another silent prayer to any benevolent deity that might be listening that his eldest son is as strong as John has always tried to make him. Sam finishes speaking and the silence that follows is so absolute that the hairs on the back of John's neck stand up. Sam steps back, away from the wall, eyes fixed on the chalk outline. Just as John's about to ask what went wrong, there's a rush of something, like the touch of an icy cold hand down his spine that raises goose bumps on every inch of skin. For a brief instant he feels something like the crackle of static electricity across his body, before the sensation is gone, so fleeting he can't be entirely sure he didn't imagine it, except for the way that Sam's shuddering as well. He looks back over and discovers that there is now a heavy wooden door where before there was unobtrusive wall and chalk. Every instinct he has is telling him that opening the door is a spectacularly bad idea. But Dean's behind that door please God, let him be behind that door; let him be alive and well and he promised Sam they wouldn't leave without his brother. He can see Sam swallow hard. He's about to ask, when the answer becomes all to obvious. If the corridor was in Sam's vision, then the door must have been as well. "The vision, we were looking for Dean, here, in the house. And I, we found him...but... He was dead. Decaying. There were...maggots, everywhere. God, his face..." If Dean isn't alive and well, he swears that he will not stop until the thing in this house, in that room is dead. Even if he has to take the house apart, brick by brick to find it. Sam steps forward and pushes the door, which swings open silently. Beyond is pitch black. Sam's about to step through when John stops him with a hand on his arm. He grabs a gun and a flashlight from his bag and presses them into Sam's hands. He wants to say something reassuring, something comforting, but the words elude him. Instead he squeezes Sam's hands, quickly, astonished and suddenly choked when Sam's eyes shine wetly. Sam looks down, blinks very hard and then nods. He gently pulls his hands back, adjusting his grip on the gun and bringing the flashlight up, then takes a step forward. John grabs another flashlight and gun and follows him to the doorway. **** Sam steps through the doorway, to find the room on the other side is utterly dark, no hint of light from the outside world filtering thorough. The scent of decay has him swallowing back bile. He holds on to the thought that the only other time he's had a vision involving Dean dying, he managed to save him then. The flashlight doesn't penetrate the darkness more than a couple of feet and his skin crawls. He can sense the malevolence in the air, an almost tangible presence. He tries hard not to think about the fact that Dean's been trapped here for almost twenty-four hours, alone. He hears something behind him, and turns. He can just see the glimmer of Dad's flashlight and he realizes that the noise is Dad, trying to talk to him. He edges back to the door. "...Sam, are you listening to me?" "It's the room." "What?" "The room, it muffles sound, just like it seems to swallow light." "Damn. Ok, you start at one side, I'll start at the other." "No. One of us needs to stay by the door, make sure it doesn't close." "Then you stay, you know how to open it." "No. I need to do this. I need to find him Dad. I can't stand here and wait." "And you think I can?" "Please Dad, I need to." Dad glares at him, then he nods once, and moves to stand in the doorway, shoulder braced against the open door. "Then go. Go find him. Bring him back." Sam nods back and heads back into the room, trying to use what little light that the room doesn't soak up to see where he's going. He reaches out to Dean through the bond, but there's nothing there and that terrifies him. He tries to cross the room slowly, watching and listening for whatever the thing that's take Dean is, but the knowledge that his brother's in here somewhere has him moving more quickly than he should and it's his haste that causes him to fall over a lump on the floor that he just never sees. He lands heavily on his hands and knees, cursing, but managing to hold on to both the gun and the flashlight. The impact sends pain shooting up his arms. He ignores it, turning around to see what he's fallen over, although he already knows what he's going to see. The flashlight outlines the body Sam tripped over, and he barely needs the dim light to see that the face is obscured by fat, squirming maggots. The sense of despair is overwhelming and he's choking on his tears and trying not to puke. He wants to scream, to howl and cry, to find something, anything to shot, to kill, to hurt. The sense of loss is like nothing he's felt before; not growing up knowing what happened to Mom, not even losing Jess. Dean's been everything to him and the thought of living without him is unbearable. He'd rather die alone in this room, next to his brother's decaying body than carry on alone. A sudden touch on his shoulder sends him jerking backwards, hand brushing the maggot-ridden corpse, helpless to stop the shout of revulsion and shock that escapes him. He brings the flashlight and gun up, hands shaking. "You scream like a girl, Sam." Dean's voice is hoarse and rough but he's alive and that's all Sam cares about. The flashlight plays across Dean's face, highlighting his cheekbones, making him squint despite the dim light. Sam drops his gun and reaches out a hand, almost afraid to touch, in case it's all an illusion. Then his fingertips brush across Dean's cheek and the relief of having found Dean makes him sob. Dean wraps a hand around his neck and pulls him close, resting his forehead against Sam's. They sit like that for a minute, then Dean pulls back a little and tips Sam's face up. "Oh, Sammy." He brushes his thumb over what Sam is sure are tear tracks. "Dean." He leans forwards as Dean moves and then they're kissing with frantic haste and Sam wonders if Dean can taste his despair. It takes a massive effort to pull away from Dean, but he knows they need to get out of this room, before whatever the hell is in here makes another attempt. He picks up his gun. "Are you ok? Can you stand?" "Just about. My legs have gone to sleep and my ass is numb, but I'll live. Give me a hand up." Sam stands and pulls his brother up with him. Dean leans on him and Sam wraps Dean's arm around his shoulders, and his own arm around Dean's waist. He hands Dean the flashlight and they make their way across the room, avoiding the corpse. It's a relief to see the faint shine of Dad's flashlight as they approach the doorway. As they get closer, he realizes that Dad isn't looking at them, that he's shouting, trying to make himself heard. Sam senses the presence behind them at the same time Dean curses under his breath. They speed up, but as they get closer to Dad and the doorway, Sam finally makes out what Dad's shouting. "Get down. For God's sake, get down." Sam drops to his knees and pulls Dean down with him. As they hit the floor he hears the muffled roar of Dad's shotgun. He ignores the ache in his knees, and half drags Dean towards the door, bent double to avoid getting in Dad's line of fire. He hears Dad fire at least twice more, then he's stumbling across the threshold, damn near sending both he and Dean sprawling onto the floor in his haste to get out of the room. He turns back, catching sight of something moving in the room. He can't make out anything distinct, it's vague and ill defined, just a slightly different shade of black to the rest of the room, but he can feel a sense of anger and menace emanating from it, nonetheless. The shotgun fires, one last time, and then Dad steps back and slams the door shut. "Dean..." Dad's voice cracks and then he's on his knees beside Dean. "Hey." Dad suddenly throws his arms around Dean and fists his hands in Dean's jacket, holding him so tightly, as if he's afraid to let go. Sam understands the need to touch, to reassure himself that Dean's really here. Dean holds onto him almost as tightly and it's long moments before they pull back. "Good to see you, son." "You too Dad." "Lets get out of here." Between them, he and Sam get Dean back on his feet. Sam again wraps Dean's arm around his shoulders and his own around Dean's waist and they follow Dad. They're halfway down the stairs when the house starts creaking and groaning around them. Cracks appear, running down the walls and across floors and ceilings. "Fuck. Come on, we need to get the hell out of here." Dad wraps Dean's other arm around his own shoulders, and they rush down the stairs as quickly as they dare. By the time they reach the entrance hall, the house is falling apart around them, huge chunks of plaster and masonry breaking off of the walls and ceilings. A huge rift appears, right in front of the door, around the same place that Dean disappeared last night. John looks at Sam as Dean shudders between them. Sam lets go of Dean and jumps across the gap. He holds out his hand and Dean takes it. With Sam pulling and John pushing, Dean makes it across the hole and into Sam's arms. John follows and taking his place at Dean's side, they cross the porch and stumble across the overgrown driveway. "Stop. Stop." Dean pulls back. "What? Dean, lets just get out of here." What the hell does Dean want to stop for. "No. I want to make sure. I want to see that place burning." "Damn it Dean, now is not the time to indulge your bizarre fascination with fire." "I need to make sure." Sam recognizes the tone of voice. Dean is as stubborn as hell and when he gets that tone, there's no arguing and no reasoning with him until he's got his own way. "Dean's right. We should make sure. We'll need to come back tomorrow and salt the land, but burning the place until then is the best way." Dad unwraps his arm from Dean's waist, and leaves him leaning on Sam. He heads for the car and pulls a can of gas from the trunk. They head back to the house, Dean still leaning on Sam. The house no longer seems to be collapsing, but Sam can still hear sounds of creaking and groaning, as if the house is screaming in rage about their escape. He shivers. Dad uncaps the gas can, and throws it through the still open door. Dean takes his arm from round Sam's shoulders, although Sam doesn't take his arm from Dean's waist, despite Dad's sideways glare. Dean takes his lighter and flicks it open, spinning the wheel until the flame catches. He throws it into the house, and Sam watches it tumbling, then landing right in the puddle of gas spilling from the can. "Fuck you, bitch." The back draft as the gas ignites into a fireball blows the door shut, but he can see flames leaping behind the glass in the door. "Do you know who the body in the room belonged to?" Dean's voice is hoarse and he never takes his eyes off the house. "Not really. I'd guess it was the last person who went missing in the area, but there's no way of knowing for sure." Dean nods and keeps his attention firmly on the burning house. They watch the fire burn through the building until the roof finally collapses just as dawn breaks over the smoldering ruins of the house. Only then will Dean allow himself to be lead to the car. Sam helps him into the backseat, and then slides in after him. Dean is barely awake, and Sam can feel the worry and the lack of sleep catching up with him. Dean rests his head on Sam's shoulder and as Dad climbs into the driver’s seat, Sam can see his disapproving glare in the rear view mirror. He just can't bring himself to care. He has Dean back, safe and well and nothing else matters at the moment. Sam's nearly asleep himself by the time they get back to the hotel. It takes him several attempts to wake Dean, and even then his brother is only half awake. Dean stumbles as they head for their room and nearly pulls Sam down with him. Dad takes the keys from Sam and unlocks the door to his and Dean's room. Sam lets Dean tumble onto the bed. He turns to Dad, expecting and dreading the resumption of their previous argument. But Dad surprises him again. "Take care of your brother. We'll talk in the morning." "Dad?" "He needs someone to take look after him right now. You take good care of him Sam." He drops Sam's keys onto the table and walks to the door. "Make sure you salt the doorway and I'll see you boys in the morning." "Yessir." The door clicks closed behind Dad and Sam turns to his brother. Dean is stretched out on the bed, fully clothed. Sam sighs. He begins unlacing Dean's boots and then he undoes Dean's jeans, trying to pull them down his brother's legs without waking him. He's just dragged them and Dean's socks off when Dean speaks. "Sam. Get up here." Dean's voice is still husky and sleepy, and Sam could no more disobey than he could stop breathing. He crawls up to lie beside his brother and Dean rolls onto his side to face Sam. "I knew you'd come. I knew I just had to wait." "I'm sorry it took so long. I'm so sorry Dean." "Shhhh. It's ok. I'm here. We're ok." "What about Dad?" Dean sighs. "Dad'll have to make his decision Sam. There's nothing we can do. I'm not giving this up and if Dad can't accept that, well, that's his choice." Sam simply doesn't have the words to express how he feels and instead he leans forward and kisses Dean, slow and gentle. He pulls away eventually and despite his need to be close to Dean, he can tell that his brother is fighting just to stay awake. "Go to sleep Dean, I'll be here." Dean just nods and he's asleep mere seconds later, snoring softly. Sam cups his cheek and drops a quick kiss on his forehead, then gets off the bed to strip. He pulls the blankets out from under Dean, then slides carefully into bed behind him, covers them both with the blankets, wraps his arm around his brother and thanks every God and Goddess he can think of that Dean's safe. **** He wakes slowly the next morning, still pressed up against Dean. After the horror of the day before, the simple pleasure of having Dean in his arms is the most precious thing he can imagine. He slips quietly out of bed, leaving Dean to sleep while he showers, intending to dress and get coffee. When he leaves the bathroom though, Dean's awake already. They share a quick kiss, then Dean's heading for the shower. They've still got Dad to face, but that no longer worries Sam. He knows that somehow they'll make it through this. Dean's dressed, apart from his boots when the knock at the door comes. Sam looks at his brother. Dean takes a breath, crooks a half smile at Sam and nods. Sam manages a weak smile in return, then opens the door. Dad's there, holding three coffees. Sam can't tell if that's a good sign or a bad one, because he's never known Dad bring them coffee before. "Sam." Dad hands him a cup. "Dad." Dad walks into the room and passes a second cup to Dean. "Dean." "Thanks." There's an awkward pause, and Sam looks at Dean. Dean looks back and it's obvious he has no more idea of what to say than Sam does. Dad looks around the room and Sam inwardly flinches when his gaze lingers on the beds. It's obvious that only one has been slept in. In the end, it's Dad who broaches the subject first. "I can't condone this. I sure as hell don't understand it. But I can see that nothing I say or do is going to make any difference." Dean shifts uncomfortably and Sam holds his breath, hopeful and terrified in equal measure. "I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to accept that you're...what you're doing. But you boys are all I have and I don't want to lose you. I just… I need time to deal with this." "You'll be back?" Dean's voice is quiet, neutral, though it's obvious how much the answer means to him. "I... Yes. You're still my sons. Nothing will ever change that." Dean nods, outwardly calm, but Sam can feel through the bond the same relief flow through both of them. Dad nods back. Then he reaches out and pulls Dean into a hug no less heartfelt than the one he gave him last night. Sam watches and he can see the emotion flow across Dean's face. Dad eventually releases Dean and turns to Sam. He steps into Dad's arms and clings to his father as he once did when he was a child. Dad turns to leave, but as he opens the door, Dean calls out to him. "Make sure you leave your cell phone switched on this time." Dad turns back, shocked at first, then after a second or two he grins and nods. The soft snick of the door closing behind him sounds loud in the quiet room. Sam moves over to his brother, who's turned away. It doesn't hurt like it used to, that even now Dean won't, can't show his emotions, even around Sam. Sam knows now that he has time to earn Dean's total trust. He wraps his arms around his brother, and rests his head on Dean's shoulder, pressing his lips against Dean's neck. Dean is tense at first, then he relaxes, leaning back into Sam, trusting him to support him. This isn't the life Sam wanted. It isn't normal and it isn't safe. But now he has it, he wouldn't change it for any other.

Shining hours were brief-- Winter is over, summer is near: Are we stronger than we believe? **************************** (The following takes place between 3:00 pm and 4:00 pm.) The silver-gray late-model Dodge Ram 2500 barreled along the straightaways of the two-lane rural highway in the brilliant late May sunlight. The man at the wheel appeared completely relaxed as the truck skidded cleanly around the winding tight curves. His dark eyes were shaded by sunglasses and his equally dark hair was covered by a nondescript baseball cap. He drove as if he belonged there--perhaps a farmer, or a rancher, or, given the high rate of speed he was cruising at, a rig worker at one of the surrounding gas fields. Though Tony Almeida hailed from California, and had never been on the high prairies before; so he was surprised at how vivid the semi-arid landscape appeared today. The cerulean sky, the whiteness of high clouds and the deep brown tracts of fertile earth, interspersed with the emerald-green sprouts of early seed crops, jarred his vision. He'd been told that the prairies were usually yellow, or brown, dry and dusty under the unforgiving sun. But perhaps Jack hadn't been here long enough to fully appreciate the stunning beauty of this strange land in springtime. He'd called Jack when he landed at the airport in the city, just a brief one on the cell to prevent Jack's scrambled line from being traced, and Jack had given short instructions on how to get to his place. "Rent a truck," he'd advised gruffly. "You'll fit in better around here. Drive out of the city on the main highway until you reach secondary road nine and turn left. Stay on number nine, head north and east, until you come to the top of a long curved hill. It's about two hours out. Driveway's on your left, it's marked by a grove of trees. It's a blind hill and a hidden driveway so be careful when you turn. I'll meet you when you get in." And he'd hung up. The call had lasted all of twenty-three seconds. Tony was about fifteen minutes out now. The drive was uneventful because there wasn't much traffic on these roads, just the occasional farm truck, so he mulled over the reasons for this visit. Jack had been away for about eight months now; eight months since he'd saved the country yet again from near-total destruction from Marwan's dirty bomb; eight months since he'd stormed the Chinese embassy to capture a Chinese national who had been aiding the terrorists; eight months since that ass-wipe of an acting United States president repaid his service by agreeing to turn him over to the Chinese-- Eight months since Jack had supposedly died at the hands of the government whom he'd prized above everything else just so he wouldn't end up with the Chinese. And indeed, for all intents and purposes Jack Bauer was officially dead. Posthumously decorated for exemplary service to the country; cremated, mourned, and almost forgotten. Just as they'd planned. It had been eight months of silence punctuated only by the occasional brief phone call--just long enough to say "Hi, I'm still here, I'm OK." Not long enough for Tony to be convinced that was true. Now Tony was taking time out to visit the dead man surreptitiously, to see for himself how Jack was faring--an overnight trip to persuade himself that Jack was surviving as well as he claimed. He couldn't afford to stay longer, if he wasn't back by tomorrow night he'd be missed at work, and he didn't want to draw any undue attention to himself. He might not be in CTU any longer, but he still needed to be careful. Also, Michelle could need him any time, though she insisted she would be all right alone for one night. And he came to visit to give him some news; news that at any other time would be reason to celebrate; news that Tony decided in the end could only be delivered personally, rather than during a hurried phone call, because it was news that he was loathe to deliver when Jack was alone. He had a sneaking feeling that for this news, Jack might want (or need) to have a friend around. He was coming up to the hill now; there was the long crest with the grove of cottonwoods at the top marking the hidden driveway. He slowed down and prepared to turn. **************************** (The following takes place between 4:00 pm and 5:00 pm.) Dust rose from the gravel and the tires skidded on contacting the driveway. A slight incline from the highway led up towards the main house and outbuildings. Tony stopped the truck, parking alongside the black GMC Sierra at the end of the driveway; he shut the engine off, got out and looked around. The house was large, a renovated farmhouse with a low back roof and wide front porch. It was in excellent repair; the white wood siding had been freshly painted, and (Tony had to smirk at this) there was a good-sized well-tended garden surrounding the porch and leading halfway out into the lawn. Jack Bauer has a green thumb, he thought with wry amusement. Will wonders never cease? There was, however, no sign of the man, so Tony walked around to the back to check, boots crunching through the stones. The back lawn was surrounded on three sides by a grove of young elm trees, and, oddly enough, had a child's playhouse/swing set nestled to one side. It was much cooler and more comfortable in the shade compared to out front, and he noted two lounge chairs set out in the middle of the back grass. Probably sits back here evenings. In all, Jack had set himself up not too badly, he decided, on this acreage miles from the nearest town--it was comfortable, if isolated, but right now he figured that was precisely what he needed. Though he'd never pegged Jack as a prairie man, it somehow seemed to fit. Still looking around, he strolled to the edge of the hill; he could literally see for miles here, intently surveying the endless sea of land that stretched out before him all the way to the horizon. The black ribbon of highway snaked through the valley below and around the green expanse of treeless rolling hills; he saw the small roaming dots of cattle grazing in the lull of late afternoon. Tony couldn't help but feel a little awe-struck. He'd heard this land called God's country before; only now he believed it, staring up for a minute at the arching sky. Here was a place he could conceivably live with Michelle if they ever decided to break away from LA; here was a place to breathe. Tony wandered back around to the front, turned left, and saw Jack sauntering out from the ramshackle barn on the edge of the prairie, wiping his hands on his jeans. He'd let his straw-blond hair grow out a little and it hung in his eyes, making him look years younger. Jack looked healthier than Tony had remembered from the last time he'd seen him; tanned, not so gaunt, and more relaxed than he'd ever remembered him to be. A large chocolate brown Labrador retriever loped eagerly alongside Jack; the dog saw Tony first and ran towards him, barking excitedly. When Jack looked up, his face cracked into a broad welcoming grin. "Hey, Tony, how're you doing?" he called, and jogged towards Tony, hand extended. "Hey man, good to see you." Tony grasped the proffered hand and covered it with his other one. Jack clapped Tony on the shoulder. "How was the trip? Find the place easy enough?" "Pretty uneventful. And yeah, it was easy to find. Couldn't miss it." He reached down to scritch the dog's ears. "And who is this?" "Ah yes, Tony, meet Kola. She's supposed to be a guard dog, but she tends more to be a lounge dog," he snickered lightly. "Hey, Kola." Tony patted the dog's head and she nuzzled right up to him. "Friendly, aren't you?" "She's great. Grab your stuff and take it inside and I'll show you around." **************************** (The following takes place between 7:00 pm and 8:00 pm.) Tony had been impressed with the walking tour of the acreage, even more so when he learned that Jack was fixing it up by himself, as a renovation project, just to keep busy. He and Jack had wandered around and Jack pointed out the items that had needed fixing, renovating or replacing. "The roof, the flooring, the siding--" and the house did look almost fully restored, with gleaming hardwood floors and bright airy spaces. It seemed entirely alien to Tony--Jack Bauer domesticated--but Jack looked so pleased and proud that Tony didn't think about it anymore. The man had been through enough these past few years, it was time to heal--and he felt uneasy. They'd had dinner--steaks of course ("We need to support the local ranchers up here," Jack had commented, and Tony had raised a skeptical eyebrow--the idea of Jack Bauer cooking was even more foreign than the idea of Jack Bauer-the-handyman--but dammit, even he had to admit they'd been grilled to perfection), then they'd settled on the lounge chairs in the back garden with two bottles of beer between them. Kola laid her head on Tony's knee ("I think she likes you," Jack had smirked), and it felt like any other normal evening, two old friends shooting the breeze in the lazy dwindling daylight, just catching up on each other's lives. Tony wished it could stay that way. He started off though, with his own happy news first. "Twins?" TWINS?" Jack almost shouted in surprised, and genuine, joy. A huge grin split his face, and he reached over and wrung Tony's hand so hard it might have fallen off. Tony nodded. "Yeah. Six months already." He couldn't help but grin too, proudly, even shyly. "I can't believe it. Well, I can when I look at Michelle," he amended quickly. "She's pretty big." Jack's smile took on a wistful cast and sat back in his chair. "Have I been away that long?" "It's been eight months, Jack. You know I thought you would've stayed on in Mexico." "I did too, but with some of Ramon Salazar's former henchmen still lurking around--" Jack shrugged. "I almost ran into a few of them down there more than once." His eyes took on a distant, troubled look, then he briefly wiped his nose with his hand and recovered. "So I thought I'd head north for a while and settle around here for a bit. We used to live in Great Falls when my dad was stationed at Malmstrom. He came up here all the time to hunt, always loved the country up here." He raised his beer bottle and grinned again warmly. "Cheers, man." They clinked bottles and sipped. Jack then grinned and shook his head in disbelief. "Of all people I never figured you would be a father, Tony. I mean, I can see Michelle as a mother, but--" "Yeah, yeah," Tony rolled his eyes, "and I'll be dropping them on their heads, right?" Jack snickered, and Tony had to laugh too. "It's strange, but I really am looking forward to it. It's like a second chance, and you don't get those--" he stopped, wondering if he'd said the wrong thing, but Jack was nodding in agreement. "Michelle is just ecstatic. It's been a little difficult, carrying twins, she's had some problems but she's never been happier." "And she let you come up here?" "Ordered me, actually." Jack leaned back in the lounge chair and looked up at the darkening sky. "She deserves this. You both do." "Thanks, man." They sat for a bit in companionable silence. Tony though grew increasingly tense. While his own happy news had obviously been welcome to Jack, he didn't know how Jack would take the next bit--the real reason why he'd come to visit in person. Especially since it concerned Kim. He couldn't put it off any longer--Jack had to know--but now he'd wished he'd brought Michelle with him. He took a deep breath. "I saw Kim and Chase a couple days ago," Tony finally said, hiding his reluctance to speak any further behind a generous swig of Grasshopper ale. "Really? How are they?" Jack's voice, though fond, tightened just a bit and the light in his eyes dulled, though barely perceptibly. Tony didn't need to read Jack to know just how much he missed his daughter. "Good. Better than good, Jack." Here it was; Tony forced himself to relax. "They're--they're expecting too. You're going to be a grandfather, Jack. Congratulations." Jack gaped at him, thoroughly stunned; then he turned away and Tony swore he saw a slight tremble in the set of his shoulders. "Really? Really? That's--that's great, Tony." He was forcing himself to sound excited, Tony knew. "Just--great. So--so I'm going to be a grandfather." His arm moved; Tony knew it was so he could pinch the bridge of his nose and wipe his face, the classic Jack Bauer gestures of regaining self-control; he heard an audible sniff. When he turned back around, he was grinning lopsidedly, though the smile did not touch his eyes. "Yeah." Tony kept his voice deliberately even. "Kim's about three months along. She's not showing yet, but she will soon. She and Chase are thrilled and they're really looking forward to it." A beat of silence. Two. "Congratulations, Jack," he repeated sincerely. "Yeah--thanks." They shook hands again, but Jack's grip was considerably weaker this time and he was having trouble meeting Tony's concerned gaze. "She'll be a good mother," Jack said hoarsely. Tony winced at the hollowness in Jack's voice. "You know I'm happy for her and Chase." "I know." "Want another beer?" "I'm fine." "I'm going to get another one, I'll be back--" Jack rose quickly and went into the house, leaving Tony alone with his thoughts. He wondered briefly, whether to go after him or not; no, it was best to leave him his space for now. Jack was a private man who preferred to suffer alone, but Tony hoped Jack knew he wasn't alone in this. Although his own situation, he realized sourly, might be considered a slap in the face. He wouldn't have had it though, if it hadn't been for Jack. That phone call eight months ago had saved him, he knew, had given Tony Almeida back his life. Jack had indirectly given him back Michelle, and a future. God knew that Jack deserved a happy one too... That morning eight months ago, after they'd said their somewhat awkward goodbyes and shook hands, Tony had watched Jack walk resolutely toward the orange glow of sunrise, to the waiting trains in the yard. Tony's eyes had stung badly as he watched Jack's slowly retreating back; at the time he swore to himself that it was only the acrid smog hanging in the air that irritated his eyes. Though he couldn't help but think, sure they'd brought Jack back to life to escape--but to what? And then there was Kim. Kim of course didn't know that Jack hadn't been killed in CTU. Jack had thought it was better that way. Letting her believe her father was dead, letting her go without a goodbye, had been the hardest thing Tony knew Jack had ever done. So Tony promised he would take care of her. The day of the staged funeral had been too bright and sunny. It should have been raining, but it hardly ever rained in Los Angeles. He'd enfolded Jack's only daughter in his arms as she sobbed brokenly into his neck and he wanted to cry too; with Kim, for Kim, and for Jack, for having to keep Jack's secret from this young woman who believed she was now completely alone in the world. Not until later that night--sitting alone in his living room as Michelle slept exhausted in their bed, and with the false company of a bottle of Jack Daniels' finest--did Tony finally allow himself to cry as he drank, trying his best to forget but compelled to remember all the same. He shook his head in frustration as the tears slid down his face; he hated that he was drinking, he hated that he was crying, he hated that he was drinking in order to cry. Though eventually the whisky served its purpose and numbed him completely, and sometime around two in the morning he passed out. Waking up in the armchair with a pounding hang-over the next day, he nevertheless dragged himself into the office to finish the paperwork that finalized his and Michelle's own resignations from CTU. Tony hadn't touched a drop of hard liquor since then. But, Tony thought, he'd had it relatively easy this time around: he got everything back. While Jack Bauer had slowly lost everything over these past four and a half years. His wife and unborn child to a twisted double agent; his health to the brutal torture he'd endured; his dignity when he took up smack as part of his undercover op; his moral compass, when he killed Chappelle; his happiness with Audrey, when he chose a terrorist's life over that of the man who took a bullet for him; finally his entire identity, abandoned by the very government he'd sacrificed everything to defend. And yet, he'd dealt. Picked himself up, dusted himself off, and soldiered on in the face of those staggering losses. Every. Single. Time. There was no one he knew who was possibly as strong as Jack Bauer. Conversely, there was no one else he knew who was so desperately alone. It wasn't right. Jack hadn't come back yet since going in. Tony got out of his lounge chair to look, Kola trailing behind, and found him leaning against the front porch rail, staring blankly out into his front yard, with a bottle of Scotch dangling from the tips of his fingers. So Tony wordlessly sat down on the steps beside him. **************************** (The following takes place between 11:00 pm and 12:00 am.) Tonight Tony drank hard liquor with Jack, for the first time in eight months, if only to keep him company; though he kept strictly to sipping a couple of shots while Jack crawled far too eagerly into the single-malt Scotch. It was an unseasonably warm and humid night for late May, in contrast to the dryness of the day; heavy clouds began to roll in and the air hung close and thick around them, promising rain. For most of the evening they sat on the steps of the front porch, speaking very little, just listening idly to the chirping of the crickets in the grass and playing fetch with Kola, until the sun dropped behind the horizon. In the graying twilight the sand flies picked up, smelling the incipient rain, and the mosquitoes came out to feed on warm blood; once they started slapping themselves more than the pests, they retired inside. In the darkened living room, Jack sat on one end of the couch with his legs folded beneath him and Tony sat in the nearby armchair. Kola curled up on the opposite end of the couch. One tumbler, and three bottles of Scotch, sat on the scuffed wooden coffee table between them. One of the bottles was empty, the second just started; Tony wondered just how often Jack sat alone like this in the quiet dark, with or without the Scotch for company. He seemed far too comfortable with it. Jack finally staggered off the couch to head upstairs to bed. He took two steps before his knees wobbled and he landed on the floor with a hard thud, shaking violently. Tony thought, this is it, trying to prepare himself with a sinking heart as he knelt beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. But when Jack raised his bowed head, those striking, haunted blue/green eyes were bone-dry. In some way that was even worse than if he'd collapsed sobbing--that he felt he could almost better deal with, though only just barely. And again he wished Michelle had come along--she'd know far better what to do. He didn't know how to handle-- "You know what the worst of it is?" Jack mumbled almost incoherently; the first real words he'd uttered aloud all evening. "What, Jack?" Tony replied softly. "Teri always wanted to be a grandmother," Jack whispered brokenly. "I never used to care one way or the other, but she--she loved kids, she wanted a whole brood of them, and when it was just Kim--And now she'll never know she has a grandchild, and I'll never even be able to tell her." Tony hauled Jack up, half onto his shoulders and half-walked, half-dragged his friend up the flight of stairs and into the master bedroom just off the landing. He dropped Jack gently onto the queen-size bed, swung his legs up and over, tugged off his scuffed shoes and peeled off his socks. Jack lay senseless on the bed as Tony unfastened his belt and pulled Jack's jeans off, leaving the T-shirt and boxers. He layered the sheets and duvet over him, and started to leave the room, preparing himself for a restless night on the sofa downstairs. He stopped short at Jack's slurred, desperate voice--a Scotch-smoothed gravel that ripped him right through--and Tony had to clutch at the door jamb to keep himself steady. "Don' leave me." Oh fuck, Jack. "Sure. Okay." Tony's voice was gentle, level, trying to disguise the grief for his friend that suddenly welled in his chest and threatened to spill over. Dammit, not now--He returned and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, reaching out to ruffle Jack's sweaty hair. The air had turned cold now, and he heard the wind pick up beyond the window, perhaps to fulfill that earlier promise of rain. "Don' leave me, Tony." "I'm here, I'm not leaving." Tony tried to sound steady and soothing through the pain, his calloused hand smoothing out the damp dirty blond strands off his forehead. "Don' go--" "Sshh. Sleep now, Jack." "Can'--" "Yes you can." "Not 'lone, Tony. Stay." "Sshh..." "Please." Tony closed his eyes against the plaintive, almost silent whisper. Jack Bauer had never, ever begged for anything, not as long as he'd known him. Not for anything, before this--Tony stripped to his boxers and T-shirt and slid under the covers beside Jack, putting a hesitant arm around Jack's shoulders, and Jack burrowed instinctively into him, craving warmth, touch, simple human comfort even in this drunken state. Tony leaned a stubbled cheek against Jack's limp hair. It comes to this, he thought hopelessly. We all break, even Jack--God, I'm so sorry... And Tony Almeida wondered, for the first time in his life, if he were indeed strong enough to be able to pick up the shattered pieces of his friend anymore. "I'm here," he soothed again, feeling utterly helpless. Jack clutched a handful of Tony's T-shirt in his fist and gripped tightly. In the dim light of the room Tony could just make out the faint tell-tale needle tracks up and down Jack's ropy forearms; thankfully just old healed ones, and none new, though now Tony wouldn't have blamed him in the least if there had been. He then felt ragged breathing against his neck and sudden dampness on his shirt; Jack was weeping silently into his shoulder. Tony tightened his embrace, wordlessly willing Jack peace now, and sleep. He remained awake until he felt the raggedness slow to light, even breaths, and the man relax into an uneasy slumber; Tony at last allowed the heaviness in his own eyelids to overtake him. **************************** (The following takes place between 4:00 am and 5:00 am.) Tony woke up in the suspended glow between darkness and dawn; the time when it was neither light nor dark, but completely gray, and its cast of shadow unreal. Rising from a surprisingly deep slumber, he felt a relaxing, warm presence beside him; and for a minute he was confused, thinking how the hell had Michelle managed to squeeze onto the sofa with him at home? Jesus, at six months she was already bigger than some full-term ladies, there was no way she'd be able to fit... But it didn't feel right, if it were Michelle there would be the swells of breast and gravid belly, not these flat planes, folded around him-- Then he saw the unfamiliar slants of rising narrow daylight through the slit between heavy blue curtains; hearing the patter of steady spring rain from outside, he dazedly remembered where he was, and why. Jack--he was here because Jack had asked him to be here, had asked him to stay-- And he had stayed, because he was Jack's friend, and he had privately vowed he would help Jack pick up the pieces even if it meant his own heart shattered in the process. But, somber as it was, all the same Tony oddly reveled in it, maybe more than he should have--simply to be in a bed again, instead of sleeping on the sofa at home to keep Michelle comfortable through a difficult pregnancy; and to lie beside someone close and solid and simply there was, well-- to have slept soundly for a few hours, lulled by the companionable warmth and steady breathing of another friendly body; something he'd sorely missed these past months because Michelle's comfort was paramount. All these disjointed thoughts crept through his sleep-addled brain, and it was all strangely soothing ... Jack was curled right up against him, chest against his side, warm humid Scotch-laced breath huffing lightly on his neck, one arm slung carelessly over his waist, pressing in-- Pressing-- Rocking slowly, almost languidly, back and forth, a growing erection nudging against his thigh-- Oh dear God. Jack was doing this in his sleep. He had to be--because even piss-assed drunk, Jack Bauer was normally too controlled a man to ask for anything beyond the usual niceties of friendship. Tony didn't think he could bear to ask otherwise--God, if Jack woke up right now and realized-- Tony wasn't sure either, how best to extricate himself from this situation. Rationally, he knew he should just roll over, pull away and pretend it was just an effect of dreaming; it would be easiest for both of them and they wouldn't have to fumble with explanations otherwise. But Lord it had been so long--four months at least, since Michelle had had that bleeding scare in the first trimester and the doctor had categorically ruled out sex for the rest of the pregnancy ... since they'd been ... intimate. Tony was growing very hard, very quickly and almost automatically with the thought. Straining against the thin cotton of his boxers, just with the remote, but tantalizing prospect of another person's touch, he was mortified that it was his best friend's seemingly unconscious rocking against his thigh that was arousing him-- Oh fuck. At the same time though, in the sleepy pre-dawn haze, he was strangely accepting of it. In his half-doze, Tony knew what Jack was asking, perhaps in the only way he could--they both knew far too much about loneliness anymore--and Tony could live with that. So Tony rolled over to face Jack. Jack stopped, pulling away abruptly as if ashamed of being caught, as if embarrassed about having this need; and so Tony knew it maybe wasn't just sleep influencing him after all. Well, it was sleep, and nearness, and alcohol, and warmth, but--Oh God, Jack ... and as Tony felt Jack shrink away and retreat inwards again he found himself considering what it all meant-- For in an eye-widening moment, Tony Almeida had pinpointed the precise instant Jack Bauer's world fell completely apart. It had been in the set of Jack's jaw, the slight slump of his shoulders, the way he'd avoided Tony's searching eyes and flinched at Tony's hand on his shoulder when Tony broke the bittersweet news. Jack hadn't melted into a sobbing, shaking mess on the floor; Jack Bauer wasn't like that. Nor had he exploded with a fist to Tony's face, though Tony rather wished he'd had; a blooming fist-shaped bruise under his eye would have been much easier to deal with than this, he thought, blinking rapidly. He would never forgive himself for being the arbiter of Jack's now-shattered world--friends weren't supposed to break each other--and he had to make it up somehow. There wasn't much Tony could offer Jack anymore, he knew. Except perhaps-- a bit of closeness. A sort of comfort. Release. He could give him that--he owed him that at least, because of what Jack had given back to him. "It's all right," Tony murmured finally, only a faintest brush of a whisper, and pulled Jack back tightly against him. Yeah, it was all right, he thought distantly, feeling Jack relax gratefully in his embrace, and he relaxed too. Warmth, nearness-- There was nothing wrong with having a need, nothing wrong with Jack wanting to smooth away the jagged edges of loneliness for a while--and there was nothing wrong about Tony wanting to help him through it. With a release of pent-up breath, they clung to each other--Tony buried his face in Jack's hair, smelling sawdust and sunlight and Scotch and Jack, while Jack dropped his head in the space between Tony's neck and shoulder, his stubbled cheek rasping lightly against his skin. They rocked against each other slowly with the awkward almost-rhythm of two men who did not yet know how to move together. It was a languid, pleasant pressure, a holding that was more comforting than sexual, even lulling; such that Tony, starting to drift off again, was only vaguely aware of Jack suddenly stopping to pull down both their boxers past their hips with one impatient hand. Tony shot fully awake as hard slick skin slid against hard slick skin, both gasping at the searing contact, stunned at the jolts of heated pleasure that shot from their groins and pulsed through their veins. Holy fuck--and the fire only seemed to increase, radiating throughout their bodies, and somehow soon they both managed to wriggle out of their boxers completely, and to push their T-shirts up so that their bellies touched, and Tony groaned helplessly at the hot flush of skin against his own. Jack rolled them over, nudging his legs apart to kneel between; the full heated weight of Jack's body rested on Tony's for a heartbeat, then Jack shifted slightly for better leverage between them. Hands planted on either side of Tony's head into the pillow, he pushed himself off Tony's body, raised his head and, lips parted, stared directly into Tony's eyes, strands of wet blond hair plastered to his forehead and puffs of humid air ghosting over Tony's face. Tony held that burning gaze for what seemed an infinite moment, his own deep brown eyes boring into brilliant blue/green, eyes that were now darkened and hooded by raw, soul-burning want-- It was all about need now for both of them, caring for nothing beyond this bed, these arms, this driving pleasure-pain, and this promise of touch. Yet, motionless, Jack hovered hesitantly above him for that endless second, as if seeking final permission; then Tony thrust his hips up and pulled Jack down against him, granting a silent approval. With that they quickly found a common rhythm, tentative at first, soon steadily growing to fast and urgent; still with gazes locked, they found themselves caught in the rub of cotton between their chests and velvety bare skin between their bellies and the blazing friction of hardened flesh below. Jack's fingers twined in the dark curls of Tony's hair at his neck, and his other hand slid restlessly up and down Tony's flank. One of Tony's hands caressed the back of Jack's head, while the other reached down to knead one taut buttock, fingers grazing too close to the cleft between, and Jack arched his back in shocked pleasure as one finger brushed-- "Oh fucking Jesus," Jack hissed; bearing down on Tony's pelvis with all his weight, he bent his head and kissed Tony full on the lips, long and rough and clumsy and hungry. Sandpaper-like stubble scraped Tony's chin as Jack sucked desperately at Tony's lower lip; Tony was almost too far gone now to even worry about the meaning of it. His mouth simply opened eagerly to draw Jack's tongue in with his own, tasting him, sharing his breath, giving just as much back and demanding more as his hand slipped down to Jack's shoulder, pulling him in-- Jesus H. Christ Jack gave it, arms tight around him heart pounding in his ear staccato breaths lips tracing the outlines of his mouth and pressed to his--and all reasoning, all conscious thought and guilt burnt to nothingness in white-hot flame. All that mattered now were two near-naked and sweaty bodies pushing feverishly against each other in rising narrow daylight; the steady background hiss of rain, rhythmic slap-sliding of skin on skin and the counterpoint of creaking mattress springs beneath; the scent of hot salt musk flooding their nostrils; the wet sloppy pressing of kiss-swollen lips and twining of searching tongues; the skating of restless hands over hard muscles and flesh; and the throbbing ache in their groins that pulsed tighter and tighter with each thrust. Tony was so close now, the unbearable heat threatening to engulf him, when Jack lost their fierce rhythm first and shimmied erratically against his hips, bearing down with all his strength, breath puffing in harsh ragged bursts; all coiled in, he hung suspended on the edge for just a split second, then tumbled over it, his wordless cries swallowed by Tony's ravening kisses. Tony felt the release of sticky warmth onto his stomach and immediately lost any remaining control he might have had, moaning Jack's name into his mouth as his own shuddering climax consumed him. Jack collapsed on top of Tony; both utterly undone, they simply rested together, breaths ragged in their ears, just trying to remember to breathe. Jack leaned his sweat-sheened forehead on Tony's shoulder and Tony slowly relaxed his arms around his broad damp back into a loose, comforting embrace. Jack began to shiver uncontrollably, with what might have been a chill; Tony reached out blindly for the thick duvet that had largely slipped off the bed and covered their bodies with it. Jack rolled off to lay beside him, hiding his face with one shaking hand; with the other he reached out to grasp Tony's, and squeezed. Tony squeezed back, not wanting to speak; then side-by-side, in silence save for the steady rain, they drifted off to sleep again as the sun rose from somewhere behind the heavy clouds, their hands still clasped tightly together. **************************** (The following takes place between 9:00 am and 10:00 am.) Tony woke up alone to a room filled with streaming bright sunlight through the crack in the curtain and the mouth-watering smells of cooking bacon and fresh coffee wafting from downstairs. This time he knew exactly where he was--he simply lay for a minute, blearily contemplating the white whorled ceiling above him. Though he was comfortably warm beneath the duvet, the damp and sticky sheets stuck to various places on his body, serving as all-too-vivid reminders of what had happened earlier that morning-- His mind reluctantly mulled over what had happened--Jack had been drunk, and alone, and had needed--and he had needed too, and had given--and at the time sex had simply seemed right, and necessary; but now in the full brilliant light of day Tony wasn't sure if that were still true. They were friends, they hadn't intended--they weren't gay or anything--it had been mutual comfort that had turned physical, was all, Tony wanted to convince himself to believe. It was only this once, a stupid sleep-and-alcohol-induced mistake, and it would not likely happen again. At least he hoped Jack would see it that way; it was easiest for both of them to bear. He knew this was going to be awkward. Still, he had to be back at the airport to catch his flight in just a few hours; there was no use pretending to sleep in until he had to leave, and he couldn't avoid Jack anyway as it was his house, and Tony was his guest. So he fished his discarded boxers from the foot of the bed, got up and padded into the adjoining bathroom. Jack had brought his bag upstairs and thoughtfully left a selection of towels to use; and by now the food downstairs was too tempting to ignore so Tony quickly showered, shaved and dressed, then went to the kitchen. He stood at the sink and glanced out the kitchen window. The rain had washed away the dust and left everything cleaner, fresher, greener than yesterday. "Hey, you're up," Jack commented, his voice carefully light. "Have some breakfast." Tony took his cue from that, so they chatted easily enough through toasted bacon and tomato sandwiches and coffee, catching up on other happenings since Jack had "died", and they tacitly avoided anything having to do with Kim, or what had happened earlier. The sun flooded through the window and Kola nestled comfortably at Tony's knee, and he slipped her some choice bacon slices; and Jack pretended not to notice; and it felt for a minute, sort of like old times. Then Jack stared at Tony intently, leaning against the kitchen sink and hands cupped around a well-worn mug. "Tony--about this morning--" Jack began, and faltered. All the awkwardness both had dreaded, flooded back in full force; their gazes met and Jack looked away quickly, embarrassed and blinking rapidly. Tony stared at the floor for a long uneasy moment, then finally found his voice. "Don't be sorry, Jack," Tony said quietly, lifting his head to meet him. "I'm not." As he said it he realized it was true. Jack looked at him again, his face unreadable for a few seconds, then he relaxed and briefly pinched the bridge of his nose. "Thank you," he said sincerely. Tony simply nodded. "Sure," he murmured, and they left it at that. **************************** (The following takes place between 10:00 am and 11:00 am.) Jack walked with Tony out to the truck sitting in the driveway. Hours were now minutes, and soon minutes would be seconds, before Tony would leave Jack to whatever world he had created for himself, and now there was too much--and too little--to say. Tony opened then closed his mouth, unable to speak around the sudden lump growing in his throat. Tony swung his bag into the cab and stood uncertainly at the open door, head bowed, hesitating. Tony couldn't just climb into the cab and wave goodbye as he drove out onto the highway. Neither knew when they'd see the other again--if ever--but he felt at a loss. Their last goodbye had been too short, their all-too-brief handshake hadn't been nearly enough to voice the too many unspoken words between them--just as this visit had been too short, when it felt they'd had barely long enough to say hello. Jack stood behind him, at the edge of the pebbled driveway and the still-wet grass, Kola at his side, just--watching. Tony looked at the ground for a moment, then looked back up again and walked towards Jack, his hand extended. Jack clasped the proffered hand firmly, then pulled Tony into a tight embrace. "You'll let me know when the babies are born?" Jack said, the words muffled against Tony's shoulder. Tony knew Jack wasn't just talking about his and Michelle's own set of twins. "You'll be the first to know," Tony promised gruffly, clapping his back and fully returning the hug, unwilling to let go. "Keep in touch, old man." Jack drew back reluctantly and rolled his eyes at the jab. "Old man my ass, Almeida, I'm younger than you are. Don't worry, you'll hear from me." "Sure." Their eyes met and held. "Will you be all right?" Jack nodded slowly; his eyes were shadowed, but he did not tear his gaze away. "Yeah. I will be." And Tony knew, that that was also true. "OK. Take care, Jack." "Yeah. You too." It was time now, to leave; they shook hands, and there was nothing more left to say. Tony went back to the truck, climbed in, shut the door and started the ignition. He turned the truck around to leave the driveway, keeping Jack's retreating form in the side-view mirror until he disappeared from view behind the small hill, and reached the exit. Then he turned right onto the waiting highway, to head back towards the city, the airport, Michelle, and home.

"I was thinkin' we oughtta get these over to DPD, maybe let 'em deal with the case," Tanner said slowly, a glimmer of a smile in the back of his eyes. He crossed his ankles, one hip perched precariously on a corner of Larabee's desk. It was getting late, the sun long since set, and the lights of Denver twinkled in the orange tinted haze. Ezra had left dead on time, same as every night this week, to a raucous chorus of comments about his new-found boyfriend. Nathan hadn't been much later, Buck had disappeared off to get ready for a date, and Josiah was deep in meetings with Psych, doing analysis of Lasater before the upcoming meet. It was just him and Larabee, and from where he was sitting, it was pretty much looking like just him left in the building. "Sure." Larabee nodded absently. His thoughts were anywhere but on what Tanner had just said. Vin's smile flickered and he carried on, "An' I was thinking if you'd just sign off on this visit to the Bahamas, me 'n' Ez thought we could catch some sun, all expenses paid--" "No way, Standish," Chris said automatically to the phrase 'all expenses paid', and then stopped. "What are you talking about?" Tanner grinned. "Well, way I see it, it's my job to make sure you don't get shorn next time you walk out of here." Chris looked at him blankly. "Looking like a lil woolly sheep, off woolgatherin' like that." Chris shook his head, a long suffering look on his face. "Shut up, bird brain, and have a look at this." He pushed a sheet of paper across his desk to Vin, who flicked a glance over it. Vin's brows twitched together as he read the name at the top of the first page. "You sure?" Chris sat back in his chair with a sigh. "Yeah." "He ain't gonna be happy when he finds out." "I can live with that." "Turning into an old hen." "Shut up and read." Vin snickered quietly but said nothing, instead reading over the document. "You got anything that goes with this?" "Figured that wasn't any of your business." "Fine time to start worrying about his privacy, after you've gone to all the trouble of getting a full on report on the kid." "Not that. At the end." Vin scanned down the densely printed page, and paused. "'Wondering what this John Dunne has been up to -- you're the second LE type to request a full profile on him this month.'," he read out, and looked up. "Ezra?" "Maybe. Thing is, I went back to the research people, and they couldn't identify who requested the other search." Tanner frowned, and Larabee nodded. They both knew that within law enforcement there was very few ways to hide a search, and even fewer reasons to try. "Under investigation?" Larabee shrugged. "Normally I'd ask Ez to look into it, but--" Vin nodded slowly. "Ya want one of us to have a look." "Can ya?" "How hard can it be?" Vin shrugged. A pained look crossed Chris's face. "You got those figures?" Chris handed him a thick, stapled bundle of papers. "Shit. You didn't say anything about turning into a computer monkey," Vin grumbled, but took the papers anyway, flicking through them. He stopped and flicked back to a particular page. "Fucking hell!" "You got to the part where he inherits a cool half a mill from an offshore trust, then." "Shit..." Tanner re-read the page carefully, and looked up. "Yeah." "Did they--" "Nope." "Damn. Who did he have to kill to get that kind of money?" Vin murmured, reading more closely through the financial figures relating to the recent history of one John David Dunne. A steady gaze rested on his face until he looked up, and met it. Chris's expression was grim. "That's exactly what I'd like to know," he said very quietly. "Shit! You're shitting me! No way! That kid -- no *way*!" "We don't know anything about him, except he turned up in the middle of last week and moved in with Ezra at extremely short notice." "His story about the bar --" Chris's lips turned down and he shook his head. Vin lowered the papers to his lap and looked away. "You didn't believe it either," he said flatly. Chris stood and walked away from his desk, stopping by the window to stare out through the twilight at Denver's downtown. "I'd like to. God knows I'd like to." "Ez is really fond of that kid." "I know." "Seemed like a nice kid." "I know." "You think Ez knows what his game is?" "Damn right he knows. That story had Standish written all over it. No, he knows. He just ain't telling." "If Research can't identify who asked for the previous search, it could be Ez. Be his style." Larabee shook his head. "Chet reckons that it was someone external." "We do that?" Vin asked incredulously. "No. We don't." Vin looked down at the papers, and said slowly, "So, we got a kid with a fortune that can't be backtracked--" "That conveniently pays all his outstanding debts," Chris interrupted. "Sleeping with our best undercover agent... and someone else is investigating him. Someone outside the agency. An' they don't want anyone to know about it." Their eyes met. "Shit." Vin said again. "*Shit*." "This is between the two of us, okay?" "What the hell do you expect me to do with this?" Chris sighed and leaned his hands against the thick safety glass of the window. "Whatever you can, Vin. Tell me the kid is legit. Tell me Standish hasn't compromised himself or the job for a bit of tail. Tell me -- hell, tell me where the money came from, and who's looking for JD." "Ya don't want much, cowboy," Vin said dubiously. "I'm your sniper, not yer research guy." "I can't--" "Nah," he waved a hand, dismissing Larabee's protest, "I know why you can't ask anyone else. I'm just sayin', it ain't going to happen overnight." Buck already emotionally compromised, both he and Nathan worried about JD's apparent youth; Josiah on Ezra's side as ever, eager to believe that his young friend was finally finding happiness. No. There was only him -- and he wasn't entirely sure that he was going to be as impartial as Chris would like. "Thanks, pard," he smiled with relief at his second in command. Vin didn't smile back. "Guess the fastest way to find out about him is go to the source." Chris looked up sharply. "Vin--" "Unless he's a faster draw than me, I'm thinking I'm pretty safe to talk to the kid." He stood and tucked the paperwork under one arm. "I'll look after this for ya." "Thanks, Vin." "Wait till I've got something to tell ya before you start thanking me," he said softly, and headed out of the office. Ezra sighed softly, and reached awkwardly behind him to drag the covers over them both. John was already deep asleep, his head tucked under Ezra's chin, one arm draped over his waist, one leg folded around his knees, holding him firmly in place. He shivered momentarily until the sheets and comforter warmed him, and was charmed as JD's arm tightened on him, snuggling closer. He curled in closer, and slipped both arms around the young man's back. He could really get used to this feeling of warm contentment, and yet.... And yet, his muscles were wound as tight as though they were still at odds, even though after dinner they'd made a kind of peace. And John had been right about make-up sex. He arched his back luxuriously at the memory, and smiled wryly. Their first argument. He was so proud. He shivered, thinking how easily JD had told Miss Wells something he had never flat out admitted to anyone but himself. Maybe he was oversensitive -- an accusation that JD had refrained from making, but that others had not. Given time, no doubt the boy would think of it too. Maybe it wasn't the kid. Maybe it was the job. He sighed, and tried to roll away, get space to think, but John wouldn't let him go, and he had to content himself with shifting a little, and settling back into his close embrace. In three days he was going to walk into Lasater's warehouse, set him up, and arrest him. He stared up at the unseen ceiling. Nothing they had learned about the man suggested he was much more than a penny-ante kind of smuggler. Not someone who was going to go out, all guns blazing. It was about as safe as these things got. So why was he so damn tense? It wasn't that he didn't trust anyone, he thought, and hesitated. Okay, so it was that he didn't trust anyone, not for certain things. He trusted his colleagues implicitly in matters concerning his and their lives. But it made both his and their lives less hazardous if he kept his preferences to himself. He snorted softly, his embrace tightening on the man in his arms. Preferences. Such a civilized way to describe something that in its time had been thrown in his face in the vilest terms possible. The FBI had taught him more than just law enforcement. Taught him more than mere vocabulary even. Taught him with ostracism and criticism, with deliberate impediments to his career, and eventually, when his attackers were sure that he would never complain or retaliate, physical torment. It was no comfort at all to remember that when they had driven him too far, he had sued them, jointly and severally, all the taunts and hazing, recorded faithfully, the injuries documented, however minor. It was no comfort to remember that he had won. He breathed deeply, trying to stop his old anger from rising. The smell of their lovemaking was redolent in the air, and he smiled as the scent filled his lungs, tucking his face into the curve between John's neck and shoulder, placing tiny kisses on his pale throat. He'd much rather think of this. He licked delicately at the hollow where John's collar bones met his throat, rubbed his stubbled face slowly over the fine, fair skin. Come morning, John would have a fine patch of beard burn there to remind him of his lover. His eyes drifted shut and he let his head rest on his chest. Lover. Not any of those other words. He didn't want to think of it now. Now, everything was different. He had money -- an out of court settlement meant he never had to never work again. He'd thought about doing just that. God knows Maude would have been delighted if he had taken the tersely worded suggestion from his erstwhile superior officer that he should consider 'moving on'. Instead, something made him applied for a transfer to another agency, any agency. And Chris Larabee had trampled all over any number of people's feelings and supposed seniority and dragged him without ceremony to Colorado, where he had installed him as undercover agent in his RME (Colorado) Task Force. He chuckled under his breath. "Y'okay?" John's sleepy mumble made him smile, and he pressed a damp kiss on the corner of his mouth as John turned his head to meet him. "Fine. Go to sleep." He waited as JD wriggled until he was wrapped around Ezra, one hand moving in ever slower circles on his back. He shook his head with a grin more open than he would ever show in public. He closed his eyes, relishing the warm proof of John's physical affection. He wanted to sleep, but it seemed that, once started, he couldn't turn off his train of thought, was going to have to follow through to the end. Chris Larabee's lack of anything resembling tact and diplomacy infuriated him, but that didn't stop him being grateful when it was directed at others. When Larabee had promised a new start, he'd jumped at it, and hadn't cared about anything else. For all Larabee knew of course, he didn't care about Team Seven either. Not at first. He wasn't going to be taken in again. It had taken him the best part of his first year with Team Seven to realize that not only had Larabee kept his word, but had kept his silence. No one knew. Or if they knew, it seemed that either they didn't care, or that they were too afraid of Larabee to act on it. Either way, his initial caution slowly eased. He no longer pretended to flirt with women, or to have had dates. His standing comment -- that a gentleman never kissed and told was more than enough to keep them from troubling him, and he was still surprised that this was the case. Nonetheless, he stayed careful, discreet. Sensible. This freedom to stretch his wings could surely only go so far. A shiver ran up his spine, and he shuddered. All those precautions, those careful rationalizations, and here was John, so easily admitting to a friend that he was gay, that he was living with another man. By implication, dear God, he hoped it was only by implication, that he was having sex with another man. He stared over John's shoulder at the bedroom curtains as though he had never seen such a thing in his life. He probably had shared far too many details of their bedroom activities with her. Good Lord. How was he going to ever face Miss Wells again. Or Mrs. Wells. Or, and he felt the blood draining from his face, Mr. Tanner. "Don't be ridiculous, Standish," he muttered and shook himself. He lifted his head far enough to peer into John's sleeping face. Maybe he should just check with the kid how much he had actually shared... JD mumbled unintelligibly, and rolling them both, buried his face in Ezra's shoulder. Ezra froze. He'd wondered before if the others knew. He'd thought not, they'd never said anything, but they hadn't blinked when it became clear that he was dating a man. Not Larabee, a man of strong opinions, nor Wilmington who always had something to say about everyone's dating habits, nor Sanchez, the preacher's son, or ... What if they knew? What if they all knew? What if they'd known all along and hadn't cared? He stared, wide-eyed, into the dark. Had he really been so careful that he had been blind? Mr. Larabee knew. There was no way the man didn't know, even with the confidentiality agreements that the FBI had included in the settlement. It was arguable whether Larabee would consider confiding in Tanner to be breaking a secret. What Larabee knew, it was a reasonable assumption that Tanner also knew. Maybe Wilmington too. Maybe all of them. They hadn't said anything, not by word, or action had they ever referenced his dating habits to be other than -- he blinked. When Vin had asked some three weeks ago he'd asked if Ezra was dating. No mention of gender. He'd assumed they didn't know. He frowned, meticulously going back through their interactions over the last two weeks, and then further back. Good God. And he had thought them obtuse. With remarkably little fanfare, his world tilted and happily resettled itself. He closed his eyes briefly, and breathed in, resting his face in JD's soft hair. They'd known. Of course they had known. They'd been waiting for him to trust them enough to say something. Other than that, it made no difference. He only had to think of Josiah calmly offering relationship counseling despite knowing that the relationship in question was homosexual. Perhaps it was time to offer them some trust in return. He smiled, and almost without thinking nuzzled a kiss into John's hair. Let the lad be as free and easy as he wanted to be. If he said it was going to be okay, then perhaps he should try it. Perhaps if he had been less secretive in the first place. He shook his head and sighed. He had made the best choices he could. No recriminations. No regrets. Maybe it would be okay if he pushed things to go his way a little more, and the Agency way a little less. In the ordinary course of events, he would be following guidelines that someone off in the psych section had put together without ever meeting either himself or Lasater. The Lasater bust suddenly seemed far less fearsome. If the team was willing to trust him then perhaps he could try moving outside that neat little box he had built for himself. His mind kept returning to that word. Safe. Lasater was a safe meet. What if he ran it *his* way instead? It was a safe meet. He knew Lasater. Knew the set up. and he would be briefing the team tomorrow morning. He could change things around to suit him and no one would know. Well, until the reports were in, and presented with a fait accompli, and a successful one at that, Travis and Larabee would have no reason to complain. Which wouldn't stop them of course, but it might make them think a little harder about how they could better utilize his talents. He nuzzled into JD's neck and smiled as a drowsy mumble was followed by a soft kiss. He had a couple of days to think about it. In the meantime... ------------------------------ JD burrowed deeper into the pillows, protesting as his nice warm body pillow slid out of the bed. "Do you have to go to school this morning?" He shook his head and pulled the covers up over him. "I'll take that as a no," Ezra sounded like he was laughing. JD let himself drift off again, warm and relaxed. Some indeterminate time later, a hand slipped under the covers and cupped him firmly. "I've time for a little early morning entertainment, if you're interested?" JD pushed his hips up in Ezra's hand wantonly, and Ezra chuckled. The covers were pulled off of him and he wanted to protest, but his cock was immediately tucked into Ezra's warm, wet mouth, and he groaned instead, stretching out languorously. "Mmm, Ez..." Ezra chuckled, and JD hardened further at the vibration tickling him, before slow, rhythmic pressure pulled at his cock. He shuddered. Ez's tongue was stroking him, prying into his slit, licking his foreskin, tracing the length of his shaft as his mouth slid up and down his shaft. He writhed, whimpering, and his hands settled on Ezra's head, his fingers sinking into the soft, damp hair. His hips lifted and Ezra simply sank further onto him, allowing JD deep into his throat, then swallowed, pulling him deeper, rippling muscles holding him firmly. He wailed, and came, gasping for air. "God, Ez, you just about killed me," he managed eventually. Ezra lifted his head from JD's crotch, his eyes sparkling. "I sincerely hope not," he smiled, and pushed JD until he rolled onto his belly. "Legs." JD spread them willingly. "Oh..." Ezra's fingers breached him briefly, slipping in with lubricated ease, replaced in seconds by his cock. JD groaned again, and lifted his hips to the penetration. "God, Ezra," he said with helpless pleasure. "God." Ezra stretched over JD's back, driving deep. "So eager," he murmured, and steadied his grip on JD's waist, then pulled him up to all fours, ramming home hard at the same moment. JD yelled. Ezra hadn't done this before, driving into him with no quarter given, barely any preparation, and he was loving it. His spent cock started to fill again in response to the hard fucking he was taking, slick cock filling him deep, stretching him open with each thrust instead of the slow, gentle fingers that he had come to expect in only a week. "Okay?" Ezra gasped out. JD braced himself against the mattress, shoved back and begged, "Harder?" Ezra slammed into him, his hands gripping his waist so tightly that JD suspected he was going to have bruises later, but didn't care. All he could think about were their harsh gasps for air, and the slap of flesh on flesh as Ezra took him thoroughly. He shuddered as Ezra nailed his hot spot, and it was all over for him, and he came again, held up only by his lover's hands and thrusting hips. Ezra cried out softly, and collapsed onto JD. He sighed, enjoying the feel of being held so securely, Ezra's knees spreading his legs, pressing against his belly, Ezra's cock fitted deep inside him, and Ezra's chest and stomach draped over his back, his arms wound about his waist. He was dimly aware of losing that secure embrace, of a kiss brushed over his cheek, and he turned his face to nuzzle up into Ezra's touch. "Take care," he mumbled, and he thought Ezra hesitated for a long moment, stroking his hair, before kissing him lightly on the lips. He wasn't sure if he dreamed Ezra saying, "I will, my dear. I will." He smiled and fell back to sleep again. He woke some considerable time later, sprawled on his stomach, and wondered hazily if he had dreamed the whole encounter. He shifted his ass cautiously and hissed. Definitely not a dream then. He reached behind himself and gently touched his sore opening. His finger felt cool and soothing and he rubbed lightly there, his hips shifting slowly in time with his touch until he turned his head to look at the clock. It was nearly eleven o'clock. He rolled to his feet, then staggered at the head rush. He sat on the edge of the bed and yawned, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, mindful of where his fingers had been. He didn't have to go in to the university at all today. Normally he would have been heading off to one of several part-time jobs, trying to keep body and soul together, and make the payments on the insurance. He grinned, rocking gently on his backside. Well, at least selling his ass meant he got to stay in bed in the mornings. Ezra probably wouldn't find that as funny as he did. He stood more slowly, and ambled into the shower. It was immaculately clean and he blushed scarlet. Mrs. Flores must have been through already. He wondered if she had looked into the bedroom or not, and groaned, seeing himself in his mind's eye, face down, legs spread, not so much as a sheet to cover him in Ezra's bed. What must she have thought? He started the shower up and told himself sternly, "She probably thought exactly the right thing," but he couldn't help cringing in embarrassment. He cleaned up and pulled on old soft jeans and a t-shirt, relishing the feel as the denim seam pressed closely over his aching ass, the waistband cinching roughly over the ten finger shaped bruises darkening there. He was surprised when he tried the bedroom door and found it wouldn't budge. He tugged a couple of times, then slapped himself on the forehead and tried the key, smiling with relief when it opened. He was half way down the stairs when it dawned on him that Ez had probably locked it to make sure that Mrs. Flores didn't walk in on him. He breathed a sigh of relief and bounced into the kitchen to find something to eat, and stopped dead as he came face to face with Mrs. Flores herself. "Buenas dias, senor," she said cheerfully, packing the dishwasher with their plates from the night before. "Oh, uh, hi," he smiled nervously at her, hoping she spoke some English. "I'm JD." He stuck out a hand, which she looked at doubtfully, then shook. "Rosita Flores, JD," she smiled at him. He nodded and wandered over to the cupboard where a box of Cheerios had mysteriously appeared on Monday while he was at school. He turned to find a bowl, and discovered a clean one had been put on the table, along with a spoon, a bowl of sugar and a jug of milk. "Oh, hey, thank you, you don't have to--" "It's fine, JD," Rosita nodded, "Eat up. Is it okay to clean your room now?" JD blushed and nodded, keeping his head down and stolidly taking another mouthful of cereal. He couldn't remember seeing a condom anywhere, and figured Ez was fastidious enough to have thrown it away immediately after use. He was pretty sure she knew what was going on, but there was no point rubbing her face in it. And that was a nasty mental image. The dishwasher shut with a click, and churned softly into action. He listened as the sound of her footsteps receded and groaned with embarrassment, dropping his head to the table. "Such a fucking loser, Dunne," he mumbled, and gritted his teeth, pulled himself upright in the chair and finished his breakfast. How the hell was he supposed to handle talking to a complete stranger who clearly had access to the most intimate information about him. His eyes widened. God, what if she looked in the bathroom trashcan? "She won't. Why would she want to?" He picked up the bowl and drank the last of the milk straight from it, and wiped his mouth with a sigh, and refilled the bowl. He took the second breakfast along to the study, where he plugged his laptop back into Ezra's newly set up LAN, and dived straight online, checking his university account first, and then his personal one. He smiled at a sprawling email from Casey, and settled in to read. By the time he'd finished the Cheerios he was chuckling at Casey's description of her agronomy professor's last lecture. The man clearly either had a poker face to rival Ezra's, or genuinely had no sense of humor. Casey was betting on the latter. He typed a quick reply, and moved on to the next one. This was from the ATF Denver office, and he opened it cautiously, wondering if someone was going to jibe at him, maybe hassle him about Ezra or something. He flipped to the end of the message, and saw the signoff was Vin Tanner, and breathed a sigh of relief. "Whew. What the hell's he writing to me for?" he scrolled back up the top, and read with some trepidation, which slowly spread into a pleased smile. Again he hit reply, and emailed the man back -- he'd forgotten about the autumn track events, it would be great to go dirt biking with him in a couple of weeks. His smile broadened. He could even buy himself a new bike, not risk his baby. He knew fine well that the Kawasaki might just take it into its head to fall apart if he treated her too roughly. He stretched and arched his back, gasping softly at the dull ache as he rocked on his ass. He felt himself tightening and smiled again. He needed to get Ez to cut loose more often. He hit send, and shut down the computer. Now, if Ez was here, they could go back to bed. He huffed his disappointment through pursed lips and stood. Maybe he could find something to do outside. Half an hour later he had decided against the swimming pool (too cold), reading on the deck (too dull), finishing the next chapter of his dissertation (*way* boring), using the X-Box (Mrs. Flores vacuuming), and was wandering around the kitchen on the scrounge for something to snack on. He was just reaching in to steal one of Tanner's pop-tarts when a voice startled him. "Hey! What do you think you're doing?" He jerked back, cracking his head on the underside of the cabinet and swore as he lost his balance and sat on the hard kitchen floor. Not such a pleasant reminder. "I live here. Who the hell are you?" he snapped back, glaring at the stranger standing over him. "Does Mrs. Flores know you're here?" The man turned without another word and yelled, "Mrs. Flores? Senora Flores?" "Que es, Peter?" She came rushing into the kitchen as JD rubbed his head, screwing up his face. "Peter! ¡Qué le hancho! ¡Sr. Dunne es un amigo de Sr. Standish! ¿Qué le hancho hecho al pobre muchacho? ¿Te lastimaron?" JD blinked at the torrent of Spanish, but not as much as the large man who swiftly backed away from him. "Sorry, man, I didn't know you were meant to be here. I just kinda let my mouth run off ahead of my brain." He held out a conciliatory hand and JD gripped it and was pulled to his feet. "Pete Nichols." JD shrugged, "Guess it's an easy mistake to make. JD Dunne." They shook under the watchful eye of Senora Flores. "Good. Peter, Mr. Dunne lives here now, he is Mr. Standish's friend, okay?" Nichols frowned a little at that, and shrugged. "Rosita, I came to ask if I could borrow some of the disinfectant again? Pasada bit me again." "Again! You should be more careful around that criatura del diablo," she scolded, but walked briskly over to another cupboard, reaching in to produce a box with a green cross on it. "Bring it back when you are finished, no?" "Sure, Rosie." He glanced thoughtfully at JD, then headed back out of the kitchen door, first aid box in his hands. "Senora Flores?" JD said hesitantly. "Yes, pequeño?" "Who was that? And who's Pasada?" Rosita smiled, "Pasada is Senor Standish's horse, and a good judge of character," she paused significantly. "Senor Standish has only met Mr. Nichols twice, when he was looking for someone to help with the horses. One day he will no longer even clean the shit from the stables." "Horses!" JD said eagerly, and then registered the rest of her sentence. "What's he do to them?" "I cannot prove it. I have not seen him do it. But sometimes I think Pasada bites because Mr. Nichols hurt him first." She shrugged fluidly. "Mr. Nichols, I think, has a bad temper." "But--" he looked out the window to where Nichol's figure had disappeared around a corner. "But, how come--" he stopped himself. That was a question to ask Ezra. He frowned. "Is everything OK, JD?" "Yeah, Rosita," he said absently, his eyes fixed on the empty landscape. "Yeah. I'm fine." "Stay away from him, JD. Mr. Nichols is usually finished by one o'clock." "Thanks." He turned his head to smile at her. "Thanks, Rosita." "Be careful," she said with gentle warning, and JD grinned. "Just gonna check out those horses. Ez said I could. I guess now's a pretty good time." He caught her worried frown, and reddened. "Aw, Rosita, I'll be fine!" "Hmphf!" she snorted and shook her head. "I have cleaning to finish. I have no time for talking to muchachos testarudos." JD grinned. "Seeya later!" He swiped an apple from the bowl on the table and headed out through the utility room to grab his much abused Timberland boots, and pull them on. He ran upstairs in his boots to get a sweater, and then jogged out of the house, down the path that Nichols had taken, following it around a stand of trees to a low white building that looked older than the house. "Hello?" he called out. "Pete?" "Who's that?" Nichols' voice was unfriendly, and he emerged from the stable to look disparagingly at JD, and turn away again. "You again. What do you want?" "Ez said I could check out the horses, maybe have a ride." "Mr. Standish didn't say anything to me about it." JD smiled brightly and headed into the stables after Nichols. "Guess he forgot. Wow!" he added with honest awe as he caught sight of a creamy palomino. "You're a beauty aren't you?" He spotted the nameplate carved from wood hung over the stall, and smiled. He pulled out a pocket knife and sliced the apple in his hand and offered a eighth to the palomino. "You're Pasada, huh? Guess Ez must put plenty of stock in you. He said not to meddle with ya," he murmured softly, letting the horse take her own time investigating his hand before she delicately took the apple, then pushed into his hand for more. "Ahh, you're a sweet girl, aren't you?" he said delightedly. "Mr. Standish won't like you feeding 'er bits an' pieces of god knows what." "Oh, one or two bits of apple won't hurt, will they, Pasada?" He offered another piece of apple, and ran a hand down her long neck, over the beautifully kept mane as she delicately took it. "I'll let Mr. Standish know you said that," Nichols said derisively and JD flinched. Ez *had* said he shouldn't mess with the palomino. He bit his lip, and let her be with just one more pat, wandering along to the next horse, a chestnut gelding in the next but one stall. "You're real pretty, too, huh," he said softly as the horse lipped up its piece of apple eagerly. "You're all real nice looking horses," he said to himself, eying the two other animals, a black and a bay. "I'm sorry, I'm going to run out of apple if I give it all to you," he said to the chestnut, who whickered disappointedly when he walked away to offer the last four pieces equally to the other two. "There you go, hey, is that good?" His stomach rumbled unexpectedly, and he grinned ruefully. "I sure hope it was, that was my lunch." "You leave those horses alone, Dunne," Nichols loomed up behind him, and JD spun to face him, finding himself with his back pressed hard up against the bay's stall to avoid touching him. "You hear me?" "They're Ezra's horses," he said defiantly, "And I think I get more of a say than you do around here." He flinched, hard, when Nichols' fists clenched, and then the man leaned in close, and whispered, "Don't count on that, boy." He reached for JD, and for a terrifying moment he thought the man was going to strangle him, but he just gripped his shoulders, and whispered again, "You know, I'm still on parole from the last little shit who mouthed off at me, or I'd teach you a few manners." JD stared wide eyed at him. Nichols leaned back and dusted JD's shoulders off with a mocking grin. "Now, you leave those horses be. Understand?" JD bit his lip and said nothing. "Understand?" Nichols leaned in closer, and JD ducked under his arms and hurried for the exit. "Good boy," Nichols called after him, "You run home to your Momma, boy!" JD made himself walk away at a steady, casual pace, feeling like a target was painted on his back. He clenched his fists and swallowed his anger as he heard Nichols laughing. He stopped as soon as he was out of sight of the stables. "I am going to *get* you, you fucker," he muttered. He drew a deep breath, and then another. Rosita had said the guy was only there until one. He checked his watch, an hour to wait. He wandered around to the front of the house where he found a old hayseed truck parked in the front drive, pretty much blocking access in and out of the place. "Stupid bastard," he muttered, and headed for his bike. He crouched down by it, checking the tread and the tires. He sighed. He'd sold his tool kit along with the bike, and although Frank had been willing to sell the bike back, especially at five hundred more than he'd paid for it, he'd kept the tool kit, pointing out, with some truth, that if JD could unload a couple of thousand on a beat up bike, then he could afford to put a kit together again. He could, he just hadn't had the time to go to his favorite bike shop yet. He ran a hand over the seat and decided he'd do that soon, maybe tomorrow when he was back on campus. He'd need some stuff before he could go off with this Tanner guy. He tried the garage door but it was locked. He shook his head with a smile, trying to picture Ezra up to his elbows in machine oil. He'd be willing to bet that Ezra's mechanic made a fortune off of Ez's lack of tools. He toyed with the idea of just heading off exploring, and then remembered that he was going to go riding once that thug in the stables went back under whatever rock he crawled from. Maybe he could get himself some lunch. He headed back inside and then remembered the two breakfasts less than an hour ago, and just snagged another apple, or two, or three, and a bag of chips. Rosita was dusting in the living room so he gave up the idea of turning on the X-Box, and drifted back out to the deck, ending up sitting on the edge of it, his legs dangling over the steep drop off. He worked his way slowly through the first apple and the bag of chips, his eyes half shut as he stared out at the mountains. It was a beautiful September day, and while patches of the ground were yellow and desiccated, there were enough trees to let him almost forget that he was living in a desert. The sky was clear and blue, the mountains pushing up into it, and he felt muscles unknotting as he swung his legs and did nothing in particular. "You'd've loved it here, Mom," he said under his breath. He drew in a deep breath, feeling the cool breeze on his face, and then shook his head. "How the hell did I get myself into this, Mom? And what the hell am I going to do about Ez?" He tucked his hands under his arms for warmth, and watched as a speck high in the sky drifted in lazy circles downwards. He wished he had binoculars, and then smiled ruefully. "Wouldn't recognize it even if I had 'em, right, Mom?" If she had been with him, she would have just laughed at him for putting the cart before the horse again. He grinned. She'd had a dozen phrases for the same thing, and they all boiled down to him being too impulsive. "I leapt and I didn't look. Or at least, I looked, and then I kinda changed the plan." He couldn't help thinking that she'd be far happier than he was that he was having real feelings for Ezra. "Wish you were here, Mom. Wish I really did meet him at a bar, and drop that drink on him and then bought him another one. We could have talked a bit, and maybe kissed. I could have blown him in that car of his, god, I so need to remember to do that -- er, you didn't hear that bit, Mom, right?" He laughed out loud. She'd always stopped him as soon as he got as far as kissing, and she'd ask him, were you safe? Did you have fun? and as long as the answer was always yes to both she would just hug him, and tell him those were the main things. "Yeah, we're safe," he said to the sky. "And *man* are we having fun." He smiled, a little bittersweet, and added, "I guess that's the main thing, right?"

Sunlight pulled at JD's eyelids, and he rolled away from it, landing tight up against a warm, naked body. He made a small, appreciative noise, and, eyes still closed, rubbed his face against Ezra's nape. He was warm and comfortable, and content. Ezra's ass fitted neatly against his hips, and he crooked his knees, shifting until he was plastered against Ezra's full length. As he draped his arm over Ezra's narrow waist a hand grasped his, fingers intertwined. He smiled to himself and pressed his lips to Ez's shoulder blade, vaguely wondering what time it was. He slitted one eye open to look at the clock, and then was sitting bolt upright, shaking Ezra's arm. "Fuck! Ez! Eight o'clock! Up an' at 'em!" He bolted for the bathroom; his first class was at nine, Ez was due in by eight thirty, and neither of them were going to be on time. Behind him he heard the disjointed muttering that suggested that Ezra had woken, but hadn't caught up with events. Then Ezra zipped past him into the shower. JD finished with his teeth and sniffed at himself cautiously. Shower it was. Regular sex had at least one disadvantage then. He grinned. He was pretty sure he could put up with the trade-off. He dived in next to Ezra, stealing the shower gel out of his hands and squirting a large handful out. The shower was far too small for both of them and they rubbed up against each other as they tried to wash, all painful elbows and vulnerable ribs. "This," JD ducked under the shower head and rinsed out his hair, much to Ezra's annoyance, who was still trying to sluice bubbles off his butt, "could be a lot more fun than it is." He pecked a kiss on Ezra's disgruntled nose. "Hold that thought." Ezra winked, and then shoved him out of the way, hogging the water to himself. "Are you done? Get out then and let me finish." He grabbed his razor from the rack hanging in the shower and carefully started to remove his stubble. JD simply ran a hand over Ezra's ass possessively and slid out before Ezra could do more than wave the straight-edge threateningly in his direction. He dried off rapidly and dragged on the previous day's jeans -- really, too old and worn to leave the house, but it was all he had to hand. A long sleeved tee and sweater completed the clothing, and he was rummaging desperately for a pair of socks in the same color -- he had given up on finding actual pairs years before. His hair was still damp on the back of his neck and he rubbed at it, then caught the time on the bedside clock and fled for the kitchen. He might have time for breakfast. He put the coffee on for Ez, and sliced a huge wedge of bread off of the loaf in the bread basket, folded it over a piece of ham and a slab of cheese and stuffed as much as he could into his mouth while pulling on his boots. It was already too late for Ezra, but he might still have a chance -- he still had fifty minutes to get onto campus, and the drive took about an hour if he took it easy. Ezra appeared nearly seven minutes later looking dapper as ever except for one missing shoe. "John, have you seen--" "Living room?" "Tried there." JD frowned and tried to remember. "You were wearing them yesterday?" Ezra nodded, and took a quick gulp of the coffee JD handed him. JD swallowed another mouthful of sandwich and headed into the living room. He walked behind the couch and lifted it up. "Thank you!" Ezra crouched and grabbed his shoe from where it had become wedged under the couch. He pulled it on, and hurried for the door. He tipped the mug back, draining the last of it, and abandoned the mug on the coffee table. "Thanks, kid," he smiled. "You need a ride today?" He held the front door for him and then locked it behind them. JD shook his head as he hastily zipped up his bomber jacket. "Nah. Make better time separately." He hooked his helmet on the handlebar of the bike, and settled his backpack securely over his shoulders. The car and motorcycle were parked side by side, and Ezra had to shuffle carefully past the Kawasaki to reach the driver side door of the Jag. "Agreed." He unlocked the door and stopped before he got inside. "Drive carefully?" JD stopped as he was about to pull his helmet over his head and leaned over to kiss him. "You too, okay? No getting shot or stuff." He checked the bike over quickly, then settled himself. Ezra grinned lop-sidedly. "I do not get shot. I am the cause of getting shot in others." "Whatever. And don't get stopped by the state patrol, you'll be later'n you are already!" Ezra smirked and slid into the car. "As if they could catch this jewel among cars," he called back. Any further comments were drowned as the two engines turned over. JD pulled on his helmet and pulled out ahead of Ezra. They paced each other for a while, but the later hour meant heavier traffic, and JD was soon far ahead of Ezra, weaving in and out of the busy rush hour. JD concentrated on the traffic. He liked leaving earlier or later, hated trying to get his vulnerable bike through the oblivious suburban commuters. One man cut in front of him and damn near clipped him, forcing JD to weave dangerously away into the next lane. It was sheer luck that there was enough space for him. JD swore and slapped his hand against the man's door as he passed him. "Wake up," he growled. The man apparently took offence at someone touching his car and crowded JD until he simply slid around the SUV and kept moving, until the reckless idiot was a distant blob merged with the rest of the slowing vehicles caught in the morning deluge pouring into Denver. He squeaked through an opening, and made his turn into the road leading down to the university. He might make his class, he thought hopefully. Fifteen minutes later JD checked his watch and swore, scrambling off his bike with more speed than grace. He had exactly three minutes to get from the parking lot to the classroom. He ran flat out, and then went flying when someone, he glanced back and found Morgan staring absently in the other direction and knew instantly who, had tripped him up. His knees stung, and he scrambled up the steps, hoping that his helmet and computer hadn't been damaged. He slid around the corner and pushed open the door, breathing a sigh of relief. Dr. Rosomon hadn't arrived yet. He found a chair and let his thumping heart slow down. He wondered how Ezra was faring. ------------------------------------------------ "Glad you could make it, Standish," Chris Larabee was standing by Ezra's desk, his arms folded. "When you can spare a moment I'd like to see you in my office." "No problem," he smiled as best he could, still out of breath from sprinting to the elevator from the car. In the background Buck had jerked his tie around, holding it by the end as though hanging himself, his head drooping and his tongue hanging out. Vin winked at him. Nathan was nowhere in sight, but his momentary hope that he was not the last man in was defeated half born when he noticed the driving shoes under Jackson's chair, and the missing work shoes. "Good night out, Ez?" Buck asked with a big grin. "Or should that be, big night in?" "Nothing of the sort. The alarm clock failed to wake us, and we overslept." Buck waggled his eyebrows. "All wore out." Ezra ignored him, and applied himself to logging on, gathering folders and steeling himself for the deeply unpleasant encounter that was no doubt going to ensue the moment he walked into Mr. Larabee's office. "How's the kid?" Buck tried again. "Why not ask him yourself," Ezra said sharply, then calmed himself. "I have a meeting with our short-tempered leader." "So, when did you leave?" Vin asked lazily. He grinned at Ezra's narrowed eyes. Ezra looked coolly back. "I believe we woke at approximately eight am." All eyes turned to the clock and back to Ezra. "It's only eight forty right now," Vin pointed out. "Thank you, yes, I am aware of the time. Speaking of which I should go and--" He headed for Chris's office. "We going to get one of those calls from the DPD again, Ezra?" Josiah asked curiously and Ezra rolled his eyes. "Not that it's any of your concern, but no. Now, if you'll excuse me?" He squared his shoulders, squared his documents, and knocked on Larabee's door. "Come in." ------------------------------------------------ Eleven already. JD grabbed his stuff and sprinted for the men's room. Somehow he'd forgotten to pee before he got into class. He sighed with relief, and then washed his hands. He had about an hour before a one hour session on topologies, which he already knew. Maybe he could get himself some lunch instead. He was heading to the student cafeteria when his cell phone started vibrating in his pocket. He fished it out and looked at the phone number displayed on the tiny little screen with some puzzlement. Only Ezra and Casey had his number, as far as he knew, so who the hell could be calling him? He shrugged and answered. "Hello?" he asked. "Hey kid! How are you?" He vaguely recognized the voice, but couldn't place it. "Hello?" "Hey, kid, can you hear me?" There was a sharp rapping sound in JD's ear and he winced. "I can hear you!" he said urgently, and switched the phone to his other ear. "It's Buck, Buck Wilmington." The man's voice drawled softly, right in his ear, and he grimaced. Him. The man carried straight on, cheerfully, as though he couldn't imagine that JD wasn't pleased to hear from him. "You remember me? From the poker night at Ez's place the other night." "Uh, sure. I remember you." Try as he might he couldn't quite keep the emphasis off of 'you'. "Sure you remember!" Wilmington said happily, "Don't rightly see how you'd forget." JD couldn't quite see how he'd forget someone who near as dammit called his lover a pedophile, either. On the other hand, the guy meant well. Maybe he wasn't giving the man enough credit. On the other, other hand, the man had been a complete pain in the ass that night. He grinned to himself, three hands already and it ain't yet noon. "Yeah," JD agreed shortly. Buck huffed a sigh and spoke again in a voice so soft JD had to strain to hear it. "Look, kid, I ain't sayin' sorry again. Done is done. But we got off on the wrong foot, and I'd maybe like to change that if I can?" "I--" "So I was thinking that I could buy you lunch, poor starving student, probably glad of a --" he coughed and stopped, "Sorry, yeah, so, there's this little place I know, very quiet at lunchtime, pretty happening in the evenings, some of the waitresses are pretty easy on the eye, if you know what I -- oh, ah, well, you wouldn't be interested in that, right? Kid?" He seemed to belatedly realize that he was the only one participating in the conversation. "I'm here!" JD said hastily, forestalling another sequence of thumps applied to Wilmington's phone. "I could do lunch." If I have to. The thought crossed his mind that Wilmington worked with Ez; where Ezra was discreet and silent, Wilmington was loud and garrulous. Maybe he could find out-- "Yeah, why not? When, where?" "Okay then. Today? Tomorrow? One? I can pick you up if--" "I can find it!" he said, perhaps a little more sharply than he intended. "Just tell me where and I'll be there." "Sure, sure. Ah, the place I was thinking of is Recillos' Wine Bar, I can give you directions--" "That's fine, I know it." "Do you now?" Wilmington sounded put out. "Guess Ez took you there." "Something like that." Really it was more me taking him, but you know, TMI, he reflected with a smirk that he could only be grateful that Wilmington couldn't see. And if he remembered rightly there was something about Buck and this place anyway. Free food, possible information, and a floor show too. This was sounding better by the moment. He grinned wickedly. "Tomorrow's better than today." "Fine, I'll --oh. No, that's no good, got a bust, how about the day after?" "I can do today if you want. Or day after tomorrow. Whatever." "Friday then." "Friday. It's a date," JD added. "Uh, sure," Wilmington agreed doubtfully. "Only not a date date. Because, well, you know, you'n'Ezra, an' me not into that sort of-- and --" JD laughed as Buck stumbled between the rock of giving offence, and the hard place of preserving his manly, heterosexual integrity. "Bastard," Buck growled, no real venom in his voice. "Takes one to know one," he said cheerfully. "Seeya Friday, at Inez' place, around one." "Take care, boy," Buck said in farewell. "You too." He hung up and stared at the phone for nearly a minute. One had been happenstance. Two was just coincidence. Three would be enemy action. He smiled and shrugged off the niggling anxiety that said no one would want to get to know him without an ulterior motive. Ezra had paid half a million for the pleasure of his company. He was a nice guy. They were nice guys. Why wouldn't someone want to get to know him? Especially when, that niggling little voice insisted on being heard, they work for the FBI or ATF or whatever, and you're their colleague's queer boyfriend. Yeah, people really put themselves out to do that kind of thing. To meet a scrawny, boring, over-educated loner. Yeah. Right. I wonder why Ezra picked me? A moment later he shrugged and headed into his next lab. He really needed to stop reading those conspiracy websites. ------------------------------------------------ Ezra emerged from Chris's office with a smug grin on his face and considerably less paperwork than he had gone in with. Most of it was now in Larabee's capable hands, even if that gentleman wasn't entirely clear on how or why that should be the case. Vin's eyes held banked amusement, as he murmured, "...four... three... two..." Right on cue, Larabee's voice erupted. "Standish!" Ezra picked up his pace and left the office for the quietness of one of the small meeting rooms. Not fleeing exactly. Just, not being present during any potential contretemps. He spread his paperwork out and sighed contentedly. Larabee had approved his request to review the Lasater bust. Josiah was probably going to freak, but something was bothering him about the deal. It was like trying to find that one loose end that you knew was hanging off your suit, but couldn't, quite, see or reach. He frowned as he stared at nothing, his mind turning over scenarios, and then he quirked a small grin and started writing. This could work. ------------------------------------------------ JD balanced a pile of books on one knee while trying to pull another one from the bottom of his backpack, and not dropping his helmet or laptop, which was dangling precariously half in and half out of the bag. "Mr. Dunne?" He startled and whirled, dropping books everywhere. The bag fell too, and it was only a reflexive snatch that saved the laptop from following it. "Shit." He looked up and found the head of his department looking at him with an expression somewhere between exasperation and amusement on his face. "Sorry, Professor Sanders." He looked at the books, and decided to pick them up after the dean was done with him. He hastily shoved the bag, laptop and helmet into his locker and forced it closed. He turned back to face them in time to catch Sanders scowling at his ancient, ripped jeans, and the man standing with him eying him with an uncomfortable intensity. He had a strong suspicion that had he looked up a second sooner he'd've caught those dark, predatory eyes on his ass. Abruptly he regretted dragging on his oldest, most comfortable jeans this morning. But he'd been in a hell of a hurry, and his butt had ached something fierce, too much to tolerate anything harsher than the butter soft denim, no matter that they were too tight for underwear, and too torn to wear anywhere but school and home. And judging by the look on Professor Sanders' face, he might want to consider retiring them from anything but around the house. "Don't worry about it. Mr. Dunne, I'd like you to meet Jake Torrence." He turned his head towards a distinguished looking man perhaps sixty years of age. He was lean, with strong features, a hooked nose and hawklike black eyes that pinned JD with an assessing gaze. JD felt like a mouse being eyed up for edibility, and straightened his spine, meeting the man's look defiantly. "Mr. Torrence," he nodded. He shook hands with the man, ignoring the way the grip lingered a little too long, and the way the man's thumb slid unseen across his palm in a deliberate caress. He folded his arms and tucked his hands under them, surreptitiously rubbing the right one clean. "Mr. Dunne." The man's accent was clipped and clean, the kind of generic American that no one but newsreaders really spoke in. "Mr. Torrence is contributing a exceptionally generous donation to this department, and expressed a particular interest in your work, when we were discussing the future of computing." Sanders smiled warmly at JD, who smiled warily back. "Really?" he said with doubtful enthusiasm. "Not many people ever ask about my stuff. It's all kinda boring and theoretical at the moment." "You're too modest, Mr. Dunne," Torrence smiled at him, but JD caught an edge of cold calculation in the man's expression. "I have some ideas about the commercial applications for--" JD interrupted, "I'm really sorry, sir, but I'd rather not discuss anything like that? My work is still experimental, and I have some ideas of my own that I don't want to contaminate with other people's stuff, if you don't mind." Torrence's eyebrows lifted momentarily, and then settled, and he grinned at JD. "I guess I can appreciate that." His whole demeanor was suddenly friendlier. "Maybe you could tell me a little about your work over coffee?" He raised a hand before JD could refuse, "With the proviso that it is all experimental and confidential?" JD could see the professor smiling in a meaningful manner at him, and suppressed a sigh. "No problem, sir." "Don't worry about missing class, JD." Professor Sanders patted him on the back and smiled again, toothily. "I'll let your tutor know." JD gritted his teeth and smiled politely at Torrence. "So, JD -- I may call you JD?" "Sure, Jake," JD said calmly, and flinched at the flash of annoyance in the man's face. "Of course," he agreed with less good humor. "Tell me something about yourself." JD shrugged. "I'm a grad student in the math department of Denver U. I'm hoping to finish my doctoral dissertation in about a year or so. What's your interest in the department?" he asked bluntly. Torrence looked at him oddly, and said, "I seem to be investing some money in a project that it has going. I wanted to know more. Have you been here since you started at university?" JD blinked at the change of subject, but nodded, "Yeah, mostly. Started when I was fourteen, and stayed here pretty much right through. I went abroad for a couple of years to study, but I like it better here." He grinned cheerfully. "It's a great place." "Abroad?" JD found himself talking about his two years at Imperial, then the three years of his PhD, and then somehow he was talking about his mother. He stopped himself dead, and apologized. "I'm sorry, you wanted to know about my work, not my Mom," he shook his head at himself. "She sounds like a delightful lady." JD nodded, "Oh, she was. She loved that I went to university, I was the first person that she knew of in her family to go. She could have gone herself, only she had me, and that kind of--" he looked embarrassed, "I'm sorry, I'm doing it again -- I'll stop now." Torrence merely smiled. "I am always interested in young people," he said softly, and JD edged away from him slightly, wishing he hadn't said as much as he had. "I take it that your mother has passed away?" JD ducked his head and nodded wordlessly. The last thing he needed was to start sharing his emotions as well as his life story with some industrialist and big bucks benefactor of the university. Particularly one who looked at him with such a coolly assessing air. "I'm sorry," the man said with perfunctory sympathy. "Thank you. But it was a mercy." It wasn't. Couldn't ever have been, but it would shut him up. "So, what are you studying now?" The man changed the subject and JD seized on the change with alacrity. He straightened, and launched into a spiel about his software designs, without going into any details. He'd already learned that lesson from a so called friend who was now living large on the proceeds of one of the ideas JD had discussed with him, but not had the time or money to follow up. "There are some companies doing something like you describe," Torrence said thoughtfully. "Domestic appliances -- intelligent cleaning." "Yeah. It's interesting stuff, but fundamentally flawed, in my opinion." JD dismissed a multi-million dollar industry with a shrug and missed the amusement in Torrence's eyes. "Fascinating." He smiled at JD and patted him on the shoulder. JD flinched away and moved out of range. "I'm delighted to talk to a young man who has managed to do so much with his life. I imagine your mother would be very proud of you." JD's jaw tightened and he reddened with shame. She would have been horrified that he had resorted to prostituting himself to pay her bills. He could forget about it when he was with Ezra, but any time he thought of her, he knew how badly she would have been hurt, and how unhappy at his choice. She had always insisted there were choices; this time he had taken the easy one. "I know she was very proud of my school work," was all he said, quietly, and hoping that the rush of blood to his face would be dismissed as embarrassment at the compliment. It must have worked, as Torrence merely nodded politely. "Of course. Well, JD, it's been a pleasure to meet you." The man held out his hand and they shook firmly. "I expect I will be hearing more of you in the future." He nodded and turned away towards the exit. "Thank you sir." He glanced back at the closed door to Professor Sanders' office. "Um. Was the Professor expecting you back?" Torrence quirked a disdainful eyebrow at him. "No. No, I don't think so." He drew a quick breath then stopped. "My regards to Mr. Standish. Remember me to him. And his lovely mother," he added as a seeming afterthought. "How did you--" But the man simply turned on his heel and never looked back, leaving JD staring after him. He shook himself and headed back to his locker. The contents tried to fall out in a hideous mess when he opened it, and only quick reflexes saved the helmet from going flying. "Shit!" He carefully pulled everything out and started repacking it, organizing his books for the day into his backpack, and the rest of it into neat heaps on the locker shelves. He paused as he slid his folder of probability notes alongside the stack of books, and frowned, eyes unfocused. "Well, that was strange," he said quietly. "And kinda creepy." He shivered, then finished up. "What the hell did he mean about Ez?" He paused, lifting his head in sudden awareness. "I never said a word about Ez. And the professor doesn't know his name. I just said 'ATF'." He stared after Torrence. "What the hell have I gotten myself into?" Torrence had looked at him the way some of those people back at Donna's auction had; like he was meat on a rack, to be assessed for quality, value for money and edibility. The ones he had desperately hoped wouldn't be interested in him. He swallowed. Their eyes had smeared over him, knowing that they were better than he was, that they could, and maybe would, buy and sell him without any interest in how he felt about it. Turning him into a commodity, not a person. He swallowed dryly. He was reading far too much into it. Maybe the guy just liked boys. And it wasn't as if he'd been anything but polite. Not even touching him. Not really. And besides, he was a benefactor to the department. Just because he got the wiggins off the man was no reason to start making him into something he wasn't. By the time he finished he decided to check with the professor's secretary, and pass on Torrence's apologies that way, rather than trouble the man in person. He was walking down to her office when he met Sanders in the corridor. "Ah, JD! Has our guest left?" Sanders peered over JD's shoulder as though expecting the man to pop up from around the corner. "Yes, sir." He hesitated a second, then blurted out, "What did he want, Professor?" Sanders shook his head. "Between you and me, I have no idea what his interest in the place is. I did wonder maybe if you knew him from somewhere?" "Me, Professor? No." JD shook his head, confused. "Ah. Odd." "Professor?" JD hurried to catch up as the professor started moving back to his office. "Well, he asked for you by name. Was quite interested in you as a matter of fact." Sanders glanced at him, and abruptly JD was aware of the fierce intelligence that had taken the man to the position of head of the math department, before he was forty. "If he has any suggestions about meeting you privately, or asks you to do anything you feel uncomfortable with, do not feel obliged to play along. We are not a poor department, and while sponsorship is always pleasant it is not always worth the price demanded." JD nodded. "No, sir. I mean, yes, I understand sir." And, looking into Sanders' eyes, he wondered how much, in turn, the professor understood. "Hmm." He paused outside his office. "JD, if there is anything troubling you... Please, don't make any rash decisions. And if you get into difficulties, my door is always open." JD smiled. "Thank you, sir. I've got some good friends looking out for me these days." "Your ATF boyfriend?" His eyebrows lifted with amusement. JD grinned back, pleased that he'd remembered. "Not just him, but yeah." He blushed as he said it, and couldn't stop smiling at the thought of Ezra, his boyfriend. It sounded so normal. Sanders laughed, "Well, then, we will all be on our best behavior." He grinned at JD and suddenly looked more like a fellow student than a responsible professor. "Try not to cause too much mayhem with the liquor raids." JD snickered. "No raids, professor," he promised recklessly, and Sanders chuckled. "On another subject," Sanders turned and started walking towards the main seminar room, "Professor Rosomon was speaking to me about seeing if we could find a place for you as his teaching assistant." JD blinked. "Wow. Really? But I've only been back like, five minutes." "I think you'll find it has been rather more like two weeks," the professor said dryly, "And as Professor Rosomon pointed out, you would have been a TA long ago had it not been for your family circumstances." "Oh." "I mention it because I believe you may want to consider the offer carefully, Mr. Dunne. For one thing, do you have any plans once you have your doctorate?" "Well, sir, um, no. Not really. I kinda thought I'd like to stay on, keep doing pure research." "Well, that will undoubtedly require a certain amount of teaching hours. Perhaps it would be a good opportunity to start finding how you cope with a teaching load. And of course, I imagine the stipend will be welcome too. It's not much, but it always helps." "Yes sir," JD said with some dismay. "I suppose it will." Just when he discovered he didn't need to work, he got handed his dream job on a plate. Now wasn't that just fucking typical? Sanders smiled gently at him. "Now, off you go. Your next class is in five minutes I believe." JD blinked, but the door was already closing behind Sanders. "How does he do that?" he mumbled to himself, and trotted off to enjoy an hour or so of probability theory. ------------------------------------------------ "I wonder if you have any tickets available for tonight's performance? No? Thank you. I shall contact them. The number?" Ezra wrote yet another telephone number down and sighed. "No, no, thank you. Goodbye." His shoulders dropped momentarily. That was the fifth ticket agent. The performance tonight was sold out. He had gone from thinking he might check availability, to being absolutely determined that he was going to get hold of tickets. JD would like it. Well, he, Ezra, would like it, and JD needed to get out. They hadn't been on a single date, unless you counted the lunch at Inez' bar last week. He let his mind drift back to that particular lunch. Okay, he'd count that as their first date. A tiny smile appeared on his lips and he carefully marked one year onwards in his calendar, just in case, he told himself. His smile widened. He'd take his beautiful partner out properly, dinner and a show. Yes. He thought of seeing the kid in a suit, and his smile turned amused even as his mouth dried at the mental image. JD in a suit. Did the boy even possess such a thing? He'd have to arrange some proper evening wear for him. Something appropriate to his new found wealth. Maybe he could pick up something for himself as well. Maybe tomorrow morning they'd wake up early enough to shower together. He looked down at the phone number scribbled on his notepad, and dialed again. "Yes, good afternoon. I'm interested in obtaining two tickets for tonight's Don Quixote..." ------------------------------------------------ He was fathoms deep in code, trying to locate a stray glitch that was causing some discrepancies in his predicted results, when someone's cellphone rang. He looked up and grinned to see students all around reach for bags, pockets and purses, fish out their phones and then put them away with a shrug. He turned back to the pc, and then remembered that he had a phone too. He managed to drag it out of his pocket just in time for the ring to cut out, and a message: "one missed call" to appear on the screen. "Shit," he muttered, ducking his head and feeling a red flush creep across his face at the glares from his fellow students. He shut down his laptop and gathered his things hastily, then quickly made his way out of the quiet study area of the science library. He prodded the phone as he walked until it finally condescended to tell him that he had missed a call from Ezra's cell. "Shit!" He pressed the button to call back, with a smile. "Standish." "Did you just call me?" "I may have done," Ezra's voice teased lightly. "Anything in particular?" "I was wondering if you had any plans for this evening." "No," JD shook his head even though Ezra couldn't see the gesture. "What's up?" "I have a couple of tickets to Don Quixote, for seven thirty." "Sounds good," he hesitated, and asked, "am I going to have to dress up?" "What are you wearing?" JD sniggered, "Weeeell--" "Keep it clean, Mr. Dunne," Ezra said dryly, and JD could hear someone's laughing voice in the background asking how much the phone call was costing, and should it be allowed on government property. "Thank you, Mr. Wilmington, I am merely ascertaining whether John is attired suitably for a night at the ballet." "Ballet!" JD squeaked, then blushed scarlet as half a dozen people glared at him. "Ballet?" he repeated in a whisper, and made tracks for the exit. "The tickets were a last minute offer by an old friend," Ezra said, dry amusement lacing his tone over the raucous laughter in the background. "I thought you might enjoy an evening out, we could have dinner together, and later explore some of the culture that this city has to offer." "Well, but, Ez, come on, ballet? Isn't that like every gay cliche rolled into one?" Ezra sighed. "No, it is not. Have you ever actually been to a ballet?" "Well, no... but--" "Then do not comment on something you know nothing about. That applies to you too, Mr. Wilmington." "I ain't dressing up just to watch people bouncing around a stage, mooning at each other in tights." He found a wall outside the library to perch on and slung his bag up first, then swung himself up. "What a --delightful-- summation of your knowledge of the performing arts, John. You don't have to dress up, just clean and neat would do." "Ah, well, I -- " "I forgot. How could I forget?" Ezra asked resignedly. "You wore those jeans, didn't you?" He sighed. "If there was ever an occasion to which they were least suited, this is it. So naturally you are wearing skin tight jeans so old the fabric has frayed through in half a dozen places." "All the right places, Ez," JD said softly. Ezra made no reply for a long moment. In the background, JD could hear Wilmington again, "Keep it clean, boys!" When he spoke again, Ezra sounded husky, and JD smirked, turning his head to hide his expression from passers-by. "You, sir, are asking for trouble." "I never ask for anything I don't want," JD said softly, and this time he could actually hear Ezra swallow, trying to compose himself. "I suppose a shopping expedition is out of the question? Apply a little retail therapy to your unfortunate attire?" "I guess I could wander down to Gap or something." Ezra groaned, and JD had a happy thought, "You could come too. I might need some help, you know, picking out something ... suitable." "Because you couldn't possibly go shopping on your own." Ezra said sarcastically, and JD laughed. "Well, sure, if you want to leave it to me to pick out the outfit--" "On the other hand," Ezra changed his tune smoothly, "I believe it might behoove me to ensure you do not end up dressing yourself like a refugee from the grunge nation." "'Behoove' you?" "I'll see you in an hour?" "Works for me." JD hastily reviewed his timetable, and discovered nothing he couldn't make up. There were distinct advantages to being very nearly ABD. "In front of the mathematics building. That is where you are today, correct?" "Mostly." "Mostly? Does that mean parts of you are elsewhere?" Ezra asked, amusement in his voice. "If you really want to know where my mind is, Ez..." JD dropped his voice and went for sultry, with mixed success. He choked and had to cough to clear his voice. "I have a fairly good idea already, thank you, Mr. Dunne," Ezra told him firmly. "Further elaboration at this stage is not required." "I'm at the library, but I'm heading over to the department about now anyway." "I am becoming entirely too well acquainted with your timetable." "You're just jealous of my leisurely student lifestyle." "I won't even dignify that with a response," Ezra said smartly, and JD grinned again. "Seeya in fifty-seven minutes then." "Indeed." JD hesitated, and Ezra cut the line before he could. An hour gave him some time to pack up, dump some stuff in his locker. Maybe even grab a shower over at the gym. Maybe shave. Brush his teeth. Maybe even get himself -- he looked around nervously, blushing a little, despite the fact that he was thinking in the privacy of his own head. Ez would look damn good in a tux. He smiled, his mind miles away, perfecting a mental image that made him swallow hard and wish, yet again, that he'd worn looser jeans. Yeah. An evening out with Ez sounded pretty good, even if there was going to be guys in tights. ------------------------------------------------ "Not purple! I don't care how funky it is! I am not being seen with you looking like, like, like a damned ambulatory eggplant!" Ezra looked on the verge of tearing his hair out and JD winked surreptitiously at the shop assistant, who looked torn between horror and giggles. "How about the gold velvet then?" He picked up the sleeve of the suit in question and stroked it lingeringly. "Not velvet. Please!" "It would look great with that green and black and purple shirt we saw back there." "I wasn't even aware this place had a Hawaiian range," Ezra said darkly. "And if I get my way, they will remove its pernicious presence forthwith." "I like this shop, Ez," JD confided, and wandered a little further along the rack. "Mmmm. I loved fire engine red when I was a kid." He blinked as though a thought had suddenly occurred to him, "Hey, you're always calling me 'kid'. Maybe I should go for the nostalgia crack." He lifted the hanger a little off the rail and grinned as Ezra's hand snapped down on it. "I think not!" He dragged JD down towards the fitting rooms, throwing a curt, "Please excuse us," to the smirking shop assistant over his shoulder. "What's the matter, Ez? I thought you wanted me to smarten up; buy a suit; get something original, that suited me, that I liked--" Ezra's mouth pursed tightly. "I do not for one moment believe that you thought any such thing. I think you took one look at this place and decided to behave as badly as possible in order to--" "Ez!" "--force my hand into taking you to some chain store that might as well be a thrift store for all the style and quality you'll obtain." JD was red with embarrassment. "Ez, calm, down," he said tightly. "We're not exactly in private here." "No. We aren't! And, yes, I am making a scene! But no worse than the spectacle you were making of yourself. If you do not wish to accompany me this evening, please say so, and I will relieve you of the clearly onerous task of sitting with me for some hours." "Aw, Ez, come on," JD was starting to feel distinctly panicky. "I said I'd go, and I will, I just-- this isn't me?" He looked pleadingly at his lover, but Ezra had turned his back on him and was muttering unintelligibly, with hands flying. "Ez?" he asked nervously. "Please? I'll wear a monkey suit, a, a tux I mean, if you want. I just -- I ain't used to all this." He bit his lip. "I don't know what to --" "What?" I don't know anything, he thought furiously, clamping his jaw tightly shut and clenching his fists unconsciously. Anger, and miserable, humiliating shame burned in his throat like bile. This place, with its discreet shop front and quiet, elegant staff, and clothes with no price tags and no sizes, I don't know any of it. I don't fit in, I can't fit in: you can dress me up all you like and I'm still going to just be me, a chambermaid's son from New York, who doesn't -- "John, don't." He looked hopelessly at Ezra. "You shoulda let me go to the mall, okay? This --" he waved at the store, "It's you, not me." Ezra looked bewildered. "John, you have money. You don't have to dress like this any more." He glanced at JD's ragged jeans. "Don't you want to look better than that?" "You liked these jeans all right yesterday," JD snapped, stung, and Ezra's eyes dropped. "That was private." "Excuse me?" "I'm sorry." Ezra sounded tired. He didn't look up, just shrugged. "You should, you should do what makes you happy. Dress how you want. I-- do you need a taxi or can you get back to campus on your own?" JD flinched. "Ez?" He felt cold, and the room somehow seemed terribly distant. "Ez..." He reached out a hand and wrapped cold fingers around Ezra's wrist. "Don't go." You can't go. "John?" Ezra pulled away, but before JD could do anything, say anything, he was holding JD tightly, pulling him into his chest, pressing his head into the crook of his neck. "John. My... my dear, I'm not going anywhere. I promise." JD stood completely motionless for the longest time, slowly relaxing into Ezra. He felt like he never wanted to move. "We're going home, okay?" Ezra murmured softly into his ear. Perhaps it had only been minutes after all. JD nodded into Ezra's shoulder but didn't move. "I don't want to make you unhappy," Ezra said softly. "I just thought-- John, you really want to know what I thought?" JD nodded, tilting his head back a little to meet Ezra's eyes. Ezra smiled. "I couldn't help thinking how fuckin' hot you'd look in a tailored suit." "Really?" JD blinked a little. "Me?" Ezra smiled, even though his eyes stayed solemn and watchful. "You. John, I never meant to make you feel--" Like a whore. A big old dress up doll, not good enough for your world, JD thought, and he was afraid the thoughts showed on his face, because Ezra's eyes softened and he shook his head. "Darlin', I love these jeans. I just don't want anyone else oglin' you," he smiled ruefully, inviting JD to share in a joke that he wasn't quite sure was funny. "I don't understand." Ezra laughed softly. "I know." He kissed JD lightly, and added, "I begin to understand the attraction of a Burqa." "Ezra!" "I'm jokin'!" JD wasn't entirely sure he was, and blurted out, "You can't be jealous, you own me." Ezra's face froze. "Of course I do. How foolish of me to forget." Shit. "Shit, babe, I didn't mean that. Ezra, please, I didn't mean it like that!" "What did you mean, then?" JD stared into Ezra's eyes, and wondered if he really could see what he thought he was seeing. Or if it was a trick the mind played on the heart, making him think that iris and sclera, pupil and cornea had some unspoken message in them. "You dumbass, I only fucking went and fell in love with you, okay? Heart and soul. You didn't pay for them. You don't get to pay for 'em. I'm giving them to you, all right?" Somehow he'd expected the moment when he offered this to involve candles, and a dim room, and soft words. This fitted better though, even if it wasn't perfect. Even if it did feel like jumping off a cliff. Green eyes widened, somehow soft and vulnerable. "Heart and soul, Mr. Dunne?" JD reddened and ducked his head, "Something like that," he muttered in sudden, acute embarrassment. He wasn't going to do this; he was going to play it cool, and calm, and wait out the year, and oh god, Ezra was kissing him like there was no tomorrow, no time to spare, and certainly no curious shop assistants just the other side of a thin wooden door... "I was going to wait," Ezra said, pulling back for a brief moment, then kissing him again like he couldn't bear to be away from his lips. "I thought, I would ... wait till the ... contract was over." "Ezra?" He really didn't mean to sound so anxious. "Love you. God, darlin', I love you. Heart and soul." JD's vision blurred, and he wasn't entirely sure that he was breathing. "You still wanna go see Don whatsisface?" "Don who?" Ezra asked in genuine confusion. "Let's go home, baby." JD smiled and they leaned in together for one more kiss. "Yeah," he whispered against Ezra's lips. "Let's go home."

Ezra pulled in and nearly forgot to come to a complete standstill when he saw what was leaning against the outside wall of the garage. He had to brake hard as the house wall loomed in front of him, and winced as the hood gently kissed the bricks before rolling back. John had said he'd found his own transport, but *this*? He reached for the bags of groceries in the back of the car then paused to stare at the scraped and scratched motorcycle. "You bought *that*?" he muttered, "You're seriously telling me that with one and a half hundred thousand dollars *that's* the toy you pick to play with?" He shook his head in bemusement. The boy was clearly going to have to be educated on the finer things in life. And he probably ought to suggest that the kid invest some of it instead of shelling out what undoubtedly had been too much money on a wreck. He grappled with the half dozen heavy bags of beers and snacks, hauling them out of the back seat and slamming the door. He dumped them by the front door and walked back to check the car's paintwork, peering with minute attention at the hood from two or three inches away, tilting and twisting his head to spot any scratches on the rich black sheen. Finally satisfied that it was not in fact damaged he headed back to the house, juggling bags and keys, and elbowed the door open with some difficulty. A blast of sound hit his ears and he winced. The bombastic music and repetitive stutter of guns sounded almost like a war film, but the dialogue was even more stilted and unimaginative than the usual run. The booms and whines of bombs shook the house, the biggest rumblings settling in his ribcage and physically shaking him. "Saving Private Dunne," he muttered darkly and yelled, "John? JD!" No one came to help. John, presuming it was John that was the cause of the racket that had taken over his quiet abode, almost certainly could not even hear him. He dragged the bags into the kitchen and abandoned them, following his ears to the source of the sound. "Good Lord." His living room had been transformed from something elegant in minimalist creams and beiges with an occasional accent of deep red to add warmth and interest, to some mad scientist's vision of death trap by wire. Cables stretched everywhere, and in the middle of it all, like a long legged, dark haired spider in its web, lay JD. Nothing would persuade him that the boy sprawled out on his stomach, feet waving in the air, and a death grip on some enormous joystick, pounding on buttons and dragging it back and forth, swearing and cheering the improbably proportioned figures on the screen on by turns, was anything other than 'JD', aged perhaps, at a stretch, eight. "JD?" A spaceship blew up and the screen whirled dizzyingly as JD performed a victory roll, whooping with joy. "Eat my dust, space scum!" Ezra cleared his throat, and JD twisted his neck in an alarming fashion. "Oh, hey Ez, you're back!" The screen froze and he pulled his knees up under him. In the same move he knelt up, grabbed Ezra's tie and pulled him down to his lips. Ezra revised the age back up to twenty-two, with an option on 'more experienced than is good for my sanity or self-control.'. "Missed ya." He kissed him again. "Didya see the wheels? Way cool, huh?" Ezra gave up and knelt, and gave back as good as he got. He was just considering the possibility of making it three for three and simply tumbling JD to the floor and (wires or no wires) taking him where he lay when a raucous whoop filled the room. "Gooooooo Standish!" Buck cheered. Ezra rocketed to his feet, hand halfway to his gun, pushing JD to the ground behind him before he recognised the man's voice through the haze of blinding want. "Goddammit, Wilmington," he blazed uncharacteristically, and Buck stepped back his hands in the air. "No harm, no foul. Just thought we'd drop by a little early." "The agreed time was eight," Ezra snapped. "Hey, sorry guys, I'll pick this all up in a minute." JD scooped the cables and joystick together and bundled them all on top of Ezra's television, then forced the television cabinet door shut. "Tada!" He turned round and grinned at Ezra. "No fuss, no muss." "Brat." Ezra shook his head, smiling at him. JD was barefoot. The remains of what he suspected had been the tub of extremely expensive chocolate ice cream were lingering around his mouth, and his hair was lying every which way. He looked edible. "Jesus Christ, Standish, what is he, twelve!" Buck blurted, staring. "Twenty-two, actually," JD said mildly. He wrapped his hand around Ezra's wrist as he tensed. "Yeah, and I'm the pope's maiden aunt," Buck jeered. "Nice to meet you, ma'am," JD said, straight faced, and Ezra grinned. He heard muffled snickers and looked at the door to discover the rest of his team mates cautiously lurking by the entrance. He shook his head. One thing at a time. "JD Dunne, Buck Wilmington," he introduced them, and Buck frowned. "This is John?" Ezra wondered who else Buck thought he was going to be embracing after the discussions and taunts of the last two days. "JD, if you don't mind," JD said firmly. Ezra's grin softened, although he kept his eyes on the man in front of him, and the little covey of colleagues lurking in the doorway in a vain attempt at looking inconspicuous and nonchalant. "This is the guy you went twice around Denver looking for the right ice cream for?" Buck's voice was incredulous. "Really?" JD asked Ezra with interest, and he shook his head. "Just down to the gelato place on Ninth." "*Really*?" JD threw a guilty look at the waste paper bin and wiped nervously at his mouth. "You missed some," Ezra told him dryly, and his face reddened. "Hey, I thought you guys were coming later. Or I'd'a been you know, uh--" "Dressed?" Ezra asked with acid amusement. JD leaned forward and whispered in Ezra's ear, "It could have been worse. I *was* thinking about going for a repeat of last night. Y'know, with the coffee table instead of the kitchen table? Maybe getting ready for you first..." Ezra's cheekbones stained with red, but he made no other indication of how attractive and in the circumstances, terrifying that particular notion was. They were both startled when Buck's voice broke in. "No way is that kid legal! Christ, Ez, what the hell were you thinking?" He looked JD up and down, and the kid flushed with embarrassment and stepped closer to Ezra. "Never mind, I can guess what you were thinking *with*." He gave Ezra a contemptuous look. "How the hell did you think we could condone--" John was shrinking into himself next to him, and Ezra was abruptly furious. He interrupted him before the man could say anything worse than he already had. "I cannot tell you how delighted I am by your obliging assessment of my character and morals, Mr. Wilmington. I am amazed you can bear to be in a room with a man like me. Allow me to rectify that. The door is behind you," he finished coolly, then spoiled it by adding, "Do you truly believe that I would be capable of --" he stopped, disgusted. "No -- I, but dammit, Ezra, *look* at him." There was stony silence as all eyes fixed on JD, who slipped his hand into Ezra's, which gripped back just as fiercely. JD gritted his teeth. It wasn't the first time something like this had happened. He'd hoped that he looked old enough for it not to happen again, but clearly he'd been wrong. He scowled. The comments of the guests at Donna's auction two days ago should have warned him. Ezra was his main concern right now. The man's death grip on his hand was cutting off circulation, and was worrying him. "Ignore them, babe," JD murmured. then turned to the four other men standing uncomfortably at the door. "Look, I really am twenty-two," JD said quietly to the four behind Wilmington, ignoring the big man completely. "If you don't believe me, my wallet's in my pocket. I'm a grad student at Denver State. I've been there for nearly seven years, until my mother died." "I heard about that," Nathan said sympathetically, "I'm sorry for your loss. Ezra said it was cancer?" JD shrugged. "Yeah." He glanced around the room, slid his free hand into his pocket and tossed his wallet onto the coffee table. "Look, you guys, you know, make your minds up or whatever. Ez, I need your help in the kitchen." He pulled on Ezra's hand until he followed him through the silently parting men and out of the room. The silence grew, until Buck stalked over to pick up the kid's wallet and opened it. He pulled out a driver's licence, then a student ID. "Well?" He didn't look up to meet Larabee's eyes. "September eighteen, nineteen eighty one." He slid both items back and laid the battered leather back on the table. "Damn." "One day, you'll think before opening your mouth, won't you, Buck." "The kid doesn't look a day over fifteen, come on now, does he?" "Ezra told ya he was old enough. You pretty much told him he was a liar, and a bunch of other things that I wouldn't have taken half as well as Ez did," Tanner observed coldly. "I thought better of you, Buck," Josiah said, disappointed. "I believe you owe both young men an apology. John is important to our solitary friend. I think we should at least extend them the courtesy that nearly two years of friendship are due." Buck reddened, his eyes still on the wallet. "I know. He just -- he looks so damned young!" He shook his head and looked up. "I was just -- I wasn't expecting-- oh, hell, you know me. I open my mouth and any old shit comes out." "Gonna do that once too often one day, Buck," Tanner said quietly. "Ez ain't gonna just sit and take that kinda thing. No man could." "You pretty much called him a pedophile," Nathan agreed and Buck's blush intensified. "Maybe I went a little too far," Buck admitted. "Don't tell us," Tanner said abruptly. "Try telling them." -------------------------------------------- JD really liked the way Ezra smelled. It probably wasn't the moment to ask him what it was that made him so edible, but nonetheless, it was pretty much all he could think about with the man wrapped up in his arms, as tense as he could be. Maybe it was natural. Adrenaline pumping out sweat and pheromones. He repressed the urge to burrow his nose into the man's neck, maybe into his pits just to get a real good breath of him. "John, are you even listening to me?" "Oh yes. Er." Ezra's shoulders shook. "Charmed as I am that you find me so distracting, perhaps we could return to the subject?" JD shrugged. "They're being assholes. That Buck guy's a jerk. I've heard it all before, it ain't true and we might as well let it go." "Admirably succinct. However, having made our retreat out here, we are now faced with the problem of going back inside without anyone losing face." "You worry too much Ez. We can just take in the beers. No one'll care *what* we were doing then." He grinned when Ezra laughed ruefully. "You've the right of that, darlin'." JD hugged him tightly to him, and Ezra's tension eased a little. "Besides, I reckon they're tearing strips off of him in there." "Excuse me?" "You saw their faces, right?" "I. They seemed most displeased." He frowned, wondering how the hell they were going to fix this. "They weren't looking at you, you doofus." JD shook him slightly. "They were looking at that brain dead lump." Ezra pulled away and looked at him with some amusement. "I know." "If you knew what are we doing out here?" Ezra smirked, and raised a hand to his face. "Object lesson," he said cryptically. He slid his hand through JD's hair and cupped the back of his head. "Wanna play?" "Just how far are you planning on taking the object lesson," he asked, grinning. He only had to move his lips a fraction of an inch and they were resting against Ezra's, so close that as he spoke his lips moved against his, and his breath warmed his skin. "Why don't we see how far they let us," he murmured, and they kissed. Kissing Ezra was like nothing else, like nobody else. They were the same height, very much the same build, but Ezra seemed slight and fine boned in his embrace, for all the hard muscles of his shoulders and back, and JD felt almost large and clumsy next to the man's grace and tightly controlled strength. He nuzzled at his cheek, exploring the slanted cheekbones, then trailing back across his nose and down to his lips again. Ezra's skin was soft and tasted of aftershave and salt, some kind of spicy flavor that was sharp and fresh and warming. It was completely smooth, his face moved easily without the burn of stubble that he had expected at the end of a long day. Maybe he'd shaved before coming home. The thought warmed him, even as he wondered when he'd started thinking of here as 'home'. He pressed closer, letting that warmth settle at the foot of his spine and tremble all the way up and dabbing little licks and kisses along Ez's lips until Ezra bit down on his tongue, trapping it. He stroked Ezra's tongue, and smiled as he fought back and they played, his mind gone, the world gone, everything narrowed down to Ezra's hands, Ezra's lips, Ezra's body. Ezra. He moaned the name out and felt a smile pull at his lover's lips, and the arms around him pulled him harder into his firm body, so close that he staggered. Immediately a thigh slid between his legs, taking instant advantage of his momentary lack of balance. He pushed forwards, rubbing his hardening shaft over the warm strength of sleek muscles. A hand carded through his hair, and he moaned deep in his throat as it stroked his head, over and over, forcing the kiss deeper and deeper. "Ahem?" They were both breathing hard. He could feel Ezra's chest expanding and contracting rapidly under his arms. He gripped at his back, then stroked firmly up and down his flanks, pulling him in closer with each sweep. Gasping for air he rested his face against Ezra's, and tried to bite back a helpless, "Oh god," as Ezra took the exposure of his neck as an opportunity to nuzzle, nip, bite and suckle his way down the line of his throat. He sank his teeth into JD's shoulder where it met his neck, and JD jerked forwards into his body. "Excuse me?" A pair of hands dragged down his back into his pants and gripped his ass cheeks hard. JD rocked eagerly between the leg spreading his wide, and the hands pulling his ass open. He turned his face into Ezra's neck and kissed him, pulling away enough that the man had to let go and they stared into each other's eyes, passion fading from an inferno to a mere blaze, and mischief filling both expressions. JD leaned his forehead against Ezra's and then they both tilted their heads to look at the scarlet faced man trying to interrupt them. "Yes?" They said as one, impatience in their voices. Buck stuck his hand in his waistband, tugging nervously as he looked at the two of them. Neither man's eyes gave him any reason to feel optimistic. Ezra's was completely blank, and the kid's -- JD's, John's whatever his name was, was only too readable, an odd mix of anger and wary appraisal. "Come on, Ez, you know me, I didn't mean anything by it." He met each pair of eyes in turn, hooded green and open hazel. "Ez?" "John?" The kid shrugged, still wrapped in the circle of Ezra's arms and Buck looked properly at him. The kid's hands were bunched in Ezra's shirt, he could see white knuckles betraying that the boy wasn't as calm as he was trying to appear. "Was you he was saying stuff about. I'm used to people thinking I ain't old enough." Buck ducked his head uncomfortably. "Sorry, Ez. You know how I get." The kid's eyes were steady on him and he shifted uneasily, perching himself on the edge of the kitchen table. "Look, kid--" "JD." "JD. I was just kinda--" he shook his head, trying to find the word. "Surprised?" "Disconcerted?" "Stupid?" "Antediluvian?" "Dumb?" "Yeah." Rerunning the rapid-fire words he looked up and caught the two men smirking at each other. "Hey!" JD laughed and after a moment Ezra's face lightened. Buck sighed with relief. "I'm sorry, guys." He stuck out a hand. "Start over?" "I strongly advise against--" Ezra tried to warn his friend, but too late. JD took Buck's hand and suddenly found himself the victim of an attempted noogie. JD yanked himself away from the laughing man, and glared at Ezra. "Next time, warn a guy." "You may recall, I did try--" he tried to cover himself and JD just grinned evilly. "You'll get yours later, Standish." Buck looked from one to the other and started snickering. "Ez, I think this is going to work out just fine." "You too." JD warned the big man, with no apparent awareness of the eight inches or so height difference between them. "Hey, I hope not!" Ez said mischievously, and JD's eyebrows shot up. "I can't imagine what you think I was planning on doing to you..." He slid a hand down from Ezra's shirt into the back of his pants. "Whoa!" Buck put a hand over his eyes and held the other out imploringly, "Guys, please, straight boy in the room. Does *not* need to know." "You? A prude, Mr. Wilmington? I never realized your sensibilities were so refined." Ezra said coolly. Buck lifted his hand away from his eyes and looked narrowly at him. "Don't push it." He glanced at JD's wrist, all that was visible above Ezra's waistband. "That goes for you too. Kid." JD grinned and pulled his hand out. "I'd shake, only you'd probably rather I didn't," he said helpfully, then collapsed into giggles. Ezra looked at him. Looked at Buck. Drew a very deep breath, and as JD headed to the sink to wash his hands, said politely to Buck, "If you would care to assist me with the bags we can perhaps arrange the comestibles and beverages for our colleagues." Buck grinned and reached for a bag. "Sure. Hey, kid! Get one of those bags wouldya?" JD scowled at him, drying his hands on his sweats, "Get it yourself." "John..." JD's lips thinned, but he got the bag and lifted it to the table with a grunt. "What've you *got* in there." The clinking made Buck's comment almost unnecessary. "Beer, boy." He lifted a bottle out and looked at it critically. "Too warm. Needs to go in the fridge for half an hour." JD rolled his eyes but hoisted the heavy bag over to the huge refrigerator, and started unpacking the bottles into the shelves. "Beer!" An unfamiliar voice called out with the kind of triumph normally reserved for finding the Lost City of El Dorado. JD looked around at the shout and discovered that the kitchen was suddenly full of tall men, who were rummaging through bags, breaking out snacks or in one case peering over his shoulder at the beer. "Ain't cold enough," Buck said firmly to the brown haired man staring mournfully over JD's shoulder into the fridge. "You let the boy put it away, and you can have some later." The man slapped JD on the back. He wasn't much taller than him, but built on bony lines, his hair curling almost to his shoulders. "Close it up, kid," he told him cheerfully, "Sooner it's cold, sooner we get to drink." JD pulled the last few bottles and shut the door. "Good man." The man grinned at him and stuck a hand out. "Vin Tanner." "JD Dunne," JD said, shaking Tanner's hand. "Guess Ez told you all about us," Tanner asked. JD shrugged. "Didn't say much. Think he wanted me to make up my own mind." "Very wise," a deep voice rumbled from behind him. He turned and looked up, and up. "Josiah Sanchez. Ezra has said good things about you." "He has?" JD glanced over at Ezra who was watching with a look that seemed somewhere between disinterested curiosity and panic. Josiah smiled suddenly. It was not an entirely comforting look. "By their fruits shall ye know them." He nodded as though well content with this thought, and turned back to the table. "Brother, not *Hostess* cakes?" Ezra actually reddened even as Tanner whooped and dived for the sweet stuff. He glanced over at JD, who read his intention and smiled back shyly, and nodded. "Mr. Tanner, I did not purchase those repulsive pieces of pseudo-bakery for *you*." He winked at JD who edged round the kitchen to Ezra's side. He looked around, taking in the men rummaging through the bags on the table, Jackson tutting over something, Tanner and Wilmington squabbling good naturedly. His mind slipped to what they had done the previous day on that very table, and he cursed himself as his fair skin reddened. Ezra's hand -- at least, he hoped it was Ezra's hand, rubbed at the small of his back. That left just Larabee, and he looked around to find a pair of pale eyes studying him coolly. That had to be him. He smiled tentatively and the man inclined his head slightly, then deliberately looked away. JD breathed a silent sigh of relief. The last thing he wanted was those eyes reading his every thought. He stayed quiet, watching the others interacting. Wilmington was trying to steal one of the chocolate brownies, while Tanner was trying to make a break from the table with the whole packet, but was repeatedly foiled by Buck's quick steps until Wilmington stumbled and Tanner split, diving for the door triumphantly clutching the battered packet. Wilmington scowled at the quietly smirking blond who had tripped him. "No mercy, Larabee," he pointed accusingly at him. "I feel lucky tonight. No mercy!" Ezra cleared his throat slightly. "On that, ah, point, it behooves me to mention that JD has not long been acquainted with the fine art of poker." "Damn, Ez," Buck said with a smirk, "guess you've been finding some other games to play with the kid?" JD blushed red. "Don't worry, we'll take it easy on you," he added with a wide grin. "Imagine that," he added, staring up at the ceiling innocently, "Ezra dating a card virgin..." "Buck..." the blond guy growled, and Wilmington subsided. "No harm, no foul, right?" He looked around and grabbed an armful of chips and mini pretzels. "I'll go put these out." "Old fool never knows when to quit," the blond said with a faint smile. "Chris Larabee." "JD Dunne," JD said, wide eyed, shaking the man's hand fervently. "Been looking forward to this evening," Larabee added, his eyes glinting with something like amusement. "Haven't I, Standish." "No doubt with bated breath, Mr. Larabee." He turned to follow his men back out into the living room, then paused by the door and spoke without turning his head. "Go easy on Buck, Ez." "I have no idea what you could mean, Mr. Larabee," Ezra said with an evil grin. "I know you. Don't forget that." JD scooped up the remaining packages and was about to follow when Ezra murmured, "Just a moment." "Sure. Whassup?" He turned and smiled at Ezra. Ezra surveyed him closely, then smiled. "You'll do just fine. Just remember to calculate the odds, and bet to win on anything where you are reasonably certain your hand exceeds theirs." "And yours?" "Don't worry about mine." Ezra grinned wickedly. "I think Mr. Wilmington needs a little education in the finer points of probability theory." JD frowned. Did he mean he was going to throw the game if JD had a winning hand? But... "How are you going to know what I've got?" "Trust me, darlin'," Ezra said very softly, and JD nodded instantly. "I do, Ez." "I know." They kissed again, the lightest of touches, and parted as a yell from Buck echoed through the house. "Standish! Get in here and leave the kid alone!" "Ready, Mr. Dunne?" "Ready, Mr. Standish," JD grinned. "And JD, for god's sake -- we bet in *dollars*!" -------------------------------------------- JD scowled furiously at his hand. He'd blithely assured Ezra that calculating the odds for seven players was no different than for two. And in theory, the odds were actually *better* for him, as he was looking at a one in six, discounting Ez's hand, as opposed to one in seven that everyone else was facing. But the complexity of the sums was starting to tax even his abilities. "Call, fold or play," Buck asked, in the tones of a man who thought that humoring the children was only going to lead to trouble. "Um." He pushed a couple of his chips in to match the bidding. "I think that's what I want to do." Buck groaned, but didn't say a word. It didn't matter. JD could almost hear the 'whose idea was it to allow the boy to play with the adults' comment anyway. He closed his eyes as they went around again. Larabee's hand was going to win, unless something drastic happened. But Jackson was going to call. He smiled and opened his eyes again, looking first at Larabee, then Jackson, then Ezra. Ezra's eyes crinkled in an almost invisible smile. He'd got it right. He relaxed visibly, and Ezra started to laugh as the others looked at JD warily. JD blushed and stared at his hand. The only way he would win was if Larabee folded. He had no idea that the rest of the men were watching him narrowly, and assumed that the exchange meant JD had a winning hand. "So, you known Ez long?" Buck asked, blithely anteing up again. "A while." JD shrugged, and Buck tried again. "So, you're a student? I had a hell of a time when I was at Denver State," he grinned reminiscently, and there were groans around the table. "Don't listen to him, kid," Nathan said with a friendly grin, "It's all lies." "I'm wounded!" Buck chuckled, and then smiled reminiscently, "Ah, to be eighteen again." An elbow jabbed into his ribs, and he added, "Or twenty two, or-- Chris, you playing or not?" Larabee shook his head. "I'm out." He nodded to Ezra. "I believe I too shall retire from the lists." He smiled at his cards and laid them down. "What are you studying?" Josiah asked quietly. JD looked at him, "Um. AI." "Really? Deep Blue sort of thing?" Jackson asked curiously, and pushed a couple of chips into the center. "Nah. That's not really AI. It's not capable of passing the Turing test. Deep Blue was manually configured to respond to specific moves. It could make choices, but basically Kasparov was playing six computer techs and three grand masters. And it still only beat him once. I'm more interested in building things that learn for themselves. Give them a set of rules for the universe and let them apply them to their surroundings and events in their surroundings." He grinned deprecatingly. "Mostly they're learning to navigate Troy mazes at the moment." He looked up to find six pairs of eyes on him. "Theoretically. It's all modeled in my computer at the moment. But it ought to work in the real world too." "It sounds," Sanchez paused, possibly unintentionally, "fascinating." "Is that the next step when you go back?" Ezra rescued him. "Building the real things?" "Yeah." "JD left school to look after his mother," Ezra told the others. "Yeah," JD agreed, eyes still on the table. "Um. I call." He lost, and Nathan scooped the pot with a big grin. "How did you guys meet?" Nathan cut the cards and started dealing. "A bar." "A nightclub." The two of them looked at each other and Ezra smiled. "It was a long time ago, at the Blue Moon." "Yeah," JD agreed, wondering if he should elaborate or just stick to monosyllables. The monosyllables were working pretty well. Especially with Chris Larabee's eyes on him, looking as though they could see every bad thing he had ever done, right back to tying Ms Prentice's boot laces together in Kindergarten. While she was wearing them. "Just before Christmas." Ezra nodded. "Indeed." Shit. Maybe Ez wanted him to do the next bit. Had they ever agreed the next bit? "I tripped over and dropped my drink all over this guy," JD colored. Larabee wasn't believing a word of it, he just knew it. "And--" "And after I had thoroughly castigated him for damaging my suit, he bought me another drink." Ezra shrugged, lightly, ignoring the incredulous stares of his team mates. "You killed one of Ezra's suits and he's still talking to you?" Buck asked. JD swallowed. "Um." Stick to monosyllables. "Yeah." He could hear his heart pounding, and his hands were sweating. God, this was a *terrible* idea. "You ride?" Larabee derailed the entire conversation, and JD gaped at him blankly before nodding, eternally grateful. "Yeah." "The Kawasaki outside yours?" "Yeah," he smiled at Tanner, who had finally asked a safe question, and moreover, had recognised the machine despite its state of disrepair. "I'm gonna fix her up, but she runs just fine. I stripped out the engine two years ago, right down to the wires, she doesn't look like much, but I can get a hell of a turn out of her." He stopped dead, and hastily added, "On race tracks. Not on roads. I wouldn't race her on a road." "Relax, we're not the State Patrol, kid," Larabee drawled. "You race?" Ezra said blankly. "Oh. Um. I guess I didn't mention that, huh?" JD said woodenly, and winced as the others exchanged glances. "Well, you all know my opinion of those things," Nathan said, and Tanner rolled his eyes. "Death machines. Donor cycles. I keep telling him, it's not the bikes, it's the other idiots on the road." JD nodded. "Yeah, yeah. People just don't look for bikes, if you ain't an SUV you might as well not exist." "SUV's!" Tanner muttered. He threw a glare at Larabee. "Honking great gas guzzling environment killers." Larabee merely smirked. "A/C, Tanner. A/C." "Who needs that if you're on a bike, right?" Tanner winked at JD, who grinned at him. "Right." Sanchez smiled, "Brothers, I am feeling lucky. Call." He scowled when JD's hand full house in queens won. "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away," he sighed, and smiled at JD, who was trying to watch all of them. It was easier for them. Each of them only had to watch one person. He was trying to keep track of six. "Your deal," Ezra said calmly, and slid him the deck. JD panicked momentarily, then kept his eyes down, copying what the others had done. "When did you leave New York?" Sanchez asked casually, and JD dropped his cards, and had to scrabble for them on the floor. "I -- uh, we moved when I was twelve." "Ah," the big man nodded thoughtfully. "That would explain the faintness of the accent." "You can hear it still?" JD asked incredulously. "But I've lived all over since then." "Just call him Professor Higgins," Ezra said deadpan, and JD giggled, then shut up when no one else laughed. "Did you spend some time in England?" "I had two years there for my first graduate degree. Can you hear that too?" Josiah nodded, but Jackson spoke next. "Really, which school?" "Imperial," he took in the blank looks. "It's part of the University of London." He took in the further blank looks. "It's up there for math and engineering." "When was that?" JD shrugged. "Three years ago." There was a brief silence. "You went out three years ago?" Buck frowned. "I came back three years ago." He looked round. Ezra and Tanner were grinning. So was Sanchez. He couldn't read Larabee or Jackson, and Buck looked like he was dying to call him a liar. "Really." "You went to England at nineteen to do a graduate degree?" JD shook his head. "Seventeen. Two year course." "And they let you?" Buck said incredulously. "Why wouldn't they?" Buck had no answer to that which would not result in Ezra getting even angrier at him. And as he had yet to win a hand this evening anyway, he kept his mouth shut. He was pretty certain the two things were not unrelated. He looked in puzzlement at his hand. The cards weren't fantastic, but it was a reasonable set. With his hole card he could make a respectable showing of a full house in tens. But the betting was all wrong. Chris had dropped out two rounds ago, smirking faintly. Ezra had folded this hand, as had Jackson, who looked like a man who knew a joke too crude to share, but too funny to be able to stay sober. It was just him, the preacher, Tanner, and the kid. The kid's turn, and he glanced at Ezra who smiled. "Don't look at me, John, look at your cards," he encouraged neutrally. Buck eyed them both closely. There didn't seem to be any kind of secret communication going on. They weren't sitting close enough to touch, not even to play footsie under the table. JD's eyes dropped back to his cards and he seemed about to speak, then looked back at his lover. "I, uh, call?" Ezra nodded, and Buck's heart sank like a stone at the malicious sparkle in his green eyes. He'd been *had*. He didn't need to see the cards turn over. He sat back and shook his head. "How the hell do you *do* that?" What he wanted to ask, badly, was whether the kid had really never played before yesterday, but he figured he'd already used up his allotment of really offensive questions for the night. "Um." JD looked at Ezra again, who nodded encouragingly. "We were saying about me being um, a grad student?" "In robots and stuff, right?" Buck didn't get it. Unlike several of his team mates, apparently. Jackson groaned and put a hand over his face. Sanchez merely grinned and laid his hand down. Larabee was still smirking, and Tanner, damn his black little heart was chuckling under his breath. "Um," the kid stared at his hands nervously. "I kinda do, that is, one of the things I spend a lot of time on, is sort of. Well." "Probability." "Yeah." JD smiled at Buck, now that Ezra had made the actual revelation for him. "It's a big part of the networks I'm trying to build in my AI program. And I'm kinda, well, you know. Good at figuring odds. And remembering stuff." Buck just shook his head. "You're telling me you never played before yesterday. And you out played us?" "Well, not all of you." JD said incautiously, and then snapped his mouth shut. "Er." "I knew John's capabilities, Mr. Wilmington," Ezra intervened smoothly. "You, on the other hand, grossly underestimated them." "You -- you." He glared. "You *played* me." He spat the word out like it left a bad taste in his mouth. "I allowed you to behave according to your preconceptions." Ezra smiled toothily. "May I interest anyone in a further game of chance?" "Gotta say, Ez, that was a damn fine game," Tanner said with an amused grin, and nodded at JD. "You too, kid." JD smiled brilliantly back, "Which one?" "Oh, both of 'em." Larabee said laconically. "Is there more beer?" JD bounced to his feet, ignoring Ezra's resigned look, "I'll get 'em. Y'all want one?" A general chorus of yeses and he nodded. "Back in a sec." There was a brief silence as the six men waited for someone else to speak first. In the end, Ezra gave in. "Well, gentlemen?" Larabee's lips twitched in a half smile. "He'll do." And then there was no chance to say anything more, as the kid swept back in, bottles clutched in hands and under arms.

JD nuzzled at the warm skin under his lips, and smiled as the arms wrapped around him tightened. "You awake, Ez?" he whispered. A glance at the clock told him it was five in the morning; they had managed a whole four hours sleep. He considered letting the man sleep -- they really ought to both be exhausted. He grinned, and dismissed the thought. No point letting perfectly good waking time go to waste. He humped gently against Ezra's somnolent body, then slipped his hand between them to cradle Ezra's soft shaft. He petted it, moving his fingers in tiny strokes, swirls and circles, carefully exploring the folds and creases in the soft skin. He buried his pleased grin in Ezra's neck as the creases slowly disappeared under his touch, the compact shaft stretching and swelling until it no longer nestled in his palm, but rubbed across it, Ezra's hips moving minutely at first, and then gradually faster, and with more definite intent, until he was not surprised to have a hand grip his wrist and hold him still. "Mornin', Ez," he smiled happily. "Oh God," Ezra replied, and JD laughed silently. "What time is it?" "Not time to get up," JD evaded, and Ezra groaned. "I have a big case coming to a head this morning. Let me get--" he glanced at he clock, "oh God, let me get my last hour's sleep in?" "But you're awake now," JD pointed out indisputably, and twisted his hand on Ezra's penis. Ezra let out a gulped gasp. "D-don't!" But green eyes were opening, and regarding him sleepily, and JD pressed his mouth to Ezra's, confident of his welcome. He started moving his hand again as the kiss took them both over, Ezra's hand relaxing, then sliding down to play with JD's own shaft. Abruptly Ezra took control, rolling JD onto his back and pressing him down firmly. JD spread his legs and moaned, lifting his hips wantonly. "Shh," Ezra whispered between kisses, "Let me--" JD's breath came in little hitching sobs, as Ezra worked him with a firm, knowing hand. They'd learned a hell of a lot about each other last night. JD arched his back as Ezra bit at the very edge of his ear lobe, then licked behind it. "Ezra!" Ezra seized another kiss, but pulled away just as JD started to think that he might actually come just from that, and bit again, this time nibbling his way down a line running from his scalp to the base of his shoulder, where he sucked, hard. "Ez!" And he did come. He settled slowly back out of the blur of sensation, and sighed at the feel of Ezra's cock rubbing along his perineum, stroking over his hole, the flared glans nudging momentarily on each stroke past. He wriggled, trying to get the head to go inside, but Ezra gripped his hips firmly, and nipped at his throat. "Stop that," he ordered indulgently, and held still until JD stopped moving under him. "Better." JD sighed, and instead closed his thighs around the long, hot shaft. His breath caught as Ezra thrust against him, pushing and pulling at his spent cock and balls, dragging painfully over hair and skin alike, causing a unsatisfied twitch deep inside. "Ez, please?" he begged, and Ezra just laughed. "Patience," Ezra murmured, and JD growled, but relaxed his shoulders into the pillows. His hands stroked mindlessly up and down Ezra's back, fingers fascinated by the curve of the rib cage, the knots that marked each vertebra. He cupped Ezra's ass cheeks then curled over and in so he could slide his hands further down, abdominal muscles protesting, until he could slide his two index fingers into Ezra's waiting little hole, soft and slippery from last night. The tension snapped out of Ezra's body, and he arched his hips into JD, who took his turn at holding his partner still, the heel of each hand pushing down, fingers pushing in and controlling Ezra's body from just those points. "Let me move," Ezra growled, his voice almost unrecognizable as his anus grasped at JD's fingers. He rocked, twisted, and his shaft rode roughly over JD's sensitive balls. JD couldn't believe the whining sound coming from his throat, and stopped himself. "Can you -- like this?" He pushed his fingers deeper, and grimaced as his shoulders pulled painfully. "Here." Ezra slid his arms high under JD's back, and the support was more than enough to ease the strain. "Good?" "Good," JD agreed, and Ezra started moving between JD's thighs, JD following the rhythm with his fingers, driving them in as far as flesh and bone would allow, dragging them out, stretching the pliable muscle as wide as it would go. He had plans for that hole. Ezra groaned at one particularly deep thrust, twisting down into his prostate, then cried out when JD found the angle again and repeated it, over and over. Ezra's eyes were closed, his whole body moving in syncopation to JD's thrusts, and JD leaned up, brushing his lips over Ezra's gasping mouth. Ezra dropped his head forwards and kissed him back, holding on to him, stroking and squeezing as he writhed, and gulped out fragments of words, until he wailed and collapsed on him, wetting the space between JD's legs with his come. JD smiled, playing gently with Ezra's hole as the spasms slowly dwindled. He turned them onto their sides, cuddling Ezra close, and listened to his breathing slowing. The sound was hypnotic, and he let his eyes close. A small snore told him that Ez had tumbled straight back into sleep, and he laughed under his breath. Damn. But he hadn't managed more than a twitch of interest this time, so maybe it was for the best. He eased his fingers out and stretched his arms with a sigh. A last glance at the clock told him he still had forty-five minutes before the alarm started, and let sleep claim him too. --------------- "This is ridiculous," Ezra muttered darkly, riveted by the sight in the mirror. He resumed shaving as JD's naked butt disappeared from sight inside the shower and regretted it as the straight edge nicked him. "Ow!" Blood gathered for a second and then dripped. Another drop hit his chest and left a bloody trail as it slowly slid down his wet skin. "Oh, shit." He ripped off a bit of tissue and dabbed at the cut. The tissue stuck and he gritted his teeth, ignoring it while he finished shaving, grimacing as the blood continued to run freely down his neck. He was dabbing at it as JD emerged from the shower. "Oh, that's attractive," John laughed as he reached around him to his toothbrush, dripping water everywhere. "You're just jealous," Ezra accused with a disdainful sniff. He used the towel to wipe up the blood, and only managed to smear it around. At this rate he was going to need another shower. He damped a corner and tried again, then found some cream and dabbed it on, "After all, at least I have something worth shaving." John pushed his cold, wet hands under the towel knotted at Ezra's waist and hefted Ezra's penis. "Mmmm. Jealous, riiiight," he murmured around the dry toothbrush, and dodged away. "You weren't complaining last night," he pointed out with a smirk. "That normally works better with the Colgate?" "Sure wasn't," he said cheerfully, and tugged at Ezra until they were facing. He snickered as JD removed the toothbrush, still sans toothpaste and kissed him. "I fuckin' love this." he said into Ezra's mouth, and Ezra hugged him tightly. "I fuckin' love you." He pulled back a little and looked uncertainly at Ezra, who felt as though John had somehow found the means to turn his brain into warm wax. He shook his head and smiled. "I know." JD stared for a moment, then collapsed against his shoulder, laughing helplessly. "What?" Ezra demanded, "What did I say?" It took laughing-boy several attempts to get a coherent sentence out. "You don't even know -- of course you don't know. It's even better!" "What?!" He shook JD, slightly annoyed. "You just turned me into Princess Leia." Ezra blinked in bewilderment. "From Star Trek?" "Wars! Star Wars! God, I can't believe I fell for someone who doesn't know the difference between Star Trek and Star Wars," JD laughed. "Well, I can't believe I fell for someone who can't tell the difference between a 98 and a 95 Pinot Grigio," he snapped, a little hurt. JD stopped, and his dark eyebrows drew together worriedly. "You're not pissed at me, are you? I mean, I didn't mean to laugh but I--" he hesitated. "I'd try to explain but I think it's going to lose something in the translation." Ezra shrugged it away, but the sting rankled -- was it his fault if he had chosen to focus his life on slightly more important things than geek culture? "It's fine, John," he said easily, and smiled. "I should go dress. I'll let you get to the basin." He tried to pull himself out of JD's embrace and was surprised when the man's arms tightened on him. "Ez, if you're mad at me, just say, okay? I don't want to go around making you mad at me." "I'm not mad at you, and we are going to be late. At least, I am going to be late. I seem to remember from my student days that being late was something of an art form," he smiled, and JD quirked a smile back. "I'm not gonna touch that one," he said. "Ez, I wasn't, you know, taking the piss or anything, it's just you completed a quote from a movie I watched a lot as a kid, and it struck me as funny, okay?" Ezra lifted an eyebrow, and said once more, "I know?" "Yeah." He hugged him tightly and let him go. "Man, I always wanted to be able to say that to someone. Figures I'd end up as Leia." He chuckled again, and Ezra smiled tentatively. If there was a joke, perhaps it wasn't on him. "I am so gonna sit you down and make you watch them one of these days." "How -- delightful," Ezra had no qualms at all about letting his horror at the prospect shine through. Sure enough JD laughed. "And then I'll let you do whatever you want to educate me on your culture stuff, okay? I'll even let you take me to see a ballet if you really want. Just one time, though," he added hastily. Ezra grinned. "A handsome offer. Done." After all, how long could one movie take? "Done!" JD grinned hugely. A doubt shook him. "Ah, Star Wars is just the one movie, isn't it?" JD suddenly became very absorbed in finally putting paste on his toothbrush. For someone who prided himself on bed to front door in under ten minutes he was sure taking his time. "John?" JD smiled happily at Ezra's reflection in the mirror, scrubbing in tiny, meticulously careful circles. "JD?!" He pointed with his other hand at his foaming mouth and shrugged, as if to say, what can I do? "Brat," Ezra sighed, and went to get dressed. JD smiled to himself. He was going to have to watch that. He was used to people who got his fannish jokes, or at least, just rolled their eyes and let them slide. It was funny though. Somehow he'd always pictured himself as Han Solo in that particular scenario, and to end up as Leia... His grin faded as he wondered why Ezra didn't like it. He'd have to ask him some time, and then the thought slipped away as he finished getting ready to leave for the day. He finished up in the bathroom and dropped the towel on the floor, then wandered through Ezra's bedroom to get his own clothes from the room across the hall. Ezra was still carefully knotting his tie, jacket and pants laid out on the bed, and JD shook his head. Shorts, jeans, long-sleeved tee, short sleeved t-shirt over it. Done. He wondered if it would ever take him as long to get dressed as it did Ezra. His sense of smug superiority was swiftly punctured when he couldn't find a single complete pair of socks for nearly ten minutes. The only pair left intact seemed to be the white gym socks, which set off a whole new train of thought -- if he wanted to keep up with Ezra he was going to have to keep in shape. He paused for a moment and grinned at the thought of keeping up with Ezra -- and then took another five minutes looking for his stuff for working out. Then ran down the stairs, dived into the study to pick up his laptop, and scooped his jacket from the back of the chair where Ezra must have hung it up, because he was pretty sure he hadn't. "Ez?" he called, half expecting him still to be upstairs, primping. "In here." JD followed his voice to the living room where Ezra was picking up and shaking out his clothes. "Nothing to be done except send it to be cleaned and hope for the best," he heard as he walked in. "Those your pants?" JD asked of the rumpled grey trousers. "Yes. They should be fine. Which is more than I can say of your shirt," he added, nodding to the article of clothing scattered across no less than three separate pieces of furniture. "I'd apologize except--" They looked at each other and JD wondered if the grin stretching his face was as goofy as the one on Ezra's. "You can rip my shirt off anytime you like," he offered generously. "And look." He picked up the previous day's much abused, and now dubiously stained jeans, "Now they match!" Ezra stared at him in disbelief for a moment, and then dropped his face in his hand. "A heathen. Dear God, I have taken up with a complete philistine." But his voice was suspiciously unsteady, and he could see the half smile without even trying. Another ten minutes and they were heading their separate ways. JD smiled happily to himself as he headed into Denver. That last kiss as they left the house... He swallowed, his grin growing wider as shivers raced over him. Wow. Just. Wow. Everything was just perfect. ----------------------------------- "Good morning, gentlemen!" Ezra said cheerfully as he walked in, and was promptly surrounded. Vin seized the bag dangling from his hand without ceremony and ripped it open. "Mmmm, caramel," he grinned, and took both slices of chocolate-caramel shortbread, retreating rapidly with his prize. "Hey!" Buck grumbled, and then spotted a blueberry donut. "Mmm." He took a huge bite, and asked, "Fwat bo' visson?" Ezra smiled enigmatically and put the coffees down carefully. He took his own double espresso from the tray and stepped back hastily, before the vultures tried to take a hand along with the caffeine and sugar. "Oh, no reason, Mr. Wilmington." He sipped at the strong coffee, keeping his face as bland and uninformative as he knew how. They certainly didn't need to know anything about the source of his good mood. Not after the onslaught of so called humor that had followed the last time. Buck looked thoughtfully at him, and the expression in those dark blue eyes reminded him that although Agent Wilmington might act the clown, there was nothing wrong with his brains when he chose to use them. "Huh. Y'have a nice time a'th'opera?" Buck didn't look at him as he asked, but examined the scribbles on the lidded cups then picked out one marked, a little mysteriously, MC. "Mmmm. Macchiato." "The ballet," Ezra corrected, "and no, as it transpired we found better things to do." He could feel a smile tugging at his cheeks, and tried very hard to get rid of it. Buck looked at him and smirked. "The sight of all those men in tights give you a need for some urgent lovin'?" Ezra raised his eyebrows. "We did not, although I fail to see how this is of any relevance whatsoever to my decision to bring in coffee in order to ensure that you people are fully ready for the bust this morning, even make it to the ballet." Vin stared at him. "How many sentences did you get inside that one poor li'l sentence?" "Cruelty to dumb subordinate phrases, I'd say," Josiah agreed cheerfully, and took the bran muffin lingering lonely and ignored on the remains of the bag. Ezra looked around and shook his head, amused. Chris was peeling off pieces of chocolate muffin and nibbling at them cautiously in the vain hope of not getting crumbs on his suit before his meeting. Nathan was contentedly munching on the honey and raspberry granola bar that he'd included for him, and his own solitary almond macaroon had been thoughtfully placed in the drinks tray. "Boys," Chris growled, and they scattered, not before Buck patted Ezra on the back. "Glad you're happy, Ez," he said very quietly, and Ezra blinked, completely thrown. Wilmington's eyes held nothing but sincerity and he found it possible to nod. "Very much so, Buck," he replied, just as quietly. "Good. Just, well, good." And Buck walked away to his desk, leaving Ezra pleased, if puzzled. He gathered up his papers and his espresso, and made his way to the large conference table at the far end of the office. He carefully arranged his files as he waited for the others to gather, trying to figure out what Buck's angle was. "Reckon someone might've had a word or two with him," Vin dropped in to the seat next to him, and slid a sidelong glance at him. "If you was wonderin'." "Thank you." "Nah, don't thank me." Vin shook his head and his eyes lingered on Chris Larabee, just emerging from his private office at the end of the room. "Think it'd take a mite more'n me to change Buck's mind once he's made it up." "Chris?" Ezra said with considerable disbelief. Chris Larabee had intervened on his behalf with Buck? "What? No!" Vin shook his head as he realized the misunderstanding. "I reckon Josiah had something to say to him. Might be he threatened to forget to turn that other cheek he talks about." Ezra nodded, "I'll thank him later." He looked narrowly at Chris, wondering what it was about his relationship with John that had made Vin turn his gaze towards their boss when the subject came up. Vin himself looked uncomfortable, and wasn't that interesting too? Maybe Chris and Vin weren't quite as open minded as they had first seemed to be. It bore watching. The rest of the team settled themselves around the table, and Chris looked at each, gathering their attention before speaking. "Well, y'all know where I'm going to be today," he started brusquely, and the rest of them grinned at the annoyance in his voice. "More fuckin' budget cuts. Like we aren't pared to the bone already." Nothing but the need to put on a good front for the higher-ups and the bean counters would persuade Chris to don a suit. He did, Ezra admitted privately, look remarkably good in the deep charcoal suit, with a soft blue shirt, and a dark blue tie. "Yup," Buck said. "Better you than me," he added heartlessly and Ezra chuckled with the rest. "Your time will come, Buck," Chris warned, and moved on. "In fact, it's coming now. How's that meet shaping up, Agent?" "Pretty good," Buck said easily, without looking at his notes. "Josiah and Psych have agreed that Ezra's assessment of the operation Lasater's got going is fundamentally sound." He glanced at Ezra, "'Course, you're the one going in -- you happy with the plan?" He looked at the others as well, "Any problems, now's the time to raise them." "I'm fine," Vin said. "Got my spot marked out, as long as me'n' Nathan're in place before anyone else shows up, we're good." "Okay then -- Josiah, I'm going to sit surveillance with you, so we need to get that van up as close as we can without upsetting the perps." Buck began. Chris was shaking his head. "What's wrong with that?" Buck asked. "We went over this at the last meeting and you--" "No, no, the plan's sound, but I just got word this morning. Sorry, Buck, guys. Vin's gonna have to sit this one out." He wouldn't look at Tanner, and Ezra wondered what exactly was going on. Larabee only usually avoided eye contact when attempting to obfuscate. Whatever Tanner was wanted for officially, it was a good bet that it bore little resemblance to reality. "What?!" Vin's protest was drowned by Buck's voice. "You're fuckin' kiddin' me!" "Chris, the whole plan of attack is predicated on having two snipers in position." Josiah said hastily, apparently trying to ease past Buck's outrage before Chris lost his temper too, "How are we going to--" "I know, I know. But HR are on my back about Vin's certification status, and today's pretty much the last day before they put their foot down," he kept talking over their protests that surely tomorrow would be adequate, "No, if he waits to tomorrow it lapses, and we have to wait a month for the whole thing to go through as a new application." "This is fuckin' bullshit, Chris," Vin's voice rose over the others, and abruptly the room was quiet. "Vin, drop it. This is final." The two men glared at each other, and Ezra had the curious feeling that some sort of message, perhaps concerning him, was being exchanged as Vin's eyes dropped, flickering for a second in his direction. "We can discuss it later, if you want. Now, I've got Agent Hardie from Team Nine in to cover the gap left -- Buck?" Buck sighed. "Guess I need to go bring her up to speed." He looked mournfully at Chris. "It had to be Hardie, didn't it?" Chris shook his head innocently, "I don't know what you mean," he replied. Just because Almetta Hardie had shot down Buck's every attempt to 'get to know her', culminating in the moment when she had resorted to bringing a girlfriend to an office event, and telling anyone that would listen that Claire was her girlfriend, and please, someone, anyone, please just tell Buck that she had turned gay or something... Ezra stifled a grin, and caught Nathan's eyes as he rubbed a hand over his mouth to conceal his expression. It was fatal, as both sets of shoulders started quivering with suppressed sniggers that rapidly spread to Josiah and Vin too. Buck glowered at Chris, and then shared it with the rest of the men. "I know where you live, Larabee," he grumbled. "As for the rest of ya..." He stood, "I'll be back in a minute." ----------------------------- "...And shall we say, in the interests of amity, I sweeten the deal with a small gift of my own?" Buck frowned at the tiny video relay, watching Ezra, or rather at this precise moment in time, Ezekiel McKenzie, smiling benignly at Skyane Lasater, assuring him that not only would he buy his illegal alcohol, he was interested in more, and would Mr. Lasater care for a bottle of something like bonnavarry twenty year reserve. Mr. Lasater sounded extremely appreciative. "Is that in the script?" he asked no one in particular. "That's not in the script, Ez. We don't need to make friends with the guy, we just gotta bust his ass." Josiah was sitting next to him, shaking his head. "Ezra, Ezra, what are you doing?" he murmured. "Keep to the script. Leave the improvisation to the experts--" "Jackson here," Nathan's voice came through, harsh with bewilderment. "What's happening, Buck? How the hell am we supposed to go in when he won't give the signal word?" "I don't know!" He keyed a mic. "Ez," he hissed, "what the hell are you doing? Is there a problem? Lift your right hand if there's a problem and you want us to come in." He turned back to the screen, earphone pressed with one hand to his head, as though the extra pressure could bring the desired words. "Hardie to Wilmington, is there a problem, sir?" Buck rolled his eyes at the relentlessly polite edge to Almetta's voice. "If all y'all would just shut up a minute, I'm tryin' to find out." The radio fell quiet. "Ezra, I repeat, lift your right hand if you want an assist." Ezra and Lasater simply kept on talking. "Come on, Ezra, raise your hand, come on! What are you doing?" Josiah hunched forwards, watching anxiously. "What's going on in that head of yours? Come on, give us a clue." "Come on, Standish, you dumb fuck, throw us a bone here!" Buck growled. "What the hell does he think he's doing?" The man on the tiny screen reached out to shake hands with Lasater. Buck threw up his hands in despair. Where was the frigging sign? "Was that our signal?" Nathan asked over the radio, and Buck shook his head, his face a picture of frustration. "I don't know! He hasn't used any of the keywords!" He toggled the mic again. "Ez! Is the bust a go or not?" "Oh, I should say not at all, Mr. Lasater," Ezra appeared to be speaking to Lasater, but Josiah caught a sly look up at the camera that Wilmington had planted hours before the meet. "That's for us, Buck," he said, and leaned back, the light chair creaking under the change in position. "Are we going in or what?" Nathan asked with quiet urgency. "They're breaking up, the meeting's over! What the hell is going on?" "I don't know, but there's going to be hell to pay when Chris finds out," Buck muttered. "Shit." He glanced at Josiah, who shrugged. "Shit. This was meant to be a fucking milk run." "Your call, Buck," he said helpfully. "Mine, huh?" He glared at the television screen for a long moment as the various people inside the building began packing up, and swore again. "Fuck it." He keyed his microphone to broadcast to all users. "All points, abort. Do not break cover. Repeat, do not break cover." He flipped his microphone off and added through gritted teeth. "I am going to kill him." "Perhaps he has a plan." "If he had a plan he should have let me know about it!" Buck said furiously. "When I get my hands on that idiot..." ------------------------------------------- Well, it didn't take long for today to go completely to hell, Ezra thought resignedly. I really should have laid myself odds on not keeping that mood for more than three hours. He thought about it. No, he wouldn't have taken any odds that he could have offered. Never bet against the house, he reminded himself ruefully, and tuned back in just in time for the end of Buck's tirade. "--what the hell you were thinking!" Buck yelled, slamming his hands down on the table and looming over Standish. "Were you thinking at all?" Chris said sharply, "Sit down, Buck!" and waited, his lips a thin line, until the bigger man settled reluctantly, his eyes never moving from Ezra's face, not a hint of a smile on his usually cheerful face. "Report, Standish." His stony gaze added, 'this had better be good.' Ezra's eyes flicked around the room, and found no allies. Only Vin was missing, apparently still at his re-certification despite the late hour. All the rest of team were there, watching him with various degrees of confusion. He was vaguely grateful that Agent Hardie had been thanked and dismissed -- they might be planning on tearing him into tiny little pieces, but they were going to do it in private. "I am quite willing to write this up and discuss it when tempers are a little less frayed," he began. "Chicken," Nathan muttered, and at Chris's irritated glance added a perfunctory, "Sorry." "But as you wish." He paused, trying to bring his thoughts into some semblance of order. "Chris, I believe I said yesterday that I felt there were some outstanding issues relating to the Lasater case." He looked at Larabee, who simply stared back, no help there. "It was while we were discussing the delivery process of the illegal alcohol that Mr. Lasater's words deviated substantially from the scenario we had envisaged." "Deviated?" Buck and Chris both said, and Chris sat back, a glance between them more than sufficient to agree to leave the debrief to Wilmington. "How do you mean, 'deviated'?" Buck asked, leaning forward intently. "You will recall that we thought that he had taken advantage of a random shipment." Ezra turned to talk directly to him; Chris had given him the floor, it was up to Ezra to convince the rest of them. He concentrated on breathing steadily, easily. He had to project calm, confidence. Stay cool. Josiah nodded slowly, "That was how Psych saw the perp, and frankly, so did I. If not random, then not regular, and certainly not major. More an add on to a legitimate shipment. You saw something different?" Ezra nodded, turning to face him. "Yes, indeed. I initially wondered why a man whose business was organized so thoroughly would use an ad hoc supply system such as the profile suggested." Josiah regarded him without a hint of the thoughts behind his pale blue eyes. Ezra waited a moment, and went on. "I didn't say anything because, well, I was confident that Josiah's psychological profile was superior to my own doubts, especially as I had nothing beyond gut instinct." Josiah shook his head. "That's all profiling is sometimes, Ezra. Gut instinct and a lot of education." Ezra met Josiah's eyes with a certain feeling of surprise. He hadn't expected Josiah to take this so easily. "I'm sure it is far more than that, Mr. Sanchez," he said politely, and steepled his fingers for a moment, staring at them, and then sighed. "I would have followed through the bust with the scheduled take down, except, as we were discussing the liquor supply, Mr. Lasater mentioned that if I required such a quantity on a regular basis that he could arrange it." "Regular?" Nathan asked, a look of sharp interest on his face. "Well, now." Ezra visibly relaxed his shoulders and sat back in his chair at the dawning comprehension on his colleagues' faces. Larabee cocked his head, looking for clarification. "I thought he was a penny-ante merchant that we just wanted to clear discrepancies on?" "Exactly," Ezra said. He looked at Buck, "I apologize, Mr. Wilmington--" "Forget it, Ez." Buck waved a dismissive hand at Ezra's apology. "I just wish you'd'a had a way to tell us, but I get why you didn't." He stopped as though done, and then added, "I just wanted to know what was going on, you know? You changing the game plan on me halfway through -- it just threw me, all of us, a little." "I appreciate that." Ezra said amiably, and then his face hardened. "But next time you want to know what I'm doing, trust me that I am not just 'going off on one'." His eyes stayed squarely on Buck's, which fell. Ezra didn't show a hint of his regret that some of what he was saying was if not exactly a lie, was only half the truth. Lasater had let the information slip -- but at the same time, Ezra had had his suspicions and could have shared them beforehand, instead of grandstanding during the intended bust. "Yeah, I guess," he said weakly. He shook his head, "But if you had just mentioned that you had doubts about the profile--" "I wasn't sure if they had any merit." He shrugged, trying to shuffle the accusation away, unsure whether he was lying or telling the truth. Maybe he had sabotaged himself. Maybe his plan for changing the game had been a ploy to deal with his own lack of confidence instead of the lack that he thought he saw in his colleagues. He frowned, thoughts churning in a vicious cycle. "Dammit, Ez," Buck snapped, "You're the guy in there. It's your assessments that we base the damn profiles off in the first place. If you think there's something off and you don't tell us, what are we supposed to do? Be mind readers? I asked you this morning, I asked everyone if they had any last minute thoughts or questions! You should have raised that then, not keep it to yourself and change the game plan under our feet! What if you decide not to tell us something one day, and you're right, and you end up dead?" Ezra blinked a little. Somewhere in there was a compliment on his ability to judge character, right along with a slam at his willingness to trust. "You're just lucky that Lasater was a milk run. Next time you get a hunch, tell us before you go in, so if you end up playing it, we're not left swinging in the breeze." "My apologies, Buck," Ezra said, and meant it. He smirked a little, "Next time I'll let everyone know that you're goin' to be swingin' in the breeze, so we can get footage of the occasion." Buck shook his head and looked at Chris, who picked up smoothly. "So. Mr. Lasater has connections?" Chris asked, leaning back in his chair, his eyes half shut. He sounded as if he didn't care one way or the other, and Ezra wanted to grin madly. The less interested Larabee sounded, half the time, the more focused he was on bringing down their opponents. Of course, the other half, he really wasn't interested. But he'd stake good money that Larabee was interested. "So I believe. The immediate question of course is who, and how?" "And what else is being run into the country on this 'regular route' that he's found?" Josiah added, a small, hard smile in his eyes. "Exactly, Mr. Sanchez." Josiah shook his head regretfully. "I missed this completely." "We all did," Chris soothed, and Josiah shook his head. "Ezra didn't." Ezra stared at Sanchez for a long moment, dumbfounded, before shaking his head. "No, I merely followed up what Mr. Wilmington would call a hunch. There was nothing I could put a finger on. Something not quite right in the psych report." "What?" Chris asked tersely. Ezra shrugged, and at Chris's irritated look added, "I -- as close as I can explain it, it was in the way Lasater structured things. That and my impressions of the man. I can't pin it closer than the level of organization. It just felt off." "How? What was it? Ezra, if we can pin it down it's a new avenue to investigate," Nathan said. Ezra tensed. "I know that! I went over the files again and again, trying to pin it down!" Josiah intervened. "Why did the organization feel off?" Ez looked around. He couldn't read Chris. The man's tells were nearly as well concealed as his own. Josiah was honestly interested; as ever fascinated by the prospect of finding out something he hadn't known before. Wilmington and Jackson were both looking doubtful; Buck a little disgruntled, still chafing at Ezra's unilateral change of plans. Jackson was simply watching him, waiting for him to speak. "There was too much of it. I can't explain any better than that," he said, and waited. Josiah frowned. "Too much--" "How does he have too much organization?" Buck asked. "What doesn't fit? What's off key?" "Is it the number of people?" Nathan asked, and shrugged when the others looked. "He has a hell of a lot of staff -- how's he paying for them all, and why." "He's running a big show, Nathan," Josiah said patiently. "Even the legit operation makes sense in terms of manpower--" "No, no, it's not the number of people, it's the manner of it. Too much organization." Ezra nodded as his own thoughts clarified just by trying to justify his 'feeling' to his colleagues. "Yes, yes. That's it. It doesn't fit. Mr. Lasater owns three liquor stores. He supplies legal alcoholic beverages to a further ten stores, mostly in Colorado, two out of state." "We know all this," Buck said sharply. "The point?" Ezra glared at him. "The point, Agent, is that his records are meticulous, and he has people at every level recording everything. Everything is regimented, organized. Almost pathologically so. He doesn't like unknowns. He talked to me because I was known to McPherson and Evans. So why allow his criminal activities to be disorganized? He micro-manages everything else and not this?" "Huh," Nathan said thoughtfully. "When you put it that way, some sort of ad hoc, it comes in when it comes in kinda deal does seem sort of out of character." "Okay, I can buy that," Buck nodded at Chris then looked back at Ezra. "And now we know they aren't irregular, there's got to be a lot more under the surface than we're seeing right now." "He's right," Josiah said, chagrined. "We should have picked up on that." "Not your fault -- I should have shared my thoughts on the subject," Ezra counter-apologized, and Chris held up his hand. "We'll skip the recriminations and might-ofs, okay?" Everyone nodded. "Just having a regular route means we're going to have to look a whole lot deeper," Nathan pointed out, and Buck nodded. "Nathan's right," Buck said slowly, and glanced at Chris. Chris gestured for him to carry on, and he turned his gaze on Ezra seriously, and said, "So, you okay with going in deeper?" Ezra felt his heart stop for an instant. It was the logical consequence. He felt as though his lips were stiff as he spoke, "Yes, that is the obvious next step." He couldn't think of anything to say. All he could think was, not today. Please, not today. "When?" He cleared his throat, "I mean, McKenzie is a pretty low level cover." "We didn't expect it to have to survive past today," Josiah said with a certain amount of annoyance, then grimaced in apology. "I know, I know. You did the right thing." "Next time something feels off, Standish," Chris said, a sharp edge to his voice, "tell us." Ezra steeled himself for the reprimand he was expecting, and nearly let his jaw drop with surprise when Chris added, "You've got good instincts. And god knows you've got a mouth on you. Next time, use 'em." It wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement, but on the other hand, he hadn't expected anything. He couldn't stop a small smile forming. "Yes, sir." "Buck, I'm leaving this to you." Chris sat back and then stood. "Good work, guys." As the door closed behind him, Buck grinned and rubbed his hands. "Okay, so, what've we got?" Ezra's mind was still stuck on the 'going in deeper'. "You want me to make the cover complete?" Buck nodded. "Yeah, we'd better. I'll see what we can round up in the way of places to live for you. Josiah--" he paused and started again. "Ezra, you and Josiah want to build a background for McKenzie? Nathan, can you liaise between them and IT, see about getting the details inserted once you're all happy with them." "No problem." Nathan said cheerfully. He grinned a little, "I'll go talk to Rain Brett, see what she thinks about getting the cover in fast." Ezra shook his head in mock sorrow, "Mr. Jackson, surely you aren't proposin' to talk to your girlfriend on office time?" "She's not my girlfriend," Nathan said quickly, and then smiled widely, "But I sure wouldn't mind a chance for a little one on one time, if you know what I mean." Buck chuckled, "Hoo-wee, it's catching, Josiah, it's catching." "Watch yourself, Buck," Josiah said mildly, "As I recall you're the one who dates the most out of our happy band of brothers." "I date but I ain't been caught and I ain't planning on getting caught," Buck said smugly, and let his eyes slide from Nathan to Ezra and back, "now, these boys..." Ezra blinked. Well, it wasn't exactly as though Buck was wrong. He didn't really mean to smile; only really realized that was what he was doing when he found the others grinning back at him. "Oh, he's got it bad," Buck said. "The Lasater case, gentlemen?" Ezra said cheerfully. ------------------------------------------- Vin scowled and pushed the stack of papers away from him, rubbing his hand across his face and then through his hair. Bad enough that he was supposed to be researching this kid. Worse that Larabee had lied to the team. Worst of all, he was starting to get a really bad feeling about the whole business. JD supposedly inherited that money of his from a trust. But no one died in his family except his mother in the last twelve months. His mother had died without any assets to her name. If she'd left anything it fell into the personal mementoes category, not the half a million dollars one. The kid hadn't had any significant birthdays recently either, not turning twenty one or anything that might account for it. No other family that he could trace. There was no lawyer. No tax declaration. No probate. Just a massive amount of debt from his mother's long illness. About three months ago it had to have become damn clear to the kid that he was going under. He sighed as he looked at the array of papers. Four jobs. Stacking shelves at Wal-Mart evenings. Fixing cars weekends. Flipping burgers days. Cleaning windows in the early mornings. The kid had to have been running himself ragged just to keep up with his bills. He'd needed that half a million dollars. He'd been trying and nothing he could do was good enough. A kid in that position might be tempted to do stuff that he'd never otherwise consider. "Damn," Vin cursed softly and then shook his head. No getting soft. He remembered the way the kid smiled at Ezra, and the way Ezra had looked back. He liked Ezra. Trusted his instincts. If Ezra said someone was clean, he took him at his word. Chris was just too chicken to ask. From what he knew now, he was starting to feel a nagging sympathy for the kid too. "Damn." He was getting soft. Ezra was the best thing that could have happened to the kid. And he was starting to think that JD was pretty good for Ezra too. He'd known families go under from the weight of that sort of crushing debt. And one half grown kid... Pretty much the only thing left for him had been filing for personal bankruptcy under the sheer weight of the debts that caring for his mother's last years had left him, along with the student loans, credit cards, and other, minor bills. And then suddenly in, late July he vanishes. Completely out of sight, all his payments made on time, in cash, but not a trace of where he went or how he got there. Then, after vanishing for nearly a month, he reappears with money. His debts are cleared, he's left with a nice chunk of change, and he's living with one Ezra P. Standish without so much as a word of explanation. Come to think of it, Ezra never had said exactly why JD was living with him. Vin reddened, well, beyond the obvious. Vin rubbed at his eyes. He hadn't been able to backtrack the money out of the trust. It had come to a dead end in the Cayman Islands, and no one there was remotely willing to offer him any information they didn't have to -- and they didn't have to give him jack shit. So he was left with just questions. Where was the kid in August? Who put the money in a trust for the kid, and where did that money come from? And how and why did he end up with Ezra? Why did Ezra invite him into his home? What did the kid have on him? He stretched his back and arms, then twisted, muscles pulling in his shoulders and neck. Too much sitting staring at papers. He slouched down and contemplated quitting for the day, maybe going to find a pickup game. The local kids usually had something going; sometimes it was even legal. Right now, unless things had gone seriously wrong, Buck and the rest of the team were processing that Lasater guy through the system. He frowned. He'd've heard if anything had gone wrong by now. Chris and his damn paranoia. He ought to have been there, but no, Chris lied to the rest of them and dragged Vin off 'to re-qualify down at the range'. A slow smile spread over his face. Well, hell. If Chris said it, then maybe he oughta do it. At least that way his story wouldn't get broke with just one question to the right person. He could do with some exercise. Clear his head. Maybe practice with any new rifles that the range had in. He nodded decisively and stood. The papers were bundled up together and he locked them away in his desk drawer. He wished that Larabee had just out and asked Ezra. He pulled on his jacket and hefted his keys, letting them jingle. Fine. If Larabee was too chicken shit to ask Ezra, he'd do it. -------------------------------------------------- "Hey, Ez, wanna meet up?" John's bright voice resounded from the phone, and Ezra winced. He'd tried to convince the boy that he didn't need to shout, but it hadn't really taken. "Meet up?" "Yeah. I'm going to be late at the lab, I'm running a simulation on the mainframe and it's got about eight thousand iterations to go, so I figured, I might as well get some fun out of it." Ezra repressed a smile. "If I pretend I understood that sentence will you promise not to repeat it." "Oh, man, sorry, Ez. I'm running one of my programs, see, and--" "John -- that part about you promising not to repeat it?" John laughed. "Sorry. I can leave it running, I don't need to be here until it ends, but that's not going to be till late, and I thought maybe we could go see a movie or something?" Ezra frowned as he tried to place the tone of voice, and then he felt like finding the boy this minute and kissing him breathless. Of all things he sounded shy. "And I found this place that you might like to eat at, and after I messed up your plans for last night..." Ezra shook his head and lowered his voice. "I don't regret one thing about last night." There was silence from the other end of the phone, and Ezra asked, "John?" "That's good, Ez," he sounded like he was smiling. "Can I -- would you-- I mean, if you're not busy or anything." "I'm not busy." Good Lord, he thought with some bemusement, is he asking me out on a date? "When did you want to meet?" "Can, can I pick you up?" "From here?" He had a momentary vision of himself sitting on the back of JD's Kawasaki, in the cheap suit he had worn for the bust. "If it's a problem--" "That's fine. What time?" "Ah. Actually, I'm kind of outside right now." Ezra glanced at his wrist watch. "It's only four." "But I'll bet lunch was a long time ago. Can't you leave early?" JD wheedled, "Please? It's a great day, and it's still pretty quiet on the roads." "I can't just disappear because it's a sunny day." "You can't?" JD said with mock surprise. "Some people have work to do, you know." "'Verk'? Vhat is this 'verk' thing you speak of?" he said with some kind of hokey European accent. Ezra laughed under his breath. "I'm going to have to make up the time eventually." "Yeah, but that's eventually," the kid urged. Ezra was already removing his shoulder holster and gun, and pulling on his jacket. If he was going to spend time in deep cover going after Lasater, then the least he could do was leave a little early today, and make his lover happy. A shiver ran through him, and he found himself half smiling again. "I'll be down momentarily." "Cool." John hung up, and Ezra pocketed the cell phone. "JD?" Buck asked with a smirk. Ezra ignored him as he locked his gun into his desk drawer, retrieved his breath mints and shut down the computer. "You see the man grinning like that over anyone else?" Nathan asked cheerfully. A little too cheerfully. Ezra looked at him thoughtfully, and asked, "The delectable Miss Brett agreed to accompany you this evening?" Nathan's grin could have lit Denver. "Sure did. Going to take her to this great little Thai restaurant, and maybe see a movie if she wants after." "Just remember my tips, and you'll be fine," Buck told him with a look of smug superiority. "Yeah, remember his tips and avoid doing them, and maybe you won't end up slapped by the end of the evening," Chris said dryly. "I don't get slapped!" Buck said indignantly. "Ow!" Josiah smirked as he dodged neatly out of range of any retaliation. "No?" was all the big man said, and Buck pouted. "Ez's off on a date; Nate's finally got somewhere with little Rain Brett." He heaved a huge sigh. "I guess I'll go drown my sorrows somewhere." "Let me guess," Ezra asked, pulling his coat over his jacket. "Would this 'somewhere' be a wine bar?" "A Mexican wine bar?" Nathan chimed in. "With a pretty Mexican owner?" Chris finished off. Three sets of eyes met, and as one they looked back at Buck. "Nunca!" "She's comin' round, I'm tellin' ya." Buck insisted over their laughter. "You heading out now, Ez?" "John -- JD is waiting downstairs for me." He really couldn't help the way his voice seemed to soften. "Now that is just too cute," Buck made a long arm and ruffled Ezra's hair. "I am not cute." Buck's eyebrows flicked up and down. "I know someone who don't agree with you. Seems to me he thought you were mighty cute last Friday night. And Saturday morning," he added airily, waggling his eyebrows again, a knowing grin on his face. "I'm waiting on support services for the status of my proposed cover story," Ezra said coolly, trying very hard to ignore the rush of memory. "There is almost nothing I can do until it is in place, so if I may?" Chris shook his head. "God forbid any of the rest of you pair off. Your brains aren't for shit like this, that's for damn sure." His glower slipped into a faint smile and he jerked his head towards the door. "Git, the pair of ya. Try to have your minds on the job tomorrow." "Yes, sir, Mr. Larabee, sir!" Ezra said smartly, and Nathan bounced to his feet. "For real?" "I can change my mind..." "I'm gone!" Jackson grabbed his jacket and whirled out, not even stopping to change his shoes. Ezra was right behind him, and they smiled at each other as they waited by the elevators. Even at that distance they could quite clearly hear Larabee's "Buck, get back here!" Or the whining, "Awww, Chris, old buddy, old pal..."

JD yawned, and gave up on trying to get back to sleep, and reluctantly attempted to slip out of bed. First though, he had to unwrap Ezra's limpet grip on his waist, and with a silent giggle tucked his pillow into Ezra's embrace. He stood watching as Ezra grunted and hugged the pillow tightly. Faint lines deepened on his forehead, and JD leaned down, running a hand over his hair. "Shh, go to sleep," he said softly, and the tension eased from Ezra's face even as one eye opened. "Can't do a damn thing I ask you, can you?" JD teased and laughed as Ezra pouted. "Go on, it's six am, go back to sleep." Ezra's head lifted briefly to look at the clock, and a look of horror crossed his face before he burrowed back down under the covers until only a hint of hair peeked out. Laughing under his breath, JD headed into the bathroom to get cleaned up. The laughter faded as he looked in the mirror, and he remembered. Ezra was going undercover -- and hadn't told him. He'd waited all evening, and he hadn't said a word. What did that mean? Didn't Ezra trust him? A shiver ran down his back, and he gritted his teeth. Ezra had said he loved him. It would work out. It had to. Maybe Ez had a plan. Maybe he was planning to tell him today, or tomorrow, or maybe the details weren't as final as Wilmington had managed to make them sound and Ez just didn't want to worry him until he had something definite to say. Maybe -- He stopped and drew a deep breath. Maybe he should stop panicking until he knew what was going to happen. He made himself breakfast as quietly as he could, then poured a second mug of coffee and took it upstairs to see if Ezra wanted it. From the indecipherable grunt from beneath the comforter he rather suspected that Ezra wished he hadn't bothered, but he left the cup on the bedside table anyway. He peered outside as he got dressed. The dawn sun was starting to streak a cloudless sky, and it looked like being a beautiful day. He grabbed his keys, his radio and the newly bought bike repair kit, and headed out to work on the Kawasaki, determined not to think at all if humanly possible. He shivered as the door closed behind him and he walked around the Jag to his machine. It was cold, and he wished he'd thought to bring some gloves outside as well as the sweater that he had pulled on as an afterthought. Still, once he got going he'd probably be warm enough. He took a sip of his coffee, breathing in deep, and savored the warmth of the steam on his face. He could actually hear the wind in the trees, and the sounds of birds chirping, and he shook his head. It really was amazingly peaceful out here, he thought, then shook his head. At half six in the morning, even middle of downtown would be quiet. He yawned again, and put the mug down out of the way, and settled in to give his bike a thorough look-see. It didn't take him long to decide that Frank had done as little as possible to her over the ten months that he'd owned her for. The accumulated grime was a clear indicator, and so was the thick sludge that had caked where oil had been allowed to sit on the engine. He sighed, but stripped the bike down anyway to have a good look. He was elbows deep in grease, his sweater lying where he'd thrown it on the hood of the Jag by the time his concentration was so deep he was blindsided by the thought: he could be killed. His stomach tightened, and his earlier coffee churned unpleasantly. He'd watched last night as Ezra disappeared into the study, coming back with his jacket hanging from his hand, and no sign of the holster or the gun he couldn't stop thinking about. Ezra had looked quizzically at him, but he'd just shaken his head and smiled, trying to brush it off as nothing. He stopped, staring blindly at nothing. The gun was scary. He'd known, in theory, that Ezra carried. Had known, he supposed, that those five other men who'd cheerfully accepted him the week before must also carry guns. They were cops. Federal agents. Whatever. Cops carried guns. Because the bad guys carried guns.... He drew a deep breath. He could deal. It was just, just getting used to the idea. He'd looked up stats yesterday afternoon after lunch with Buck, instead of working on the data from his simulation. Most cops didn't ever pull their guns. ATF agents who were killed in the line of duty were in single figures, most years. Chances were, Ezra only really ever used his gun at the range. Chances were, he'd never fired a shot intended to hit a living human being. Chances were, he was going into some situation where everyone was armed, and everyone around him would kill him as soon as look as him if they found out that he wasn't one of them. God. To think he'd actually thought being a fed was 'cool'. He felt sick to his stomach, imagining the phone call, wondering if it would be some anonymous hospital clerk, or if one of the team would phone and say, 'I'm sorry--' If anyone would call at all. The roar of an engine interrupted his thoughts, and he turned with real relief. "Oh wow." He stood and wiped his hands on an oil-stained cloth, staring at the motorcycle that pulled in. The biker pulled off his helmet and grinned at him. "Hey, kid." "She's gorgeous," JD said, walking slowly around the '58 Harley. Vin Tanner laughed, apparently untroubled by JD's complete lack of manners. "She's not so bad. Still got a way to go with her." "You don't take her out dirt biking?" JD said in sudden horror eyes snapping up to met the laughing blue ones. "Nah." He patted the black, red and silver bike affectionately. "Figured since we were going up back on the horses I could take her for a spin and leave her here. Thought you might like to meet her." He swung his leg over the bike, then perched on the saddle. He nodded at the partially dismembered Kawasaki, "Doesn't look like you're going anywhere soon on her." JD shrugged. "I can put her back together in about half an hour," he said, and lifted a gleaming piece up into position, then struggled to hold it in place as he reached for a screwdriver. Vin watched for a moment then as it slipped bent down to help hold it up as JD edged it back into position. JD flashed him a quick grin as he snapped the retaining clip into place, then scrabbled for the screwdriver, and poked gingerly through the little heap of screws and clips on the ground for the right ones. "Thanks. Can you--" "Try that," Tanner picked one out at the same moment as JD found its pair. They grinned at each other. "You got another screwdriver?" JD nodded. "Toolbox." Tanner made a long arm and dragged the metal box closer to him, then rummaged inside. "New." Vin's tone held a question, and JD nodded. "Guy who sold me back the bike didn't want to sell me the kit I'd built. Said if I could afford to unload cash on this old rice rocket, I could afford a new kit." He scowled. "Took me years to get that kit together." "Bummer," Vin sympathized. "Still, all new kit, sometimes worth it." JD sighed shortly. "I guess. I just miss some of 'em." He ducked his head and mentally kicked himself. Stupid. Getting sentimental over stuff. Vin was going to think he was some kind of whiny, stupid kid. "Got used to their tricks, you know." Vin nodded as he positioned a screw and swiftly set it deep into its socket. "Know what you mean. Hate using other people's kit when I'm out racing." He shrugged a little ruefully. "Kinda superstitious I guess but--" JD smiled at him, "Yeah, I know." Tanner smiled back, and JD relaxed a little. Okay, the guy didn't think he was stupid. Tanner got it too. "What ya doin'?" Tanner asked before he could query it, and JD let it go. "Basically, just looking her over, you know? Frank -- he's the guy I sold her to -- anyway, he had her for best part of a year. I wanted to see what he'd done with her." "And?" Vin ran his eyes over the machine speculatively. JD rolled his eyes. "She's running okay," he conceded reluctantly, "but look at this." He scraped his screwdriver through the muck. Some of it cracked and crumbled off, and some parted, showing dull grey metal underneath it, but most of it stayed a solid, matt black. "Huh. Still, it's not a performance killer," Vin pointed out. "Nah, but, she's my ride, you know?" He looked pointedly at the Harley which, while not exactly cherry, was immaculately clean. Tanner nodded. "Want a hand?" "Gonna be dirty." Vin grinned at him and held up hands that were already smeared with black. "If I minded I'd'a still been in bed." JD laughed, and glanced back at the house. "I'm betting nine at the earliest," Vin said, and JD grinned. "You reckon that early?" Vin looked slyly at him. "Sure. He ain't got no added inducement to stay in bed this mornin'." JD reddened and smiled, pleased but still embarrassed. They worked in silence for a while, until JD was startled by the sound of Vin's stomach rumbling. "God, I'm sorry, did you eat breakfast -- do you want something? I shoulda asked you sooner, man, I'm such an idiot." He scrambled to his feet and wiped his hands on his jeans. "S'okay, kid," Vin said easily. "Guess I forgot too." He stood, and wandered into the garage, and found a rag to wipe his hands on, and rolled his shoulders. "Guess I could eat though," he added with a smile, and followed JD into the kitchen. "You want toast or cereal, or--" JD turned back from pouring two mugs of black coffee and discovered Tanner rummaging in the cupboard where he'd found the pop tarts that first morning. "Uh--" Vin eyed him narrowly, clearly reading his guilty expression with ease. "You stole my poptarts?" JD took a step back. "Now that's low," Vin shook his head sadly, "I've seen crooks, and villains, and bad guys that would make your teeth bleed. But I ain't never seen a man who'd go so low as to steal a fella's poptarts." JD bit his lip to hide his grin. "It was the poptarts or eat some French meat paste stuff for breakfast," he said plaintively. Vin grinned at him. "Why'd you think I keep my own stash up here?" "Does this help?" JD opened a cupboard and Vin's eyes lit up. "Okay, you're forgiven," he said as he reverently pulled out the Frosties and Cocopops. "How'd you get Ez to spring for them?" JD fetched the milk, and turned to the cupboard for bowls, and found Vin had already grabbed two and set them on the table. "Didn't tell him about 'em. Just kinda added them to the shopping list." Vin's eyes crinkled up with amusement and helped himself to cereal. "I can see this is gonna work out just fine." They ate in silence for a while, until Vin glanced at him. "You ride, right? Horses?" "Yeah." "Hmm. Ez said you had, just wanted to check. Done much lately?" JD looked away. "Nah. Haven't really had time." Tanner was looking at him like he knew there was more to it than that, and JD ducked his head, chasing the last of the chocolate colored milk assiduously around the bowl. "Good enough." Tanner let it drop and JD felt his shoulders relax. When he looked up the man was looking out the window, "Figure we can go up the back trail. If we pack some food we can probably get pretty high into the mountains before noon. There's some nice views up there too." "Sure. You know 'round here better'n I do," he agreed easily. "Do you think Ez would--" Vin laughed outright. "I think he'll be happier if he gets to lie in as long as possible." JD couldn't help grinning. Vin had a point. "You better write him a note or something, though." JD scowled. "Geeze, he's not my Mom," he said defensively. Vin looked at him thoughtfully and said nothing, but said it so clearly that JD felt his blush deepen. "Okay, okay. I'm just kidding," he muttered, and headed to the study to find some paper and a pen. He wrote a brief note, and folded it over. "Idiot," he muttered to himself. "Calm down. He didn't mean anything by it." Vin had watched with half an eye as JD had saddled his horse, and settled the rest of the tack in place. He finished about the same time as Vin did, and then looked around, his eyes going over Vin's tack swiftly. Vin dropped his head a little to hide the amusement in his eyes. Fine, the kid knew how to tack up. Didn't mean he knew how to ride. JD led his horse out of the stable and Vin followed, leading Zebulon. JD swung up into the saddle, a little stiffly as though out of practice, and Vin nodded. They would take it slow today. He'd bet the kid hadn't ridden in a couple of years at least. He mounted up and told Zebulon to get moving. The big chestnut jittered a little, but Vin moved easily with him until he got used to the idea that no, he wasn't going to get his head today either. "Y'okay there?" Jellicle was the mildest tempered of Ezra's horses, and she was still acting antsy. He wondered if it was that she hadn't been properly out for a while, or if JD was anxious about the ride and transmitting his nerves to her. "Yeah." JD's voice was clipped. Vin considered him thoughtfully but let it go. Time enough for questions later. "Just heading down the pasture until we get to the back road, and then we'll turn up the mountain," he called over his shoulder, and set out. The kid would follow. By the time he had reached the turn the kid had gotten over whatever bug had bitten him, and was up alongside Zeb. "What's that?" he asked, pointing at the ground. Vin squinted at the dusty blue-grey bird. "Scrub Jay," he told the kid, and smiled at him, "Didn't take you for a bird watcher." "I'm not I just--" the kid caught Vin's second meaning and laughed. Vin grinned back at him. "You want birds, look up." "Hey, yeah, Vin, I was outside a few nights ago and there was this big bird, wheeling up over the mountains." "Gonna need more information than that," Vin shook his head. Big and it flies. Might want to narrow that down some. JD looked disappointed, but he nodded. "I guess. If I see something though, can I--?" Vin sighed. It was going to be a damn nature class at this rate. Why did he decide this was a good idea again? "Sure, kid. Just point it out quietly. Don't want to scare everything off." "Okay. Sorry." The kid was quiet for all of five minutes. "What about that?" He was pointing upwards, and Vin shook his head. "Falcon. Peregrine, prairie; could even be a merlin. Sun's in my eyes, so I can't be sure." "Cool." JD peered up into the sky, then settled back to concentrating on keeping his seat. "Vin?" "Yeah, kid?" "Why are you doing this?" Vin reined his horse in and twisted in his saddle to meet JD's forthright gaze. "Figured if you waited for Ezra to show you some of this--" "Vin." JD was still looking right at him and Vin shifted uneasily. "Fine, okay. We're looking at the motorcycle route. Except even I can see there's no bike tracks up here." That would tend to be a problem, Vin admitted privately. "Most folks join further up the trail." Which was sort of true. JD sighed. "Okay, whatever." They rode in silence for some time, until the kid broke. "So, does Mr. Larabee live far from here?" "About forty miles that way," Vin jerked a thumb north-west, and grinned. "About far enough that they don't kill each other at the weekends." JD grinned back and Vin wondered what exactly Ezra had told the kid about Larabee. For that matter, what he'd told the kid about the team. He hesitated, then gritted his teeth. He wasn't going to get a much better chance than this. "So, Ez say much about the rest of us?" he asked, straining to sound casual. The kid seemed to buy it, and smiled at Vin. "He said never get between you and your junk food." Vin laughed, "Harsh, but fair." He rummaged in a pocket and pulled out a couple of granola bars. "Here." The kid just about caught his, and thanked him before ripping into the honey and chocolate laced candy. "What about the rest of us?" he added, chewing. JD shrugged, chewed a few seconds and swallowed hastily. "I don't remember really," he hedged and Vin laughed silently. "It was that bad, huh?" "No! No, It was just -- I just -- ah, fuckit." He caught sight of Vin's smirk and growled under his breath. "Bastard." He threw his empty wrapper at Vin who caught it and shook his head solemnly. "You really shouldn't litter, JD," he drawled, dragging the name out. JD cracked up laughing, and then asked the question Vin had been waiting for. "So, what'd he tell you guys about me?" Vin hesitated. He didn't have to tell Larabee what he found out, if anything. He looked at the kid, and the smile fell from JD's face. "What did he tell you?" he repeated in a whisper. "Not much." Vin looked away, then pulled his horse up, and reached across to hold onto JD's bridle. "Kid -- I wouldn't ask this except I'm worried 'bout ya. About you an' Ez both." "What? Why?" JD looked frightened, and Vin winced internally. This didn't look good. "I been doing some looking, you see. A -- I was -- JD, look, I'll give it you straight, okay? I've found some stuff that worried me. See, Ezra likes the finer things in life, but he ain't that rich. And you, you've never had a job that paid more than minimum wage. And then, all of a sudden, you move in with Ez, and all your debts are cleared." He watched carefully. "JD, that's a lot of money to come by honestly." JD jerked but didn't try to escape, he just seemed to fold in on himself. Vin bit back a sigh. Larabee was going to kill him. So much for discreet. "You've been looking," he said in a shaken voice. "Oh god." "JD. Kid, I can't help you unless you help me a little here, okay?" he said recklessly. The thought crossed his mind that maybe that was how they got to the kid -- a little mutual aid. But he didn't falter for a moment as he waited. "Where'd the money come from?" "I can't tell you," he said somewhere between misery and defiance. "Can't, or won't?" JD looked down. "Did someone give it to you to move in with Ez?" "N-no." But the kid's whole demeanor yelled yes. "Come on, just tell me the truth." Vin nudged his horse closer. "I'm Ezra's friend. I'm not out to harm him." "But you think I am?" "No." Vin stopped himself too late. "No," he repeated more slowly. It was true, he realized, JD didn't seem to have any motive for being with Ezra beyond having fallen for the guy in a big way. And... there was just something to the way the kid said Ezra's name; to the way he'd stood up to Buck that first poker game; to the way he was holding his jaw and the steady brown eyes that watched him as warily as any wild animal. "I'm worried about where that money came from, and how it's going to look if it comes out," he said simply. JD bit his lip. "Can I trust you?" Vin half smiled at him. "No one c'n decide that but you." And God help us all if we both choose wrong. JD nodded, and after about half a minute's silence, Vin let go of JD's reins and walked his horse on, hoping. A few minutes later he simply nodded to JD as the kid brought his horse up alongside without looking at him. They paced each other for a few minutes before JD cleared his throat and asked, "Vin, if I tell you something, are you gonna have to tell Mr. Larabee? And all the others? You know, make it official?" Vin sighed. "I ain't going to lie to you, I might have ta tell Chris." I'm probably gonna tell Chris everything you say, but you're scared enough right now, without me telling you that. "But tell me, and I'll do my best to help ya." Shit. What'd I go and say that for? If I end up arresting him for extortion or bribing a federal officer... "I can't make any promises, okay? If you've done something illegal or--" "No! No. I don't think it's illegal, exactly." JD didn't look any too sure of it though as he fiddled with his reins, twisting the leather to and fro in his hands, and Vin's heart sank further. Christ. Someone really had paid for JD to take up with Ez, and he was going to end up breaking both their hearts by arresting the kid, and Chris would have to suspend Ez. What a fucking mess. Kid wasn't gonna last a minute in jail. "Ezra's Mom--" Vin's head shot up. "Maude?" "Is that her name?" JD glanced at Vin briefly, then looked down again. "She, ah, she helped me out with my bills. And I met Ezra through her." He swallowed, and said lowly, "I don't know how much you know about my Mom?" "A little." "It took her seventeen months, from the day they diagnosed cancer, to the day she finally died, did you know that? It cost quarter of a million dollars just to give her a year more than they said she had." He looked up, face fierce, "And I'd sign every damn form again, spend every last red cent of it. Just for that year." He looked away, but not before Vin saw tears glimmering at the corners of his eyes. When the kid looked back the tears were gone. "Why'd she give you the money? Maude?" JD shook his head. "Because she could. I don't know why. Ez said he-- that she had said she had an inconvenient five -- you know," he seemed unwilling to say the amount out loud, and Vin nodded, encouraging him to go on. "Anyway, he said she spent it on me, because she thought it would make him happy." He looked up at that, and straight into Vin's eyes. "He is happy. I want him to be happy. He deserves it, more'n anyone I know." Vin nodded slowly, chewing his thoughts over. If Maude was involved it explained a hell of a lot. It still left a bunch of questions unanswered, like where she got the money from, and how exactly it was 'inconvenient'. But Maude was far, far less dangerous a source than he had feared. He offered the kid a lop-sided smile. "Does that mean you aren't going to tell Mr. Larabee?" Vin shook his head. "I'll tell him more or less what you told me. He'll be happy enough with that." "Really?" No, not as naïve as you look, Vin thought. "It'll do for now. I'll talk to Ezra maybe, see what he thinks." JD nodded. "Okay. It's nothing bad, you know? Ez wouldn't do anything wrong, you know that?" "I know that," Vin agreed, not quite sure if he really meant it, or if he just couldn't face the thought of spending the next half hour listening to the virtues of Ezra Standish. He had a nasty feeling he might have to do that anyway. --------------------------- Ezra sighed contentedly. The bed was warm and he could smell coffee. "JD?" he said around yawn. He looked blearily for his lover, and decided that he must be up. Possibly making coffee. Bliss. He let himself drift into a pleasant doze. Some time later he jolted bolt upright out of a dream where shadows followed him, and he fled. The rumbling of some vast articulated monster of a vehicle was, it appeared, thunder being incorporated into his sleep. Light flooded the room and faded instantly, yet another crack of thunder detonating directly above his head. He sat still, wide eyed, his heart racing and his breathing gradually slowing down again. That was a hell of a way to wake up. The clock told him it was early afternoon, and he winced a little. JD must have gone on out without him. He pushed the bedding back and pattered into the bathroom, shivering a little at the chill coming down with the pounding rain. He'd need to turn the heating up a little, he thought, and got into the shower, taking his time. He was lucky that he'd finished up in the electric powered shower and was used to a straight edge razor when the power cut out. He blinked a little, waiting out the adjustment to the relative dark, then finished up. He was going to have to check the generator, and maybe take a look in on the horses. He dressed swiftly, ran a towel over his head, and resigned himself to getting thoroughly soaked despite the heavy waterproof coat and pants that he pulled on. Galoshes and a broad brimmed hat completed the ensemble, and he pared a moment's gratitude that JD wasn't present to enjoy it. He could barely see more than about ten feet in front of him as he trudged over to the stables. The sky lit periodically with brilliant streaks of lightning. It forked and scattered as it reached to the ground, and the thunder kept rolling, like a marble in a wooden bowl, rumbling and resounding, never quite fading into complete silence before the next strike crashed though the clouds. Rain blew into his face, and he'd barely taken ten steps before his whole body was clammy and cold. The horses were going to be miserable. Nichols had called yesterday to let him know he wouldn't be able to make it over this weekend, so apart from the storm, which would have them antsy enough, they'd be standing knee deep in muck. "Hey there, girl," he said easily, pushing the hat back from his face so Pasada didn't attempt to bite him. She huffed a sigh and dropped her head, startling a little at a new lightning strike, but not terribly bothered. He shook his head. "They aren't going to be happy." He eyed the two empty stalls, and remembered that Vin had mentioned something about taking JD up the back trail to look over a possible bike route. Well, better they be on horses than machines in this, he thought, and winced as his ready imagination supplied gruesome images of his two friends mangled beyond recognition under out of control motorcycles in the treacherous conditions. Then it switched to wondering if Zebulon was handling the storm okay, and if Jellicle's off hind had been re-shoed like he'd asked a week ago. He should have checked, but between work and JD, his face softened into a happy smile, well, he'd been distracted. Falling in love would do that to a man, he absolved himself. "Wouldn't it, chiquita?" he said to Pasada, who snorted. Clearly she was unimpressed at being second best to a scrawny twenty-something with more education than he knew what to do with, and an endearing line in naiveté. "Ah, I haven't forgotten you," he said. "Or you," and he rubbed a hand over Asher's nose ridge. The horse ducked his head and shifted uneasily as what felt like the crack of doom blasted his ears. "Easy, boy, easy," he said reassuringly. He looked at the exit anxiously. Hopefully JD and Vin would be sensible enough to find shelter. He found himself biting his lip, and stopped himself, pursing his lips together tightly. "Well, I don't have time to deal with those silly boys." He hung his hat and coat up, and lit a storm lantern -- a flashlight by any other name. Talking of which. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, absently noting the cobwebs and straw on the rafters, ah yes. The fuck-off big flashlight he'd kept when he'd last been on a night time raid was still somewhere in the generator shed from the last power outage. Under the lantern's light he was pleasantly surprised to find the two empty stalls had already been mucked out. He turned Asher and Pasada out to the field, discovering in the process that they too had been cleaned up. The two horses seemed less than thrilled with this turn of affairs and huddled together under the wind break that only sheltered them from one side and from above. He stomped across to the small shed where the backup generator that he'd had installed was clearly not working. It took him a scant five minutes after examining it with his large Scully-torch, as purloined from the FBI who'd been with them on the raid, to discover that something was clogged inside the works. It looked like some sort of rodent. A deceased rodent. "Damn." He looked at the matted fur for some time before closing the lid to the unit carefully, and snapping the catches in place. He ran his flashlight over the edges of the door, then ran his fingers under the edges. No gaps. "Damn." No boyfriend here. No friends here. About to go under on an unexpectedly big job, the power goes out in the middle of a storm, and his generator has a mouse in it. He snorted faintly and resisted the obvious remark. He'd save it for an audience. He flicked the flashlight off, and stood very still, listening. He couldn't hear anything but the thunder and the rain, and between them, he was going to be hard pressed to locate any intruders. Maybe he hadn't been supposed to find out? Storms of this sort usually hit during the summer afternoons, as the heat rising from Colorado's desert landscape hit the cold air piling up against the Rockies. By this time of year, the storms were usually over. Maybe they hadn't expected there to be a power outage. At least, not one caused by nature. He shivered, wishing that one of his team mates were there. JD was fine as a companion, but he did wonder how the kid would cope with the violence of his world. Academia wasn't exactly known for equipping kids to survive gun battles. He shook himself. JD had had enough real life already. He'd be fine, he told himself firmly. But he'd seen the nervous glances at where his gun would normally sit in its holster last night. He wondered what the kid and Buck had talked about at lunch together. Buck was good hearted, and honest. It would be only too easy for Buck to share something that Ezra had not quite gotten around to mentioning. Undercover ops. Bigotry in the FBI. Team Seven's injury rate. The Lasater case. On the whole he suspected that at some point the conversation had reached the subject of guns, gun control and law enforcement. White light fleetingly floodlit the cracks in the wall of the generator shed, and Ezra dragged himself back to the here and now as the inevitable crash followed. He'd messed around with bare hands in here; the chances were that Mrs. Flores had been in here at some point, and Mr. Nichols. Fingerprinting the equipment would doubtless show only those hands to have touched it. How to approach this? Was it Lasater, or some other grudge holding felon that had set up his house for some sort of horror movie scenario? If it was Lasater then they had a bigger problem than rats in the generator. He chuckled under his breath. A terrible thought struck him. What if this was not aimed at him? What if Torrence, who seemed to have tracked his money to JD, had decided to take some sort of direct action to retrieve his property? He stopped dead in his tracks, cold to the core. What if Torrence knew about the sale -- he seemed to know about everything else. What if he decided that the money had bought JD, and that meant he, Jacob Torrence, owned one John Dunne, for the duration of that damned contract. Curious how he could actually feel blood draining away from his face, and bile burning the back of his throat. He picked up a set of screwdrivers, and headed back to the house. He stumbled a little as he walked. The grass was slippery, and a young river seemed to be developing along the path between the stables and the main building, and he almost lost his footing on unexpected stones a couple of times. The house was still dark, and he went around it methodically, lighting candles, unplugging electrical equipment, locking and bolting every door that had a manual lock on it. He took a screwdriver from the set he'd brought in, found a pair of evidence gloves from his jacket pocket and settled himself by the telephone in the kitchen. It was the work of approximately a minute to remove the main cover of the handset and base unit, and discover the tiny piece of additional wiring clipped to the mouth piece and earpiece. He shut his eyes briefly, he was going to have to bring Chris in on this. He was going to have to lay the whole thing out in front of him, because if it wasn't Lasater, wasn't some old grudge, then all hell could be about to let loose. The last thing he wanted to do. Lightning snapped across the sky again, but it didn't brighten the room as much as the last few had, and he looked up. The clouds were slowly parting. He could see blue sky in the distance, a ragged patch barely enough for a pocket handkerchief. Precursor to an evening of clear skies, a freezing night, and if he knew Colorado weather at all by now, the first ice on the roads in the morning. He sat and stared at the dismembered handset until the thunder died away. ---------------------------- JD had been anticipating dry clothes and a hot drink and Ezra for some time now, peering up through the rain hoping for a sign of the house. "You sure we're going the right way?" he asked, not for the first time. Tanner just looked at him and JD lifted his hands in surrender. "Sorry, yes, you know where you are, blindfold, tied up, one leg missing in a tornado." Vin grinned at him. "And don't you forget it," he said. He looked up and frowned. "I'd'a thought we'd've seen the lights by now," he added. JD shrugged. "Maybe he went out." "He'd still put the lights on for us in this weather. He always does." JD tried to ignore the stab of jealousy. Ezra had known these guys far longer than he'd known him. "Yeah?" Vin sat back in the saddle and shook his head. "Power's probably out." "Huh." He wondered if that sounded rude, and quickly asked, "does that happen often out here?" "Often enough." "What's that mean?" He couldn't seem to stop the note of irritation in his voice, and stopped, took a deep breath. "Once a year, once a month?" he smiled, "Should I be laying in a stock of batteries and flashlights?" Vin smiled back. "Out here, might be a good plan anyway. Maybe couple of times since I've known him." JD wanted to ask him how long that had been, but didn't. He'd just come off sounding stupid. Or maybe it would be a natural thing to do, ask. Bit of small talk. "You reckon you could find the trail again?" Vin asked him and JD had to struggle to deal with the actual conversation instead of the imaginary one that was ringing in his head. "Yeah. Is it safe in this kinda weather?" "Same's most places when you're dirt biking." JD nodded, and felt tension slide from his shoulders as a dark building emerged from the sheeting rain. Home. He picked up the pace a little, and Vin sped up too, both hurrying silently into the dark stable yard. He dismounted hastily and led Jellicle inside. His hand swiped for the light switch, he couldn't find it at first and when he did, nothing happened. He flipped it a couple of times and sighed. "Power's out." "Thought so," Vin was right behind him. JD nodded. "Good call. You know where--" "Hang on to Zeb would ya?" Vin handed him Zebulon's reins and JD listened to his booted feet on the stone floor. Zebulon whickered softly and dropped his head to JD's hand. "Ain't got nothing for you," he said softly, and scratched the bridge of the horse's nose. "That good, hmm?" Jellicle whuffled and stepped closer, more or less trapping him between the two horses. JD laughed under his breath. "You guys are soaked, aren't you?" A light glowed dimly and swung as it approached, casting wildly dancing shadows around the stable. "Vin?" "Rain's stopped," Vin said. "Here." He handed JD a lantern and took Zebulon's reins back. "Put a blanket over Jellicle's stall." "Thanks." JD led Jellicle into her stall and unsaddled her. The leather was only wet around the edges, his body had kept most of it dry. "Here you go, girl," he said as he rubbed her down, "Better now, hey?" He discarded the wet, filthy towel and pushed his own dripping hair back off his face. He checked her over carefully -- no cuts or bruises; nothing caught in her hooves, and smiled, patting her withers. "There you go, Jelly-girl," he said as he laid the thick blanket over her back. "Bet that's better." "JD?" JD turned, a smile spreading across his face without him even realizing it. "Ez!" "Hey, Ez," Vin called from the next stall where he was finishing the same routine with Zebulon. "Power off?" "Rats in the generator." There was a short silence, and JD wondered why it felt tense. "Regular rats or the two legger variety?" Vin said. "A very good question, Agent Tanner," Ezra said. JD's head jerked around to look at him. "What's going on?" he asked sharply. "Another good question," Ezra stepped into the stall, running a hand along Jellicle's back. "And still I have no answers." Ezra was wearing waterproofs, JD noticed as he moved closer. "What's going on, Ez?" he asked again, more quietly, more anxiously. Ezra pulled him closer with an arm over his shoulder, but spoke to Vin. "I would appreciate it if you would examine the interior of your cellular phone." Vin had turned and was leaning on the wooden wall between the two stalls, one eyebrow raised. His head tilted and Ezra nodded. JD looked from one to the other, envying the silent communication, wondering what it meant, wishing Ezra would let him in. "Ezra?" "In a minute, John," Ezra said, tightening his arm. Vin stripped gloves from his hands and pulled his phone out. He pried the back off, and dismembered it swiftly, laying plastic cover, battery, card, keypad, protective backing out in a neat line. He looked up. "Can you get that light--?" JD wordlessly reached across Ezra to the lantern and held it over the parts of the phone until Vin looked up, shaking his head. "Nothin'." Ezra sighed and even through their respective layers of clothing JD could feel the slight slump that indicated draining tension before Ezra shifted, standing taller somehow. "Good. My dear, do you have your cell-phone?" Ezra smiled at JD, who nodded, and pulled it from his pocket, offering it silently. Vin reached out for it and rapidly opened it up too. "I've only had it a couple of weeks," he said, puzzled, "what are you looking for?" Vin's eyes flicked up and back to the phone. "Bugs," Ezra said tersely. JD looked up at him. "Bugs?" "Clean," Vin said before JD could get any answers and handed it back to him. JD turned it over in his hands, looking carefully at it. "Who's gonna bug my phone?" He looked up when there was no reply to find Vin staring at Ezra, and Ezra staring at Vin's hands resting on top of Vin's own mostly rebuilt cell-phone. "Ez?" "You gonna explain it or not?" Vin said mildly, breaking the silence. Ezra turned away. "He's not the only one wondering what's going on, Ez." "Come inside, both of you. I lit a fire when it became clear we would not be getting electricity back anytime soon." "Ezra--" Vin said as Ezra guided JD out of the stables. JD looked back over his shoulder, worried. Vin was watching them. In the flickering dark, as the wind swung the lantern, his face looked grim and stern. Ezra tensed, then nodded without turning back to face him. "I will call him forthwith." "Him?" JD asked, hurrying to keep up. "Who? Who are you calling? Ezra, I don't understand what's going on. Is it ATF stuff? Is that why the power's out?" Ezra ushered him into the kitchen and JD shivered convulsively. The warmth of the house suddenly made him realize how very cold and wet he was. "Go dry off," Ezra said firmly, and gave him a little push towards the door to the rest of the house. "I'll explain everything -- everything I can explain -- when you get back downstairs. There's a fire in the main room, and I've got towels warming by it." "Really?" JD paused, one foot on the stairs. "How'd you--" Ezra raised an eyebrow. "I looked outside." JD nodded, not quite sure whether the short answer meant Ezra was angry or worried or what. He wanted to ask, but Ezra was already turning into the main living room, and the chance passed. A moment later Vin appeared. He'd already stripped off his coat and was rapidly unbuttoning his soaked shirt as he followed Ezra. JD turned away and ran up the stairs. There were bigger things to worry about than Vin Tanner being entirely too comfortable running around half naked in his house. Okay, Ezra's house, but still. He was being ridiculous. And if he wasn't, he didn't want to know. Chris sprinted across the yard, skidded in the mud and only just righted himself. Nonetheless, he got to the phone just in time to catch Ezra's voice saying goodbye as he finished leaving a message on the answer phone. "Ezra?" he snatched up the phone but only got the dial tone. "Dammit." He looked back at the track of filthy footprints across the kitchen. "Damn it," he repeated. He rubbed a muddy hand across his face, trying to wipe the rain away. The storm was passing. To the east he could see lightening that suggested that blue sky was not far behind the clouds, in the west, lightning still struck, thunder rumbling in its wake. He laughed softly, Sarah would never have let him in the house in this state. He'd dripped mud everywhere, even, he suspected, on the phone, which meant picking at it with a pin or a paperclip later. A hank of hair flopped wetly down across his forehead and into his eyes, and he brushed it back impatiently. He hit the 'play' button and waited. "This had better be good, Standish," he muttered as the machine announced that he had one new message. "I know, just give me the damn message already." "Chris, Ezra. I have a bit of a problem with a power cut, and was wondering if you could help out a neighbor. If you could call back, I'm on my cell phone." Chris was surprised. Ezra might not live far, but he could count on one hand the number of times that he'd called for things not related to work. A power cut? He pulled off his boots and walked in stocking feet back across the kitchen, careful not to slip on the smooth tiles. He rinsed the mud off his hands, then dunked his head under the tap as well, gasping a little as the hot water hit his frozen scalp. Chores were done. Maybe Ezra need a part or something. He could call, check he was okay, then either head on over there or grab a shower. Actually, maybe he could grab a shower first. He looked longingly up the stairs, then sighed. His instincts were urging him to call. Ezra never asked for help. It had to be more urgent than it sounded. He pulled the hand towel off its hook and scrubbed roughly at his face and hair, then let it around his neck to soak up the drips as he headed back for the phone. Okay. Call Ezra and see what he needed. The phone only rang once before it was picked up. "Chris?" "Ezra. I got your message. What's the problem?" "I seem to have a rat in my generator." Chris tensed. "What sort of rat?" "Rattus rattus," I believe," Ezra said dryly. Chris started to grin. "You let a rat get in your power generator? Ezra, that has to be a new low." "Yes, I'm sure it's very amusing, sir," Ezra said lightly. "Rats in my generator, insects in my walls, The entertainment just never ends." "Sounds like you need an exterminator, not a neighbor," Chris said, grinning. He wiped water out of his face and wandered upstairs. Definitely a shower and then maybe a meal. "I would appreciate your opinion on the right sort of exterminator." Chris frowned. "Ezra?" "I would really appreciate your input on my infestation problem, Chris, if you have the time." Chris stopped in his tracks. Infestation. Insects. Bugs? Damn. He stripped his shirt off as he headed into the bathroom, and asked, "How widespread?" "Fairly localised, in so far as I am able to tell. Of course, my localized current power failure is not assisting." "I hear that." Although if Ezra's house was bugged, hopefully they were feeding off a trickle charge in the house electricity, and weren't individually powered. Except Ezra knew that and presumably had checked his cell before calling him on it. "Ezra, look, stay where you are, I'll be over in an hour, no more. I'll bring along a tool kit." And maybe a couple of experts while I'm at it. "Thank you." "I'll see you then." He hung up, and dropped the phone. It took him three minutes to shower off, barely time to get wet, never mind warm. Grains of mud were still sluicing down the drain as he pulled on jeans and a sweater. He called Buck, got no answer at the condo, and called his cell as he hurried through the house, picking up badge, gun, toolkit. Candles and flashlights went in as an afterthought. Still no answer, and he swore, waited for the voicemail, and said, "Buck, Ezra's place is out of power. You re-wired that old place of Josiah's for him, right? You want to swing by and give us a hand? Bring everything you need for dealing with wires and power, okay? Ezra's just as likely to kill me as himself trying to fix it. Buck. Get moving. Put her down, and go. Now, Buck." He hung up, ready to go. Hopefully Buck would get the message. Oh, yes. One more thing. He fished out a small screwdriver and undid the back of first his landline and then his cell. Both looked clean. He looked at the insides of the two phones for a long moment, then sighed and put them back together, then headed out.

"Ez?" Ezra looked at JD in the mirror as he paused shaving. "Yeah?" "Any chance of a ride into Denver?" Ezra turned and looked thoughtfully at him. "Could it wait till tomorrow?" JD pulled a face. "I suppose. I guess." He wasn't really sure he *had* to go in today. It just made sense, especially as his only alternative was to lounge around panicking about the impending Poker Game of Doom, as he was starting to think of it. He could rearrange the meetings. "If you mean to say 'Not really'," Ezra translated with a certain amount of irritation, "please just say it." JD shrugged. "Not really," he shrugged, and rinsed and spat. "Fine." "Fine." "Be dressed by the time I am ready to leave the house, please." Ezra finished shaving, carefully wiping the soap from his face and gently splashing aftershave over the soft skin. He turned on his heel and stalked into the bedroom. JD stared after him in some bemusement. "What's biting you, Mr. Sunshine," he muttered. They'd overslept a little. Not much, but enough that early morning sex hadn't happened. Maybe that was what was making Ezra the September Grinch. The screech of hangers dragging roughly over a rail set his teeth on edge, and he hastily finished up his morning routine, and headed quietly to get dressed. His clothes were in a bedroom across the hall from Ezra's. He'd been uncertain as to where to put his stuff, and had been faintly surprised to discover it all neatly put away courtesy of Mrs. Flores when he'd gone for a change of clothes the previous afternoon. He'd expected to have to tug them out of the disarray of his suitcase. Another two cases now sat on the floor by the closet delivered by Donna LaFai's people the previous day, and sooner or later he'd have to broach the topic of the stuff currently in storage. With any luck Ezra's housekeeper wouldn't mind putting away the cases. Which reminded him. "Hey, Ezra?" He wandered back into Ezra's bedroom and smiled at the lean man straightening his collar. "Yes?" Ezra was knotting a dark blue tie and didn't look around. JD shrugged mentally. He couldn't wear the other one every day even if it did match his eyes. "Those forms turned up." "What forms?" "You know. *The* forms." He didn't want to say more, if he didn't get into the habit right now of not talking about it, he'd forget sometime when it was really important he didn't forget. Ezra frowned, and then enlightenment hit. He turned abruptly and reached JD in two quick strides. "Where are they?" he asked urgently. "By your computer. I left them there--" Ezra hurried out of the room and down the stairs, JD followed, still wearing just a towel wrapped around his waist. "John, I will put them in my safe for the present. If you need to get at them I'll let you have the combination, or you can take your set and put them into a bank deposit box." "Paranoid much?" JD muttered. He watched as Ezra found both folders, examined the contents briefly to make sure nothing was missing, and placed them inside the safe hidden behind a bookcase that pivoted out of place, books and all. "I do not really want any part of the agreement between us to be discovered by anyone," Ezra said sharply, locking it down and turning to fix his eyes on JD's. "I would, on the whole, be grateful if we do not mention it at all, unless absolutely necessary." JD frowned. "What, even here, when it's just the two of us." And he'd thought *he* was being over cautious. Ezra sighed, his lips thinning. "I do not truly believe they would. I am sure they would never-- and yet." He shook his head. "Mr. Wilmington's specialty is surveillance. If he had the least idea that there was something improper, or illegal about how we came to meet he will leave no stone unturned in his quest for knowledge." "Isn't he your friend?" Ezra smiled dourly. "There is a saying that fits particularly appositely here. With friends like these--" "But, they've gotta know you wouldn't do anything *bad*, don't they?" JD was bewildered. If they were friends they wouldn't turn Ezra in for something that wasn't even illegal, would they? Ezra's face softened. "I would I had your faith, darlin'." JD risked an arm around Ezra's waist. "If you want I won't say anything." He squeezed tentatively, and was rewarded with a genuine smile. "Thank you." He hugged JD back briefly then turned him round and pushed him towards the stairs. "Up. Dressed! I will procure our breakfast." JD ran up the stairs two at a time, relieved that he hadn't upset things after all. He ditched the towel on the floor, and rummaged through the closet. The clothes Ms LaFai had given him would be best. Boxers were on a shelf, socks too. He pulled on the neat slacks, shirt and blazer, grabbed his wallet and the package of papers that had come with the folders, and ran back downstairs, jumping the last five with a thud. "Ez?" He wandered out to the deck through the kitchen door, "There y'are." He took the cup of coffee Ezra handed him and the piece of toast in his other hand. He dropped to the ground and set the coffee down, pulling out the sheaf of papers from under his arm and setting them down, a foot on them against the brisk breeze that gusted periodically across the yard. "What have you got there?" Ezra asked curiously. "The paperwork to pay off the medical bills," he lifted one batch of papers, "my student loans and debts," another sheaf, "and to re-enroll for the graduate program, if there's enough money left over." He looked up. "I think there should be." "And thus you need to go into Denver today," Ezra responded. "I see." His face was non-committal, and JD wondered if he'd made a mistake somewhere. Again. "I mean, if it's okay?" he hedged. "What, to pay off your debts? I believe that was in fact the original point of these proceedings, was it not?" Ezra's tone was cool, and he was absolutely sure that Ezra was angry about something. JD bit his lips. "I'm not trying to be awkward." "I know." Ezra finished his coffee and stood brusquely. "I'll see you in the car in ten minutes, no more." JD hesitated. Clearly Ezra didn't want to be followed, but equally clearly, something was wrong. If it wasn't the loans and stuff, then what was left ... except him going back to grad school? He stood, uncertainly looking after his lover. The papers rustled in the breeze and he stepped on them before any could fly away. Maybe Ez didn't want him going back for some reason. He struggled to think of a reason -- maybe he was afraid that JD would tell people about him, or about the arrangement. Like he had any friends close enough even if he hadn't given his word to keep quiet. Maybe Ez hadn't realised that was what he wanted to do, more than anything. What if Ez didn't want him to go back? He reached down slowly for the papers. The top set fluttered as he held them, and he closed his eyes; he knew the horrible numbers listed there by heart. Three hundred and ninety five thousand, two hundred and forty-five dollars and eighty two cents. As though eighty two cents would make a difference to their nearly four hundred thousand dollars. The price of seventeen months of pain and misery, and a lingering death, his mother so drugged she knew no one. In her last days so ill that he could barely stand to watch as she convulsed, foaming at the mouth, over and over and over... Another seventy five thousand on student loans. Then credit cards, bills and payments made up the last of it. Five hundred thousand dollars would leave him with somewhere in the region of seven hundred dollars to his name. He looked back into the house. Ezra's house. Ezra's money. *Nothing* is required of you, except your own happiness. Ezra's voice was sharp and definite even in his memory. He looked back at the papers. If Ezra didn't want him to, could he be happy without finishing his degree? After Ezra had already given him so much? If the worst came to the worst, he could simply wait the year until the agreement was over. Start next September instead. He stared at the papers in his hands. He could live with that. He was pretty sure he could live with that. "John?" "Would it make you happier if I didn't go back to college?" he blurted out, and turned bright red. He hadn't meant to say it, dammit. He stared at his feet, trying not to look up as hard heels rapped briskly across the deck until he was staring at the toes of a pair of dark leather shoes. "Do you want to go?" JD nodded, his face resigned. "Then go." His voice was curt, and he started to turn away. "You don't want me to." Ezra stopped and his lips narrowed. "I don't care if you go or not. I'm too busy worrying about tonight." JD grinned with relief. "I thought I'd done something stupid or offended you or--" "John?" "Ez?" He felt a hand on his chin lifting his face until he was looking straight into Ezra's clear green eyes. When he spoke his voice was gentle. "John... JD." He kissed him briefly, no more than touch of lips. "It's your life. You can do as you please." "Are you sure? I don't want to get you into trouble or anything? I can keep quiet, I promise." Ezra laughed out loud. "Darlin', you? Quiet? I know you'll keep our secret, but keepin' quiet into the bargain?" He wrapped his arms around JD, who stood quietly in the circle of his arms, still a little uncertain, and kissed in playful pecks at his lips until he was kissing back, both of them laughing as it turned into a game, trying to dodge kisses to noses, eyes, ears, while getting their own in. "Bastard." "Tease." "Clothes horse." "Coquet." "Aren't those them little potato things?" "No! You little heathen." "Dirty Reb." Ezra responded with a wicked grin, "*And* you like it." JD shrugged, smiling mischievously. "*Maybe*." "*Maybe*?" "Well, y'know, all that sex..." He ducked out of Ezra's embrace and dodged towards the kitchen door, "Could get kinda samey after a while." "*Samey*!" Ezra dived after him. "I'll show you samey!" They scrambled through the house and Ezra caught him in the hallway, an armlock rapidly turning into a liplock that left JD gasping, "I don't remember that on 'So you want to be in Law Enforcement' at the careers fair." "ATF professional secret. And now I have kissed you, you are not allowed to leave until you have been thoroughly searched for contraband and listening devices." He worried at one ear lobe in demonstration. JD laughed. "I need something to put these into," he tucked the papers more safely under his arm. "I have a briefcase you could temporarily make use of." Ezra disappeared into the study and appeared again a moment later with a plain black leather case in one hand. "Perhaps this would suffice?" "That's great, Ez." JD stuffed the papers in, and headed for the door. "Come on, old man, no time for lying around making kissy face with the boyfriend." "I'll have you know I am only seven years older than you!" "Hey, the big three oh then this year -- old man!" "That's the trouble with mathematicians," he grabbed one of the bags he'd brought home the day before, checked inside and handed it to JD. "Your phone, brat. Give them a pair of numbers and they're off making wild accusations based on arithmetic." He pulled JD towards the front door. "Do you even own a comb?" He smoothed the wild hair down into a smooth cap, and pushed him out the door. "Keys?" "Check." "Wallet?" "Check." "Handkerchief?" "Get real." "Here. Try not to give it back to me if you end up using it for anything, and I do mean *anything* at all." "Geez. Ezra Martha Standish. One day you'll make someone a fine wife." "You're not too old to bend over my knee." "Promises, promises." JD slid into the low slung bucket seat, and grinned in relief at Ezra as he settled in the driver's side. Whatever had been bugging him was clearly not too important if Ez could brush it off like this. "I seem to remember," Ezra didn't look at him at all as they pulled out of the drive onto the road into Denver. "That *someone* still owes me 'one kinky experiment'." "Old age is doing something funny to your brain, Ez," JD said solemnly. "You're hallucinating stuff that never happened." "Open your damn present, you ungrateful child." "I'm grateful!" JD said indignantly, and slid a hand onto Ezra's thigh, and then up and round... "I can show you right now how grateful I am." The car swerved. Ezra removed JD's hand back to his own lap. "You break it, you pay for it," he warned. JD flinched, and glanced down at the folder at his feet. "Guess I'll pay this lot off first before I start getting any more." Ezra glanced briefly over at him, and rested a hand briefly on his leg before returning it to the steering wheel. They sat in silence for a while, until Ezra sighed. "Tonight." Tonight. JD Dunne and the Poker Game of Doom. JD grimaced. "What are they like?" Ezra looked like he was thinking about it, and then sighed. "It's hard to describe them without making them sound -- " he hesitated, drawing breath several times only to let it go, unable to think of the next words. "Odd?" "Or dangerous, or careless, or foolhardy, or suicidally stupid or --" "This isn't exactly comforting," he pointed out. "Neither are they." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Chris Larabee. Team leader. Was married, wife and son died in a house fire." "That's awful!" "He certainly thought so. Took him two years to emerge from the alcoholic haze. Don't offer him beer. Or anything else containing alcohol. If he wants it, he'll have it, but I'd prefer he doesn't fall off the wagon at my house if at all possible. The consequences tend to be both expensive and embarrassing, when you factor in the extremely short fuse on his temper. He doesn't like people very much either." "Whoa, whoa, oh my god, are you talking about the Larabee that broke the Candassi weapons ring five years ago? The guy took on eight men and *won*! He dropped one man when he was barely conscious, the court cited him for extreme bravery at the grand jury," he asked excitedly. "You work with *that* Chris Larabee?" "And acting like *that* will probably put you straight up on his 'people he loathes and avoids' list," Ezra warned him dryly. "Oh." "Vin Tanner is his best friend. Texan. Sharpshooter. Something of a humorist." "You mean he tells jokes?" "I mean he thinks it funny to get a bag of soot and a pair of sneakers to put footprints over my Jag. Someone who is under the mistaken impression that practical jokes are funny." "Cool." JD smiled; maybe he'd be able to get along with this guy. Larabee all in all, didn't sound like someone to get along with. Or even get anywhere near. Besides which, he'd already screwed up by phoning him yesterday. His smile faded, and he turned his attention back to Ezra. "I'm doomed." He drew a deep breath and smiled as JD looked anxiously at him. "Buck Wilmington. Think's he's quite a lover -- ever seen Les Miserables?" JD shook his head. "You'll understand what I mean if you ever do see it. Lock up your daughters. Known Larabee twenty years, pulled him out of that alcoholic puddle he was wallowing in after Sarah and Adam died." "How old was the little boy?" JD asked quietly. "Four." "Poor kid." "Buck also thinks he has a sense of humor. Yesterday this was demonstrated by a bucket of sugar water above the door back into the office. I beg your pardon?" JD slapped a hand over his mouth and shook his head. "Nothing!" he said, somewhat muffled. "No doubt you were exclaiming that now you understood why I came home in a different suit to the one I left in." "I noticed the tie was different." JD said honestly, and smiled out the window. "The tie?" "It uh, wasn't the one I'd picked." Didn't match your eyes. "So. Buck. Yes. Fancies himself irresistible. Which reminds me: I must take you to Recillos' Wine Bar at some point." A smirk lingered on his lips for a moment and JD wondered just what awful thing was going to happen to him, or possibly this Buck guy, at the Recillos Wine Bar. "Josiah Sanchez. Has done a little of everything in his lifetime, and is always ready to share his wisdom." Ezra paused and shook his head. "I didn't mean that to sound quite that sarcastic. He's a good man. Almost became a priest, and I wonder sometimes, if he might yet go back to it. Team profiler and forensic psychologist." "He sounds interesting." "As long as you don't mind being called son." He rolled his eyes, then let his attention fix once more on the road. "Nathan Jackson. Serves as the team medic. Can get a little, ah, enthusiastic about his knives and his girlfriend, and holistic medicine. If he tries to give you anything out of a brown leather tobacco pouch refuse politely and back away." "Why?" "Herbal medicine. The first, last and only time I took it I ended up in hospital for a week." He glanced grimly over at JD. "By the way, I'm allergic to anything containing digtalin. Let's hope I never get heart disease." "Ooo-kay. What about you? I know more about them now than I do about you." "I sincerely hope not," Ezra smirked, and JD rolled his eyes. "You know what I meant. What do you do? On the team I mean." "Some profiling. General work." "And?" JD watched him narrowly. The sparsity of his words suggested something was off. And that little twitch by his left ear, he'd noticed it last night when they had been playing poker, seemed to indicate that Ezra was unhappy with something. If the guy wasn't going to be straight with him, he was going to have to try to figure him out the hard way. What was it he'd called it? Tells. "Undercover work." He bit back his first response, which was 'cool', and frowned. "Do you enjoy it?" "Enjoy? I am very good at it, if that is what you mean." "Not exactly." He rubbed a sympathetic hand over Ezra's thigh above the knee. "Do they know you hate doing it?" Ezra shrugged. "I do not hate it, it is a worthwhile and important job. I will concede it is sometimes a little tedious and time consuming, but it is worthwhile." JD smiled a little sadly and let it drop. "Uhuh. So, when I get done with the school thing I'm going to be looking around. What's law enforcement with Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives like?" "Time consuming, tedious and boring, interspersed with short periods of extreme terror. I suppose though, you should really know more about me, and we need to get at least a minimum of a cover story in place," Ezra said coolly. "Sure. What are we going to tell them?" "That's the question." Ezra frowned, and JD watched as they switched lanes smoothly despite the building traffic. "Maybe we knew each other before my mom," he stumbled, then carried on steadily, "before my mom died." "How long before?" "She got ill in December of 2001. I'd finished up the taught stuff and was starting on the dissertation when she was diagnosed. I didn't drop out of the program until February 2003, but I wasn't going out much. Most of my friends kinda vanished." He shrugged, not wanting to look at the pity he feared would be lurking in Ezra's eyes. Suddenly he wished they'd not chosen to have this conversation in the car where he couldn't escape, and his companion might guess at all sorts of things that he wanted to leave unspoken. "So maybe sometime in early 2001?" "Okay. But only casually." "Agreed. And after your mother passed... we met again through a mutual acquaintance and hit it off? No. It doesn't explain why you moved in so suddenly." "Maybe we were talking online beforehand. You know, met in a chatroom, got talking, starting finding a private room to chat, talked on the phone a few times, couple of dates." "All very low key because of your circumstances." Ezra added, nodding. "And yours -- fed, undercover guy, not wanting to be seen in too many places with a boyfriend." Their eyes met. "This might actually work." Ezra said out loud, and JD grinned. "Do you actually know how to use a chat program?" JD asked doubtfully. "Of course I do." "You forget, I've seen your computer." JD drummed his fingers on his pants. "Okay. We were using ICQ, and stopped because of the spam. We emailed each other for a while, hmm, okay, yes, I didn't know your *work* email, because you wouldn't contact me in working hours. My school email account was jdd43 at Denver dot edu, if you can remember that. I don't suppose anyone will ever ask, but you might as well know it. You do *have* a personal email address?" "Not a Gambling man at aol dot com, all one word, no spaces or lines or anything," he said. "You've got a good eye for detail." JD shrugged the praise off uncomfortably. "Got to with programming." "To summarize then. You are John Dunne, twenty two, we met in some bar or club, we don't remember where, in spring 2001. We stayed in contact off and on via ICQ, more and more in private rooms, and via email. You moved in the day before yesterday, and we have been dating for-- a month? Two?" "A month, seriously." JD shook his head admiringly. "And you said I paid attention to the details." Ezra shrugged. "Important aspect of staying alive." JD froze in his seat. He slowly relaxed as Ezra continued detailing off what he knew of JD's history, not noticing his reaction. He wasn't entirely sure where that reaction was coming from, and didn't really want to examine it too closely. He rather suspected it was to do with his mother, and was going to hurt like fuck if he got around to confronting that particular twitch. "Is that it?" JD shook his head. "Yeah, sure. Look, you can just drop me off at the main campus. I can find my way everywhere from there." The turnoff for the university was fast approaching and Ezra indicated and took the turn. "Do you want to meet up for lunch?" "If you want. I don't know when I'll be free." He frowned. "I've got an appointment with the insurance people at nine, and another with the administration at two. I figured I'd leave plenty of space between them." "Give me a call when you're ready." "Okay." JD agreed, and watched as they glided past the engineering building. He swallowed hard. He hadn't been here for nearly a year. What was he thinking? "I'll come and fetch you." "Okay." "You okay?" He glanced at Ezra, but couldn't decipher his expression and shrugged. "Yeah. Fine." They pulled into the visitor's parking and Ezra stopped him with a hand on his arm before he could get out of the car. "I have every faith in you," he said quietly, and lifted JD's hand to brush a kiss over his knuckles discreetly. "You've got my card." "I have?" Ezra grinned. "You have. Rear pocket." JD's eyebrows went up. "Have a good day." JD nodded and slid out, then stuck his head back inside. "You too, okay? Be careful, right? No tin buckets?" "I promise." His face was solemn, and JD nodded. "Well. Okay then." JD sighed as the dark Jaguar slid back into the traffic and was promptly lost among the cars. He rubbed the folder in his hands, and picked up the bag at his feet. He probably had time to grab another coffee before the meeting. He arrived at the meeting feeling a lot more awake, although he still hadn't been able to figure out what the hell had been bugging Ezra. He was twenty minutes early, and gave his name to the receptionist with something approaching confidence. He pulled the cell phone box out of the bag and flicked through the handbook before turning it on. The phone was small, sleek and silver, and he flipped it open and shut, open and shut, irresistibly reminded of Captain Kirk. According to the handbook it had everything including internet access, vibrate function, and the ability to breathe underwater in nineteen different languages. He stood to slide his hand into his back pocket and smiled to find a small slip of card there. He carefully programmed the number in, and put the phone into his pocket, hanging on to the card, twisting and turning it over and over as he waited. Somehow the thick cream card felt warm, and -- "Mr. Dunne?" He grabbed his bags and nearly over-balanced as he stood up too quickly. "Yes?" "This way please." The short, plump woman smiled perfunctorily at him, and he sighed. A nobody again, he thought grimly, and his shoulders slumped as he followed her. He sat in the chair indicated and set the folder on his lap. He was about to slide the business card into his pocket, and abruptly ran his thumb over the embossed name. I have every faith in you... He put the card away and smiled at her, holding out his hand. "I'm John Dunne, thank you for seeing me so quickly." The woman looked at his hand as though it was carrying five types of smallpox, but shook it, and smiled back even though it never reached her eyes. "Marcie Byers. I understand you have some questions about your payment schedule?" He nodded and unzipped the folder, drawing breath to speak when she carried straight on. "Mr. Dunne, I have to say right now, that I am very sympathetic to your situation, but there really is nothing we can do to reduce the monthly payments to your account. Your mother, rest her soul, was a very poorly lady before she passed." "I--" She held up a hand, "Now, I know it's hard to hear, but really, perhaps the time has come to re-schedule your education until it is more economically viable, and--" "Ms. Byers?" He raised a hand tentatively, and she paused. He strongly suspected from her confused and slightly nervous smile that he had interrupted a well rehearsed spiel and she might never find her place again. Maybe that would be for the best. "Yes?" She leaned forward, smiling blandly. Odd how much sexier bland was on Ezra, he thought randomly, and suppressed his grin. "I don't want to reduce my payments." "You don't?" "I don't." "Are you sure?" "I'm quite sure." "But, then," she looked helplessly at her computer, and then back at him, "what do you want?" "I want to pay it off." "Well, of course. Oh! You want to increase the payments?" "Er. Sort of. I want to pay it off. Completely." "We can arrange something based on your new income and--you what?" Her veneer of professional expertise crashed and burned. "I want to pay it off. The whole sum. A distant cousin left me a small inheritance, and I think I have enough to clear the whole thing." "You want to pay off the capital?" "Yes." "All of it?" "*Yes*." "Now?" "*Yes*." JD wondered if she was going to actually get any more stressed, when her fingers started stuttering across the keyboard, apparently independently of the rest of her body. "You want to pay off the full, lump sum?" JD sighed. It was just as well his next appointment wasn't for another four and a half hours. "That's correct." "Well then." She swung around to look at her computer screen. "That'll be two hundred and thirty five thousand, eight hundred and thirty seven dollars. And sixteen cents." "Excuse me?" He had been braced for the full enormity of the nearly four hundred thousand that his statement listed, and he was pretty sure it hadn't been mentioned. "Two hundred and thirty five thousand, eight hundred and thirty seven dollars. And sixteen cents." And her tone of voice added, are you deaf or something?, with an option on, bet you can't really afford that much, now can you? "That's not quite the amount I was--" "Payment at this stage, Mr. Dunne, allowing for early repayment indemnity, the sum paid off so far, leaves the capital amount of two hundred--" "Yes, okay, I get it, but--" he stumbled helplessly before saying, "That's not enough." "You do not have enough?" Her voice dripped oily sympathy. "We can arrange for a partial repayment of the capital and--" "No!" He interrupted, quite loudly he suspected because she glared at him. "No. God. Um. I was expecting the repayment amount to be more." "More?" "More." They stared at each other, both clearly with the lowest possible estimation of the other's mental capacity. "You do realise, Mr. Dunne," she asked cautiously, dawning hope on her face, "that early repayment means you do not have to pay the full thirty years of interest?" "No interest?" "No." "No interest payments at all?" he asked, stunned. And he called himself a mathematician. Good god. Simple interest over thirty years, at fifteen percent. "None," she said loudly and clearly, exaggerating the movement of her lips as though he were deaf. "Good God," he said blankly. "Just two hundred thousand?" "And thirty five thousand, eight hundred and thirty seven dollars. And sixteen cents." "And sixteen cents. Mustn't forget that sixteen cents," he laughed giddily. "Will you take a check?" She would, it transpired, rather take a bank transfer. An hour and a half later he left the building feeling oddly light, and still somewhat giddy. Numbers danced madly through his head. Seventy five and two hundred and thirty five, and sundries, and re-enrolment, and he'd have nearly a hundred and fifty thousand dollars left. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He said it very quietly, to see how it sounded. "A hundred and fifty thousand dollars. One. Hundred. And fifty. Thousand. Dollars. Hundred an' fifty thou. One hundred and fifty fucking thousand oh my god count 'em and weep dollars." Maybe the student loan repayments wouldn't have any interest on them either. Good God. He sat abruptly on the curb, forcing several people to detour around him abruptly and scowl at him. He paid no attention. He pulled out his phone (his phone! He could pay Ez back for the phone. And the phone calls! He hadn't even dared think about paying for the phone calls!), and stared at it for a long moment before carefully pressing speed dial two. "Standish?" "It's me. I. That is JD. John." "Are you all right?" Ezra's voice sounded strange, but he didn't really pay attention. Pay. "Ez?" "Yes?" "I paid it off." "Good boy." "No. You don't understand. I paid it off, and there wasn't any interest." "None?" He could hear the dawning grin in Ezra's voice, and he pressed the phone tighter to his ear, his grin making his cheek muscles ache. "This is starting to sound like the conversation I just had with the repayments woman. She thought I was a complete 'tard." "None at all?" JD laughed out loud from pure happiness. From the mischief in Ezra's voice as he made a good guess at how JD had reacted. The freedom from those huge, horrible debts. "God, Ezra P. I'm so happy I think I could die right now." "Don't you dare, darlin'. And you call yourself a mathematician? I think this calls for a celebratory lunch at the very least." "Ez, I'm going to have a hundred and fifty thousand dollars left after everything," he whispered. "That's great, kid," he said flatly, and JD frowned. "What are you goin' to do now?" Something was wrong. "I don't know. Pay for lunch? Are you okay?" Ezra laughed, and it was all right again. "I believe I am just fine, Mr. Dunne. I may even be able to think of one or two things for you to spend your windfall on. When do you want to meet?" "Now? Whenever you want! I'm clear till two, so whenever you're free is good. Call me!" he added, laughing with sheer happiness. "I'll do that," Ezra's voice sounded almost stilted, formal. Not at all the man who had pretty much played kiss chase in the house with him this morning. "You sure you're okay, Ez?" JD asked, worried. "Did I call at a bad time? I'm sorry, babe, I'll go now." "I'm fine," Ezra snapped, and then sighed, "I'm sorry. I'm a little stressed by some stuff going on." "People listening, huh? You can tell me about it at lunch. Look, I'm gonna go see if I can enroll again. You'll call, right?" "I promise." "Take care, babe." "You too." There was a pause as though he'd meant to say something else, and then he said quietly, "You have fun, darlin'." JD's face lit up, "I'll have more when you're here. Seeya later." The phone clicked off in his ear, and he pulled it away, still wondering what was wrong with Ezra. ---------------------------------------------------- "That your young man?" Josiah leaned on the back of Ezra's seat and rumbled almost directly into his ear. "John?" Ezra shot an irritated look, and gestured curtly at the pile of paperwork on the conference room table in front of them. "I thought I was supposed to be keeping my mind on the Lasater case?" "You've been distracted all morning. Maybe you'd feel better with someone to talk to?" Ezra shook his head. "The property listing for the twelfth of March has some inconsistencies with--" "Inviting someone to move in with you is a big step." Ezra ignored him. "--with the listing that was obtained in the audit of the nineteenth." "When did you decide to ask him?" "A little while ago. Now, it looks as though there is some confusion over whether the inventory listing of 'brandy, case of' is in fact the same as the 'Benedictine, eighty three bottles of'. An egregious error if you ask me, indicating either the sheer lack of culture on the part of the auditors, or culpable false reporting, on the worst interpretation. Either way, they seem to have acquired--" "Have you been seeing each other long? You never mentioned a boyfriend." He hesitated and settled back into his seat, leaning forward on both elbows, watching Ezra's carefully controlled mask intently. "I hope it wasn't because you thought we wouldn't accept him. I hope you know that it makes no difference to us." Ezra smiled. A small, unenthusiastic grimace. "Certainly. Lasater appears to have acquired at the very least, eight cases of liquor without benefit of the revenue process." "Ezra, son," Josiah stopped him. He sighed and eyed him sympathetically. "Getting cold feet?" Ezra's head snapped round. "No," he said shortly. He closed his lips to the point that they became thin white lines. "I really don't see it's any of your business," he added, in as polite yet frigid a tone as he could muster. "Ezra, it's obvious something's wrong. Now, you can either just be rude, and have a terrible evening when it doesn't go away, or maybe try and sort it out." Standish dropped his head into his hands. "Do you have no concept of the term 'private life'?" "If you want an ear, I'm right here." Ezra grimaced, and Josiah held his breath. "I -- no. Really. I am not turning a briefing session on the misappropriations of Skyane Lasater into an encounter group." Damn. Time for the big guns. "If you can't straighten up, Standish, Larabee's going to have to put you on desk duty." Ezra looked almost relieved for a flicker of a moment, and Josiah frowned. Hmmm. "Is it work?" "Apparently not," Ezra slapped the file closed and pushed the chair back with an angry hand. "My personal life is just that, personal. I'll thank you to stay out of it." "Is it Maude?" Ezra laughed harshly. "No." He laughed again. "Not Mother." He walked to the window and stared down the twenty three stories to the ground. "I, I merely find that I am somewhat unprepared for the difference John has made. Is making. In my life." "Ah," Josiah smiled, trying not to let his amusement into his voice. Judging by the twitch in Standish's back, he hadn't succeeded. "Tell me about him." Ezra shrugged. "He's twenty two. He's a graduate student at Denver State. He --" he sighed. "What's he like?" "Trouble. Dark haired, dark eyed, trouble." He could hear the affection in Ezra's voice and relaxed slightly. At least there probably wasn't any kind of coercion going on there. The team had discussed the oddity of the ultra-private, utterly discreet Ezra Standish suddenly moving a boyfriend in the previous evening, after he had fled home with his ice-cream and a couple of bags that he had steadfastly refused to allow Buck to look inside. None of them had even known he was dating, and to make it more suspicious, Vin had been pretty sure he'd said he hadn't had a date in months less than two weeks ago. "Trouble? What sort of trouble?" Josiah injected a note of professional concern into his tone to see what would happen. "He managed to lock himself out yesterday. Then he lost the details I'd given him, couldn't remember find the phone numbers or email addresses." Ezra laughed. "He got sunburnt when he was swimming, and got aftersun *every*where. I don't think my couch is ever going to be the same again." "Your leather couch?" Josiah asked, slightly incredulous at Ezra's insouciance. "The couch you made us wash down and work leather food into when we dropped a plate of nachos on it?" He could make out Ezra's smile reflected in the window as it turned ever so faintly smug, and grinned as red climbed the back of his neck. Ah. The couch really *wasn't* ever going to be the same again. "He can only cook one meal, and three thousand pasta variations," he paused to smile again, and Josiah smiled too as Ezra stopped, clearly remembering something that filled his eyes with tenderness. "You're in love with him," Josiah concluded and Ezra froze. "No!" He shook his head. "Absolutely out of the question." "Why?" "Because it is, do you understand?" He scowled fiercely at the glass, and Josiah grinned. "Chris has been giving you pointers on that glare. Careful of any birds that may fly past. Would be a crime to kill them just for flying across your line of sight." he chuckled. He moved around the table to perch on it, sitting just behind Ezra. "Do you think it bothers us?" he gestured vaguely to indicate the rest of the team. "Why should it? We've known you for a couple of years now, Ezra. We're not going to suddenly be bothered by you." He thought about that for a moment, "Well, not more bothered than we normally are." He stood and reached out to rest a hand lightly on Ezra's shoulder. "You don't have to hide from *us*. You should know that by now." Ezra looked away, and Josiah thought he caught a hint of shame on his face. "I-- you. I can't." "Why not, son?" "It's just impossible," he said flatly. "Is there something wrong with him, is that it? Is he in trouble with the law? Or in debt, or--" He'd quietly emailed Vin the surname as soon as he'd heard Ezra use it. By now the guys had hopefully been able to run it for as much information as possible, but if there was something, and Ezra knew it, it might explain his mood today -- and his secretiveness. Although when had Ezra been anything except secretive? Unexpectedly Ezra smiled, though it was a look that held some private amusement that Josiah knew Ezra would never share. "He's no criminal. He might have once been involved in a hit and run driveby ice cream theft," and judging by the wicked grin on Ezra's face, there was no crime involved, "But I'm sure he was very sorry afterwards." "I'm sure he was," Josiah started laughing, and Ezra bit his lip in uncharacteristic hesitation, and then ruefully joined in. Ezra walked back to the desk and sat down with a sigh. He rested his head in his hands and said helplessly, "When did my life go completely out of my control?" "I don't know, son. When you met John?" "You have no idea," he said in heartfelt tones. He shook his head again. "It's like having a, a, I don't know, a gadfly, and I have to explain myself, and I don't have any *privacy*, or *quiet*, and--" "Do you want him to go?" Josiah asked with mild curiosity. "Go?" He sounded as though the idea had never even crossed his mind. "Good Lord, no. Of course not." "Then it sounds like you're just getting used to each other." Josiah smiled faintly. "You might want to agree some house rules, discuss how you're feeling. I'm sure he's having some of the same difficulties settling in, and don't forget to make some time for yourselves..." "House rules! Discuss! If I could just manage to have a single, solitary conversation with him that didn't end up with us--" he stopped dead and the suave, ice cool, unflappable, unreadable ATF agent blushed scarlet. "Ah." Josiah was truly proud that he did not laugh out loud. He also wondered if he had herniated himself. "The honeymoon period." "Lasater," Ezra said firmly, and Josiah was merciful, and turned to the files. "If you want to go for lunch at twelve, I'll cover here," he offered, and when Ezra mumbled his thanks, looked down at the files with a small smile on his face. This kid was keeping Ezra happy, and off balance, and if he was any judge, very contented with his life, even if he didn't know what do to with it. It was about time, he thought to himself, and let it go. He'd tell the guys later. ---------------------------------- JD bounced from one foot to the other, looking up and down the road for the black Jag. Ez had called less than five minutes ago to say he was on his way, and had booked them a table. He stilled. Restaurants where you had to book ahead weren't his normal kind of eatery. What if he fucked up and did something dumb or embarrassing or-- "Ez!" A big grin spread over his face as the car stopped. It was such a cool car. The window wound down and Ezra was smiling at him, and he wasn't entirely sure but he thought he'd slid over the hood and through the window into his seat. He was absolutely sure about the kiss though. "Hey, Ez," he said as he pulled back, looking into glazed green eyes, "How was your morning?" "Ah, fine." For a moment JD thought he was going to blank him, and then a small smile grew on his lips, and he touched JD's face with gentle fingers. "Better for seeing you, darlin'." He looked faintly startled at himself and JD wondered if he didn't mean it, or didn't mean to say it. Either way. He frowned. He thought way too much. "Where are we going for lunch?" "Recillos' Wine Bar." "You said that name before, didn't you?" JD tried to place why it seemed familiar. Ezra smiled slowly. "I believe I did," he said enigmatically, and refused to say another word on the bar. "Were your endeavors successful?" "Huh? Oh, you mean did I enroll." JD grinned hugely, "I'm back in. And I'm in good standing because I dropped out cos of my mom, so I don't have to do-over, but Professor Sanders said I ought to drop by some of his sessions because there's been some good stuff coming up on probability nets and quantum computing, and it sounds *so* cool, I really want to get started, I've got some reading, you know it took longer to get my library card than it did to enroll as a student. Unbelievable." "Indeed." "And you know what? I saw four people I knew, and they all cut me completely. Ya shoulda seen their faces when you pulled up." He laughed. "They're gonna be saying I was in rehab and you're my supplier by the time I get back there." He laughed again. "God, I--" he stopped dead and reddened. "So I've got a hundred and fifty thousand plus or minus. Questions, comments, anybody, anybody...Bueller?" He flickered a sideways glance at Ezra who was driving calmly, his eyes on the road and a tic pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Hey, are you laughing at me?" "Absolutely not," Ezra said with a completely straight face. "Liar," JD said cheerfully. "If you weren't driving I'd kiss you." "I won't be driving forever." "I guess I'll save it for later then." "We're here." He pulled into a tiny entranceway and slid the car neatly into an impossibly small parking space. JD went to open the door and Ezra stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "I should warn you, some of my colleagues may show up here. They often stop by after work, usually in the evenings. I am hoping that as they do not know we are here, and lunch break is only, strictly speaking, an hour, and they rarely take that, that we will be safe." "Are they going to be okay with, you know. Us." He gestured vaguely in a circle. Ezra's face was wry. "I believe that they will be fine. However, their acceptance is often more perilous than their indifference." He paused and thought about it. "Is *always* more dangerous than their indifference, and very nearly as hazardous as their enmity." "I'm gonna like these guys, aren't I?" He hated how insecure that made him sound, but Ezra's hand slid into his and squeezed. "I don't know, darlin'. I hope so, but I do not care to predict the vagaries of personal interaction. I have not proved the expert that I thought myself to be." "Do, do you mean us?" JD asked warily. "Because if y'are, I've gotta say your instincts are pretty damn good." "Excuse me?" "Well," he opened the car door, "You like *me*, don't you?" He slid out hastily enough that he didn't have to see his reaction. He was pretty sure it was okay. But sometimes he got people wrong. "Idiot child," Ezra said softly, and slid out of the car himself. He looked around. There was no one in sight, and he pulled JD around the car towards him and snatched a quick kiss. "I guess you're okay," he drawled and walked into the bar, ignoring the spluttering sounds behind him. "Señor Standish!" Inez smiled at him from behind the bar, and looked towards the door. "Are the others also coming?" "No, just myself and a lunch companion." Inez's face brightened into a knowing smile, "You have brought a friend! You must introduce us." Ezra felt like crossing his eyes or some other equally childish display, but simply said, "John?" The boy came forwards, looking around with interest at the dark Latin style bar. "Inez, may I present to you my good friend John Dunne. John, Ms Inez Recillos." "Señor Dunne," Inez held out a hand with a smile and the two shook over the counter. "Miss Recillos," and John added shyly, "It's just JD, please, Miss Recillos, John isn't really me." He smiled at Ezra to take the sting out of his words, but Ezra wondered. "And I am Inez, to my friends. I am sure we shall be friends, JD," she reached under the counter and handed them each a menu. "Please, take a seat. Señor Standish, I will bring you the wine menu--" "No. I have to be in work, and John, JD has a number of things to do this afternoon. Mineral water for both of us, please." He glanced at John who merely nodded in acquiescence. They peered at the menus in near silence, and when Inez returned, ordered a selection of tapas. "Do you really mind 'John'?" Ezra asked quietly. JD looked up, startled. "Not when you say it. I'm kinda getting used to it." He ducked his head. "I think I'd prefer everyone else to stick to JD though." Ezra's breath caught, too noiselessly to be a gasp. 'John' was just for him. "I, why, thank you." He smiled slowly, and met John's eyes. He wondered if the boy saw in his face the kind of breathless wonder and excitement that he saw in his. He hoped not. His reputation as an undercover operative would be shot if anyone knew that with one look from a pair of merry hazel eyes he was lost. He stared into John's eyes, not really noticing as they grew worried. It really had been just one look. Had he known, when he uttered those damnably callous words, 'I'll take one of those', that he was going to change his life so significantly that in two days he could barely recognize himself? Or had he simply had the luck of the gods on his side. "Ez, you okay?" "I wish you would not call me Ez, darlin'," he murmured, hypnotized by John's face. "What do you want me to call you?" John asked pragmatically, and Ezra blinked. "Your food, señores," Inez laid plate after plate on the table. "Enjoy!" "I--I haven't really thought about it," he admitted. "Thank you Inez." John's mouth quirked up in a half smile. "Let me know, okay, babe," he said in soft tones that carried no further than their little booth. "Very well." Was it possible Josiah was right? He looked thoughtfully at the young man sitting across from him, tucking into some sort of eggplant fritter. "This stuff is good, Ez, ra," he added belatedly. "Sorry." Ezra sighed. "I think I may come to prefer Ez to *that* heinous appellation." John nodded, then started laughing. He laughed so hard he began coughing, and Ezra poured a glass of water, and waved away Inez. "John, John, are you all right?" He pushed the water up close and stepped around the booth to sit next to him. He patted tentatively at his back, gentling to a rubbing motion as John's coughing fit subsided. "What brought that on?" "Nothing," John looked at him, mischief in his eyes and wiped away the tears from his face. "John." "Trust me, you don't want to know." Ezra looked at him thoughtfully, then inclined his head. "I believe you." "Besides, pop culture reference. It wouldn't've meant anything to you anyway." He chuckled again, and Ezra chose to not hear the muttered, "Ez-ra! Princess of Power!" "I like this better," John said after they had been eating for a little while. He leaned against Ezra's side, worming his arm around his waist. "Mmm." He picked up an as yet unidentified piece of tapas, dipped it in what Ezra suspected to be jalapeno jelly and held it up to Ezra's lips. "'S good. Try it." Ezra smiled suddenly, and delicately took the food from John's fingers, licking lightly at the tips of them before letting go and tasting the food. John's arm tightened around his waist. "That was good, here." He dipped some himself and offered it. John took it, biting very gently at his fingers. He swallowed hard and shifted uncomfortably. His pants were abruptly too tight and an acute consciousness that the bar was not entirely empty did nothing to ease his state of mind. "Ez?" "John?" "Ez." He stopped and looked around them as though seeing the place for the first time. "Ez, what's going to happen?" "Happen? You will finish the tapas, and we will depart for our respective commitments." "No. I meant." He stopped again, and his hand slipped from resting on Ezra's hip, discreetly under his jacket, to his waistband, then inside, fingers working until he found skin, and then settling, rubbing little circles on Ezra's lower back. "Here, eat this." He pushed another piece of tapas, something chicken and salsa related he thought, at Ezra's mouth. He obediently opened and ate. "I meant, I dunno. What's going to happen tonight? What's going to happen after the year is up." "Six months." "Year." "I was certain it was only--" "It's a year. I'm sure." John looked grim. "I did make sure of what I was getting into before I signed up." Ezra nodded. "What, in short, is going to become of 'us'? Is that what is troubling you?" "I guess." "Isn't it a little soon to--" "I'm sorry." "No." Ezra sighed and stared at the debris of the tapas. "It is a valid question. One which I myself have been wrestling with." "Is that what's got you all twitchy?" John asked. Ezra frowned. "I have not been 'twitchy'." John grinned. "Sure you have. Twitch, twitch, twitch." With each word he drove his hand further into Ezra's pants until his fingers found his crack and pressed up on the last word. Ezra jerked and became very still. "John," he said softly. "Please." John pressed a careful finger inside him and he swallowed hard, shifting to allow him easier access. "Shhh." He whimpered as John's finger slid deep into him despite the awkward angle and the limiting confines of his pants. A hand moved at his crotch, and he glanced down to see the flicker of a pale hand undoing buttons under the table. He twisted slightly, pulling his jacket forward to conceal John's dangerously intoxicating hands. One of which now grasped his thickening shaft and eased it out of the slit of his boxers. "Oh dear God," he breathed, and the moan in his throat was choked off almost before it had a chance to escape. John turned in his seat and blew over Ezra's ear, licked it lightly, and blew again. Heat coiled in the pit of his stomach, and deep pleasure jolted his body as John's fingers worked in and out of his ass, stretching him, twisting and teasing against his sensitive anus. He let his head fall back against the cushioned back of the booth, deeply grateful for the support and the concealing dark of the dim bar. Cool air brushed over his cock, and then John's hand, slick with something gripped him, working him with strong, rough strokes that drove him over the edge in mere seconds. Instinctively he splayed his legs wide, trapping John's fingers under him, but letting his semen splatter harmlessly on the underside of the table, the floor and John's fingers. A tiny cry escaped him, and he turned his head to bury it in John's neck, kissing and biting his way under the man's collar. He heard something like licking, and opened his eyes to see John lapping at his fingers, cleaning his come off. "Let go of my fingers, babe," John murmured, tugging at his asshole, and Ezra unclamped the muscles that had tightened with his orgasm. John's fingers slid out, caressing him as they left him. "Empty," he whispered involuntarily, and John lifted his face to kiss him softly, returning to taste his lips again and again. "Me too, babe," John whispered back with a last kiss, and settled his hand in the small of Ezra's back. He wiped his other hand on a napkin and carefully tucked his cock away, buttoning him up and leaving him with a little pat that sent a frisson through his lethargic body. "You are a bad influence," he murmured, and smiled. "A bad, bad influence." "You say that like it's a bad thing," John grinned at him, and Ezra simply took in the dark hazel eyes, and the young face that seemed to grow more necessary to him every time he looked at it. "Have you boys finished?" Inez appeared, a small smile on her face. They looked at her startled until she nodded at the emptied plates. "The food, señores. How was it?" "Very good," Ezra said swiftly, "As ever, quite excellent." "Yeah," John said with a smile. "Delicious."

Looking back, Dean should have figured it out sooner. intro post posted June 2, 2009 at 17:35 Here's the short version of what I'm doing with this blog: hooking up, and then posting about it. Here's the longer version: my last three relationships were with women, and they all ended horribly. Not throwing dishes or putting each other's stuff on Craigslist bad, but more like the end of the world bad. I know that sounds melodramatic but I can't exaggerate how completely things went wrong. The first was the worst thing that ever happened to me up until that point, and in some ways, the next two were worse. I've made a conscious decision to change things, which I'm doing by taking a break from women, and from relationships. I know this won't fix all my problems, but at this point, it feels like a start. I don't care if it's an unhealthy mindset, which it probably is. I just want something different. Dean didn't think anything of the blog the first time he opened the laptop and found it loaded in a tab. They both followed some weird links looking for intel, and Dean just opened a new window, and went about his day. He saw it again ten days later, in a different motel and a different time zone. Dean scrolled down the page – just a default color scheme on a free blogging platform – and grinned when he skimmed the entries. It was a sexblog. Or something, anyway. Dean didn't know if that type of thing had a specific name. But he clicked the Read More! link at the bottom of the top post, and his eyebrows inched high on his forehead. It was about some guy getting a handjob, in a parking lot, with plenty of emo and secrecy-related guilt at the end. The sex itself wasn't even hardcore. Dean figured it was the sorta thing Sam would like, even if it was tame, and he clicked back to the main page before getting to his own business. It was up again four days later, this time showing a few comments on the HJ post. Dean clicked to the weatherchannel.com tab instead of reading, and checked for electrical activity while Sam hurried around, stowing the gear. If Bobby's info had been right, they barely had time to pack and then pick a direction to head, and never mind stopping to check on Sam's favorite amateur erotica and its readership. He only saw it in passing the next time, coming up behind Sam's shoulder to compare his sketch of the town with Google Maps. Sam clicked away from the blog quickly, but Dean recognized its bland colors at this point. He shook his head at Sam's bizarre shyness and then they got to work. The fifth time, though. The fifth time, Sam clacked away at the keys for almost an hour before passing the computer to Dean and heading into the shower. He hadn't met Dean's gaze, but Dean didn't think anything of it. He set about checking his email and then started on the usual news feeds. The water had just turned off when Firefox froze and crashed. Dean tapped one finger next to the track pad as the session restored, and Sam came out, wrapped in a towel, about the time the tabs starting popping back up. "There any hot water left?" he asked. "You could run some through the coffee pot to take with you," Sam said. Dean flipped him the bird and clicked through the different pages to try to find his while Sam dressed. He frowned when he found that blog again. It'd been updated that night, he saw, barely an hour ago. Dean skimmed the new entry at the top of the page, above three or four others. Whoever this guy was – the side panel gave his name as S, unhelpful – had apparently been trading blowjobs in some truck stop off I-75. Dean glanced up at Sam before clicking to read the rest of the post, and he started frowning as he went. He and Sam passed down I-75 the week before, cutting from Ohio to Georgia, and he remembered filling up at a place just like the one in the blog. All the details were the same, from the fauxhawked girl running the register to the racks of venison jerky to the Slurpee machine leaking into a bucket on the floor. He drew breath to mention it to Sam when he remembered Sam's disappearance at the gas station. He said just to stretch his legs at the time, but he'd been gone so long Dean almost went after him. He thought, then, of all the typing Sam did before ducking into the shower – for a long shower, too, like maybe he was beating it instead of just soaping down. He thought of the timing, too close to be accidental, and the blogger named S, and then he looked up sharply at Sam, across the room. Going by the dates, Sam hadn't even waited a month after the fall-out from Ruby before finding something else to keep secret. Sam was an entirely different animal than some anonymous closeted dude taking his securities out on the internet. Sam was here in the room with Dean, flipping through Dad's journal right now and apparently so sure he couldn't tell Dean about getting some that he was willing to tell the rest of the world just to have someone to talk to. Dean clicked back to CNN and closed the laptop, and turned away. Dallas, Texas posted June 14, 2009 at 01:23 I started in Dallas. I travel a lot for work and I don't want my partner to figure out what I'm doing. Texas seemed safe, though, specifically because of its reputation – who would go to Texas to start a journey of gay self-discovery, or whatever this is? If he did notice something was up, I didn't think he'd guess this. We split up one night and each went to a different bar. He had the car, because we share driving but it's his, so I took a cab. I didn't want to go to a club or anything, but I'd found the name of a bar online, and I went there. It was just a bar, like any other I'd been to, except mostly full of guys. There were women there, too, but I figured none of them were at a gay bar to hook up with a guy, and I wasn't there to find a woman, either. I got a beer at first and stayed at the bar to people-watch. I got to talking with a guy next to me, and it was this weird flirty small-talk that I only knew how to do with women. I thought I'd done a good job of acting like I knew what I was doing, but after a while he asked if it was my first time. I asked if it was that obvious, and he told me I'd been casing the joint since I got there, just like all the new guys. We finished our beers, and the guy paid my tab, and then asked if I wanted to take a walk. We wound up in the cab of his pickup, which was old enough to have a bench seat, and he told me this could be whatever I wanted. I told him I didn't know, and that I'd only done this a few times in college and we'd both been pretty trashed at the time. He jerked me off while I watched, right there in the cab. His hands weren't bigger than mine but they were much bigger than any woman I'd ever been with. He never let up, like girls do sometimes if they aren't used to working their arms that long, either. We didn't kiss or anything, and I knew that not touching him, too, was a dick move, but he didn't act like it was a big deal. After I got off, he opened his own pants and jerked himself with my jizz still all over his hand. He watched me while he did it. I still didn't touch him, really, but I moved closer to him on the seat and put my hands on his thighs while he did it. It didn't take him very long to come. I'd thought it might be weird, to watch another guy in real life, but it didn't freak me out like I worried about. It was hot to watch, actually, knowing that he got off like that because of me. He drove me back to the motel after that, and I had him drop me off at the front office. I didn't want him knowing where we were staying, but mostly I didn't want my partner catching on to where I'd been. He's not stupid and he'll figure things out eventually, but I want to tell him before he catches me with my pants down. Dean had some experience with Sam keeping secrets, but he wasn't acting true to form this time: nothing he went out of his way to keep tucked in the bottom of his duffle, no dreams he denied in the morning, no calls or trips out when Dean was pretending to sleep. If anything, Dean had thought things were getting better. Sam had lost the strung-out twitchiness of the weeks before the clusterfuck with the panic room, and if he looked over his shoulder more now than used to be usual, well, Dean did the same thing. That was probably a side effect of having all the bureaucrats in heaven and hell on your ass, and not a few hunters besides. That was the part that pissed Dean off. Sam might be able to tell if these guys were actually being ridden – ha ha – by low-level demons, but he couldn't know if they were some angel's vessel, and if he picked up a hunter? That'd be an actual person. A hunter wouldn't have to worry about blending in, any more than usual, or giving himself away with some supernatural tell. If Dean could connect Sam to the blog, then anyone could. Taken on top of the constant worry that some Fed would dig up their files again, it was almost enough to drive Dean to waiting for Sam to leave himself logged in, so that he could delete the entire thing. But. Dean couldn't ignore how much better Sam had been doing. These days, Sam squeegeed the car of his own volition at gas stations, and ordered grease-heavy meals picked straight from Dean's list of favorite foods, and hummed along with the tapes like he was fifteen and driving for the first time again. Dean was man enough to admit he'd made some huge fucking mistakes in the name of Sam's immediate welfare, but that wasn't enough to make him take away the thing loosening Sam's shoulders and widening his grins. Dean memorized the blog's URL, and he waited. Omaha, Nebraska posted June 22, 2009 at 13:46 This time was accidental. My partner and I had planned on passing straight through the state – we had somewhere to be on a deadline – but we ran across an opportunity to work with a few other people staying in our motel, so we took time off to focus on that. By the time we got things settled to everyone's satisfaction, we'd spent three or four days straight with the clients, and my partner wanted to take them out for drinks to celebrate closing. There were five of them, three girls and two guys. We went to a bar right across from the motel, so we all drank more than maybe we should have. But, it'd been a long time getting to where we all felt good about closing the deal, and everyone was ready to celebrate. One of the clients and I played a few games of pool. I hadn't set out to try to make something happen with him – sleeping with clients is more my partner's gig than mine these days – but after a few beers, it seemed like the best idea ever to follow him to the bathroom when he nodded that way. It seemed like something out of a movie – he locked the door and turned around, so he had me pushed up against it, and went straight down on me. I'd tried all night not to get hard out in public, but now it happened so fast I smacked him in the chin once he got my pants open. He went all the way down, right away, and I thought my eyes were going to fall out of my head. I'm not a little guy at all. I've only had two women who could ever deepthroat me, and it took them both lots of practice, and they couldn't do it for long. No one ever managed it on the first try, or even tried it on the first time, but this guy winked at me, I swear to god, and just kept going. He swallowed, too. He tried to thank me, for the work deal, when he stood up. I still hadn't been sure about reciprocating but that was enough for me to stick my hand down his pants. I do my job because it's important, not because I'm looking to get sucked off at the end of the day, and I didn't want him to think that. It'd been a long time since I touched another guy, and I obviously know what to do with a dick but it threw me at first. Everything was backwards, and what worked for me didn't automatically do it for him. He was all wet and leaking though, and he must have gotten himself pretty close when he was sucking me because he came almost immediately. I had no idea what to do with that, seriously. It seemed like there was jizz everywhere, all over my hand and wrist, and his shirt somehow. He grabbed my hand before I could get to the sink and licked it clean, and if it wouldn't have clued in my partner, I would have gotten a new room at the motel so we could go again. That would have been a huge tip-off, though, and he'd just want details if I lied and told him I was with a woman. I stayed up against the door while the client cleaned up at the sink, so no one else could get in. Dean checked the blog every day for about a week before giving in and adding it to his RSS feeds. He didn't want Sam knowing he was onto him, but even with watching Sam every day, Dean couldn't tell when Sam was getting to all this fucking. Maybe Sam learned his lesson since Ruby. Maybe he and Dean had been keeping such heavy shit under wraps recently that hiding a little tail on the side – even stupidly risky tail – was no big deal. Or maybe it was fiction. He remembered Sam in high school, filling up journals just like Dad had, but with creative writing instead of useful stuff. On the other hand, Dean remembered signing John's name on notes from concerned English comp teachers, all of which came stapled to written assignments that were essentially their most recent hunt with only the most glaring details changed. Maybe the blog was true. So Dean started pissing when Sam did, started coming along on supply runs, started sticking closer by his side at bars. Sam didn't fight him on any of it. The posts kept ticking into Dean's Google Reader anyway, all featuring locations about a week old, and times Dean hadn't noticed Sam was gone. Dante, Tennesse posted July 3, 2009 at 10:39 My partner and I'd been on the road all day when we stopped for gas. We'd checked out of our motel before the sun was up, and eaten while we drove, so by the time we did stop, I wanted to move around more than almost anything else. I made sure he was good filling up the car and then took off. It was a weird place, inside. There were these racks of venison jerky with pictures of Bambi on the packaging – the actual, get-your-ass-sued-by-Disney Bambi – and all the employees had fauxhawks. All three of them. It was cute on the girl behind the counter, but out of place on the middle-aged guy mopping under the Coke machines. The third person was wheeling the mop cart into the back when I came out of the men's room. He was about my age, had on hipster jeans and his uniform shirt was too small, and he checked me out way too obviously for a guy in the Bible belt. My partner was still messing with the car, though – he actually checks the oil level every time he fills her up, and also he calls the car "her" often enough that I've picked it up – so I followed the kid out back anyway. The station was in front of a field where I'd planned on walking around, but I wound up between the dumpster and a stack of boxes while the kid sucked me off. It was my first time sober with a guy, and again, I didn't freak out even though I'd thought I might. Probably all the drunk sex beforehand got me used to the idea. This kid wasn't as good as the last guy, but it was warm and sunny outside, and he let me thrust into him just like actual fucking. He swallowed, too, and then pressed himself all up against me when I was coming down. I'd thought about going down on guys for a while, and figured that if it seemed like a good idea sober, then I actually did want to. I almost couldn't get him out of his stupid jeans, and I hadn't noticed how sticky the ground was until I got on my knees, but he was already moaning before I even touched him, which was hot. Sucking dick – I'd never done this before, so it was entirely new, but it wasn't as weird as I'd built it up to be. The idea of going down on women was horrible when I was 12, and still pretty gross before the first time I tried it, but it turned out to be amazing once I did, so I figured I'd get used to blowjobs, too. Still, it wasn't my favorite thing in the world. It was hard to breathe, and taking more than a few inches made me feel like I was going to puke or cry from all the weird pressure on my sinuses. There was drool everywhere, and it probably sucked for him, too. But that's the thing, right? Even if it did suck, that was the point: getting his dick sucked. Clueless sloppy head is still head, and once I gave up trying to make it fancy and started using my hands, too, he came pretty fast. I sat back and he aimed off to the side when he shot, and that was cool, to watch, just like something out of porn. He had a pack of cigarettes crammed in a pocket, somehow, and we sat and smoked. I almost never smoke, and I'd never hung out after the sex with a guy before, but he was cool about it. We didn't talk much, and when I set off around the building to find my partner, the guy slapped my ass like we were football players or something. Dean checked round-aboutly with Bobby, the next time they were able to meet up in person. "Sam seem like he's hiding something, to you?" Bobby snorted and didn't look away from packing salt and herbs into his pile of empty shells. "Sam and I aren't exactly braiding each other's hair and talking about our daydreams these days." Dean glanced out the kitchen window, where Sam sanded down a pile of yew branches on to the back porch. His hair was getting long enough to braid, now that Dean thought about it. "What do you mean?" he asked. Bobby looked up, now, and raised both eyebrows. "There tends to be bad blood for a while when you trap someone in your basement and try to force them to detox." "But he's fine with me –" "You, exactly." He shook his head. "Ain't no one else he'll forgive like he does you." Bobby went back to work but Dean watched out the window for a moment. Sam's hands moved the sandpaper in easy strokes up and down the branches, like he had all the time in the world instead of a schedule set by the lunar cycle, and Dean had an uneasy flash of Sam using those same movements on some stranger's dick. The sandpaper – and ouch, Dean ignored that part right away -- Sam's hands were strong and steady, and Dean could perfectly picture them moving over flesh. Dean shook his head and got up for a beer. He poured half of it down his throat before he thought, maybe, that image was worse. South Dakota posted July 13, 2009 at 16:02 Just the state this time; I don't want to get into anything too specific. It was another guy in a bar this time. We went to one of those biker-trucker-roadhouse places, not anywhere I would have expected to pick someone up. (Maybe it's time for me to let go of those expectations, because I keep being surprised at where I'm hooking up.) He was a trucker and he'd played a few rounds of darts with my partner before we all had a few beers together. I'd gotten better at realizing how guys flirt in places where they think they shouldn't, and when my partner went to the men's room, I asked the guy to show me some feature he had in his cab. I was most interested in the bed in his cab. I'd never fucked a guy in a bed before. I'd never kissed any of these guys either, which I'll admit is unusual for me. I like kissing on its own with women. So we kissed this time, and lay down on his bed, and even though neither of us got more naked than undoing our pants, it felt more like "actual" sex and less like sneaking around. I went down on him first. It was easier on a bed, even on a cramped in-cab bed, and felt more like what I was used to. He had a big dick, the biggest of the guys I'd been with, and he let me take it real slow. It was better to do it when I was still horny, so everything I did got me hot as well as him. I was feeling better about giving head this time, and it was good – actually good on its own, not as just reciprocation. It was still hard to breathe, and I still gagged if I went too far, but every time he made noise or thrust up into my mouth – it just got me harder. I jerked him off at the end instead of letting him come in my mouth. I'm not cool with swallowing yet and I don't care if that's all in my head, or if it's hypocritical. I'm just not. I got to lie down this time, while he sucked me. I missed sex in a bed. It was great to just lay there and thrust and let him do the work. He let go of my dick at one point and sucked on my balls while he jerked me off, which no one had done for me before, either. He was so into it, moaning again, that I shot all over the place way before I meant to. My partner had picked up a game of pool while I was gone, and he was wiping the table with some other guy. He didn't even look up when the trucker and I came inside but he sat with us at the bar after he finished the game. It wasn't awkward, like it could have been. It felt good, actually, to be back with my partner again, so that I could stop worrying about where he was and finally settle into that good relaxed sex-haze. Dean tried Castiel next. They'd met at a rest-stop, deep in the middle of the night, and Sam and some other angel stood guard while Dean and Cas sat at a picnic table under an overhang. Cas had this scabbard under his coat and he kept running his fingers over the empty place at the top, where the sword's handle should be. He didn't seem to notice he was doing it, and watching him made Dean's skin itch. "Are you guys still keeping an eye on Sam?" He'd been waiting for Cas to pause but finally just interrupted. Castiel raised his eyebrows and thought before answering. "Not with the same level of vigilance as a few months ago, no." "Why not?" Cas glanced over his shoulder. Sam stood alert but not tense behind him, at the very edge of the shadows. "He is more stable now, and as the seals have all been broken –" Cas cut his gaze back to Dean. "There are more pressing matters." "But, is he doing something he shouldn't?" Cas shook his head and went back to the text spread across the table, flicking through the pages. "Am I your brother's keeper?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "You got your quotes mixed up –" "No, I am not," Castiel finished. He met Dean's eyes for a moment. "And if anyone is, it is you. Now look –" He bent back over the book. "Consider this passage, in relation to the others. We feel it states that…" He went on, but Dean's gaze kept slipping from the pages, to Cas's fingers worrying the throat of the scabbard, to Sam's profile, clear and solid against the darkness, over Castiel's shoulder. Some FAQs posted July 17, 2009 at 20:37 First, thanks to everyone who's been reading, and who's commented or emailed. I didn't expect to wind up with followers when I started blogging, but I'm glad to have you now that I do. Second, a couple of questions keep coming up, so I'll address them now where you can all see. 1. What exactly is my job? Sorry, but it's nothing I'm going to discuss in detail. It's important to me that this blog stays anonymous and since we're in a very specialized line of work, any specifics could be enough to name me. I will give some very basic info. We're non-profit. We provide a service that helps people. We're highly skilled and we've been doing this for a long time. We travel. Sometimes we have deadlines to meet but sometimes we don't. We interact with the public on a regular basis. We're not selling stuff and we don't earn a commission. We're not part of a pyramid scheme. We don't have an online presence (other than this, which you'll probably agree is crappy advertizing). If you saw us on the job, you wouldn't make the connection. However, if you have a situation you think could benefit from our services, even without knowing exactly what those services are, feel free to email. Put "potential client" or something along those lines in the subject so I'll be able to get to you ASAP. Please note that I'll only be responding to cases we can take, or possibly forwarding your request to someone else who can help, so don't bother sending in a slew of random scenarios as a process of elimination. 2. What's the deal with your "partner," anyway? Are the two of you together? You wouldn't believe how often we get this question in real life. When I say partner, I mean business, not life. He and I spend a lot of time together, I trust him more than anyone else, and he's the best person I know, but no, we're not together. Think brothers, not lovers. Besides, as some of you said, I wouldn't need to hook up in the first place if he and I were together. They squatted in the house for almost a week before the cash ran low. Dean had a new card in his wallet but he wanted to save that until they hit the road again, which meant hustling. "Look, there are plenty of bars in town." Sam stood in what had been the master bath, giving himself a sponge bath from a bottle of water poured into the sink, lit by a flashlight propped on the counter. "If we split up, we won't be as obvious." Dean crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. Sam's abs rippled as he lifted his arms behind his head to scrub at his back, and Dean thought of all the other reasons Sam might want to split up that night. "If we do that, then it limits the stuff we can pull. Plus, leaves us without any backup." Sam sighed heavily, like doing things the way they'd been taught was some huge ordeal, then slopped his hands into the water and scrubbed them through his hair. "Fine," he said eventually. "Whatever. Let's go." Dean rolled his eyes. When they switched places, so Dean could wash up, Sam took his place in the doorway and watched as well. Dean headed to the biggest bar in town, and dropped Sam off down a side street a few block away. He parked alone, and was already on his first beer when Sam walked inside. Sam ordered at the opposite end of the bar without glancing at Dean, then headed to the back of the room, where a few guys played cards in a booth. Dean watched the crowd part easily around Sam's shoulders, then he shook his head and set off to lose a game or two of pool. He tried to keep an eye out for Sam without being obvious about it, which only meant that he couldn't watch well. By the time Dean pulled in some college kids and attracted a few more guys as audience, Sam was settled into his own game. The other men at the table had moved to give him a space in the booth. Dean could occasionally see him through the press of people, or hear his loudest and fakest laugh from across the room, but nothing more. He called it a night after a few hours, once he reached a grand. He bought a round for the guys he played, split up his money to stash in a few different pockets, and set off to find Sam. It wasn't a good idea to stick around after working a place over, but Dean frowned when Sam wasn't at the table. He couldn't exactly ask about that other stranger who'd taken everyone's money and then disappeared, so Dean frowned and dug for his phone. Sam didn't answer. Dean headed to the john; Sam wasn't there. He scoped out the people making out in dark corners, but Dean didn't look very hard after realizing they were all straight couples. He stopped by the bar on his way out but Sam wasn't drinking, and he wasn't skulking around the parking lot, either. Dean made sure no one was watching him before slipping his Glock out of his waistband and setting off around the building. He stepped light and easy, quiet. Some distant part of Dean's mind calculated how long it'd been since he saw Sam inside, and how far he could have been taken since then or how much he could have bled. Another bit, simple to ignore with a lifetime's practice but impossible to shut up, ran through the list of times Sam had already been snatched away from Dean, whether by a creature or a demon or just a fucked up person. Dean was already thinking through what his next step should be when he rounded the corner of the building and saw Sam next to the employee's entrance, pinned tight against the wall by another man. Dean assumed Sam was fighting with the guy, at first. He'd taken three steps closer when he realized their position was all wrong for fighting. Sam's legs were spread wide, so the other guy could get right up next to him, and while one of Sam's hands was fisted in the guy's shirt, the other was hidden between their thighs. Dean glanced up just in time to see Sam lean down to kiss the guy, and – The blog had been tucked with all the other possibly important information in the back of Dean's mind, but now that he could see Sam, Dean couldn't think of much else. He had a basic idea of how Sam kissed the women he was interested in, and he was pulling all the same moves on this guy: sliding his hand up to cup the dude's cheek, angling him into the position Sam wanted, kissing him without backing off. The guy was practically shaking in Sam's arms, and Dean didn't know what to do about it. He'd known as much about Sam's sex life as he figured he needed to before finding the fucking blog, but now that he'd been reading along? He was curious, whatever. Worried about Sam's safety, really, because Sam was built but that didn't protect him from being led around by his dick. If Dean stepped into the shadows and watched, instead of backing off, he was doing it for Sam's own good. Sam wasn't in a frame of mind that would let him watch his own back, and Dean knew about watching out for Sam. He knew all about watching Sam. And if he had to adjust himself after catching a glimpse of Sam's hand on the guy's dick – Sam moving just as steady as Dean feared he would – then that was just a healthy reaction to a stimulating event. All three of them jumped when a car backfired in the parking lot. The guy, Sam's stranger, flinched much more than Sam or Dean did. He gave a shaky laugh before pressing his face into Sam's neck and rolling his hips. Sam knew better than that, though, and he gave the surroundings a pretty decent once-over for a guy with his hands on someone else's junk. Dean froze, closed his mouth and let his eyes fall lidded to keep all his glinty parts under wrap, but that didn't keep Sam from placing him as his eyes swept the alley behind the building. Dean swallowed hard when their eyes locked, abruptly sure Sam would flip out, but Sam just froze as well and watched him. Sam's mouth was open slightly, and moving like he wanted to say something, but he didn't push the guy away. When Dean didn't leave, either, Sam raised his eyebrows, glanced at the stranger against his chest, and then started rolling his hips again. Dean couldn't make himself move away from his spot against the wall, even when the guy reached between them and pulled out Sam's dick. Sometimes, it seemed like Dean got an accidental eyeful every week, but none of that came close to this, to watching Sam have sex while Sam stared right on back. Dean tried not to glance down too obviously, but it was like the guy angled himself to give Dean the best possible view. The moonlight hit Sam's dick, showing just how red and flushed and freaking gigantic it was. Even when he wrapped his fingers around Sam's shaft and started pulling, Dean could still make out the head poking out of his fist, popping out with every stroke. Dean dragged his eyes back to Sam's face and found him leaning against the wall with his head thrown back. He panted, mouth wide now, and his face was red but he didn't look away from Dean. Dean pressed the heel of one hand over his own dick – aching even though he could barely remember getting all the way hard – and Sam actually groaned, loud enough for the sound to carry. The other guy muttered, probably some you like that, baby line that Dean'd fed his own hookups in the past, and Sam nodded, still watching Dean. The guy glanced to each side, obviously without paying enough attention to notice someone watching, and dropped to his knees. Sam fisted one hand in his hair but didn't tug as he went to work. Dean couldn't see his dick anymore, with the guy's head in the way, but Sam's face gave away what was happening like he had subtitles scrolling across his forehead. He closed his eyes for a moment, and Dean imagined the guy sucking Sam's cock into his mouth. He opened them again, and the guy was settling into the job; Sam bit his lip, and he was close; his brow crumpled in on itself, and he was coming like a sucker-punch, silent and almost motionless. He still didn't look away. The guy got in the way again when he stood up. Dean shook his head to try to clear it when Sam closed his eyes, and Dean realized he'd gone from putting pressure on his dick to rubbing himself mindlessly. When he looked back to Sam, Sam was staring again, even as he jerked off the other guy. Dean swallowed hard as he rubbed himself best he could through denim and cotton. It wasn't much more than steady contact, but Dean was tense and wired, ready for it. He came before the other guy did. The hot mess stuck immediately to his boxers, and he felt Sam's eyes on him the whole time. Dean kept watching while he caught his breath. The other guy's thrusts grew fast and jerky, but Dean nodded to Sam, totally unsure of what to do here, and slunk off before whoever-it-was came. He turned off the radio as he drove back to the neighborhood where he'd dropped off Sam. Dean tapped his fingers over the steering wheel but didn't shift his feet, his legs, anything that'd move him around in his boxers, at all. He stank like sex, cooped up in the car; he kept the windows up anyway. About an hour passed, with no calls from either of them, before Sam walked up and tapped the window. Dean didn't let himself startle. He reached over and unlocked the door and slid back to his own side of the seat before Sam could get close. Their eyes caught, even though Dean'd hoped to avoid that, and they stared at each other again. Sam's hair was more of a mess than usual, his lips were red and bite-plumped, and he had something that might be a hickey high on his neck. "So," Sam said, and they each turned to look out their own windows. Dean fumbled for the keys, still in the ignition, and started the car before Sam could finish that talk-it-out, ruin-our-lives thought. "How much'd you pull in?" Dean asked instead. He looked over his shoulder and then pulled away from the curb, and into the empty street. Sam stayed quiet for a moment, then shifted. The seat belt clicked as he buckled up. "About six hundred," he said. "They weren't playing anything like high stakes, and I didn't want to push it." "No," Dean agreed. "Wouldn't wanna do that." Minnesota posted August 2, 2009 at 03:23 The bar was just another dive, but it was huge – maybe two or three times bigger than most places. I think it used to be a dance club or something. If I'm planning to hook up, I usually make sure my partner and I are going to different places, but I couldn't swing it that night. It was such a big place that I figured it'd be fine. We split up once we got there anyway, and I found a group of local guys to talk to. One of them kept talking up the local beer, and the two of us split off from the group to head to the bar. It was damn good beer, actually, some of the best I've ever had. We went outside to smoke next, which turned into going out behind the building to smoke, which turned into fucking. I couldn't put my finger on why, but I kept thinking: what if someone sees us? I wasn't doing anything that night that I hadn't done before, but I still couldn't stop thinking about it. I never would've expected it, but that bit of worry just made the whole thing hotter. Every little thing was better. The guy wasn't small, but he wasn't huge either, and he didn't kiss the way I like best, and he was slow to reciprocate, but I couldn't get enough of him. I kept him pulled tight up against me so I could get to his dick before someone caught us. He didn't seem to worry about it, though. There was a noise at one point that scared me way more than it should have, but I wound up staring towards the side of the building and just watching. It was like I could see what someone else would see, if they were watching – would I let them? Would they get off on it? Would they want some, too? The guy wasn't the best lay ever but I came so hard down his throat from thinking about that stuff. I couldn't remember the last time I got off so fast. It stayed with me, too. What if someone could see how hard my dick still was, after he let me go? What if they could see the jizz smeared on the corner of the guy's mouth? What if they watched me jerk him off, all fast and barely even paying attention to him? Would they get off on it, too? So yeah, exhibitionism. Who knew. Dean tried not to think about it. He and Sam kept on keeping on. They left town on an hour's notice later that week, on a tip from Cas that boiled down to get out before the town becomes collateral damage. It was four days on the road after that, alternating shifts of driving and sleeping. By the time they holed up, neither of them had gotten more than a six-hour stretch asleep at a time, and none of that was very restful. A good chunk of their cash, since it was untraceable, went to gas and food. The – the thing at the bar just simmered with the rest of Dean's worries. Even though they didn't talk about it, he could barely look at Sam without remembering how his brother looked when he came. After Cas gave the all-clear, Dean voted to find a cabin, or a trailer – something isolated, and away from other people. Sam wanted someplace near a city, on the other hand, so they'd be near supplies and infrastructure. They wound up on the outskirts of a skiing town, rattling around a mostly-empty motel in the middle of the off-season, so that neither of them were comfortable. Dean stood watch at the room's door while Sam showered, then got the bathroom to himself while Sam took lookout. Dean had the last turn at the wheel so he got to crash first, and launched himself face-first into the pillows without toweling himself all the way dry. When Dean woke up, they ordered pizza and cheesy-bread, and two huge bottles of Coke, to be delivered to the motel's office instead of to their room. It was a just a national chain, but hot food was pretty much the best thing Dean could imagine, and they inhaled everything without worrying about leaving leftovers for the next day. Sam crashed next, sprawled across the same bed Dean slept in, and Dean watched him for longer than he would have been happy admitting. He probably didn't need to keep watch, since Cas said they were as safe as they'd get, but he was wide awake now. Dean turned the TV on low and flipped around for a while. Every so often he glanced at the laptop, which Sam left sleeping on the table next to the pizza boxes, After running across an infomercial for the same product on three different channels, Dean rolled his eyes, gave up, and crossed the room. Firefox was the only thing running, and the blog was its only open tab. Sam had somehow found time for two posts since the bar; the newer entry was entirely hidden behind its Read More! link, so Dean skimmed the other one first. Sam talked around the fact that someone actually had been watching, and Dean wondered again how truthful the blog was. He kept coming back to the paragraphs where Sam talked about getting off, though, where being watched made it better. Dean didn't buy that it was just the exhibitionism – assuming the posts were all true, Sam had been having plenty of public sex recently, but he never singled out that aspect until now. Dean shook his head and scrolled up to the other post instead. Speaking of being watched: posted August 6, 2009 at 15:57 Are you reading this? Yes, I mean you. You, right there. Maybe you've been reading but never saying anything, and I'm curious. Let me know who you are. I'll go first: hi, I'm Sam, and I'm happy you've been reading. (Is that my real name? WHO KNOWS. You can ask all you want but I won't tell.) Dean skimmed the comments but quickly realized that fuck-all was happening there besides people giving generic first names and patting themselves on the back. He thought about leaving his own comment, but that seemed ridiculous when Sam was sleeping in the other bed, close enough Dean could hear his snuffly almost-snores. The laptop whirred a final time as Dean closed it. He crossed the room again to sit on the empty bed, so he wouldn't jostle Sam, and he rested his elbows on his knees. Sam's chest rose and fell slowly, and he slept with one hand on his belly, right where his shirt had ridden up. Sunlight slipped through the open blinds in narrow strips. Dean stayed on the bed, watching, as the light angled its way across the room, until Sam stirred and opened his eyes. He looked straight to Dean as if he'd known Dean was waiting. Dean wet his lips and wanted to look away, but didn't. "I've been reading," he said. Sam nodded. "I thought you had." "Did you –" Dean broke off, shook his head, and tried again. "Was it being watched that did it, or…" "No." He closed his eyes. "It was you." Dean huffed. "Yeah, I thought so." Sam didn't open his eyes and, after a moment, Dean braced his hands on his thighs and stood. He filled a glass of water from the sink and leaned against the counter as he drank it. "Why didn't you tell me?" Sam snorted and looked over. "Hey Dean, it got me hot when you watched me have sex and I think I'd like to try it again, is that okay?" He raised his eyebrows. "No way would you have been cool with that." Dean blinked at him a few times. That wasn't – he hadn't meant – he'd been talking about the blog in general, not anything more specific. Just because he'd been reading about Sam hooking up with guys, and thinking about it, and watching it, didn't mean he'd actually wanted to try it himself. He'd only thought about it so much because he was worried, because he'd been stuck on the fucking road for a hundred hours in a row, because he was curious. His eyes shot over Sam's body almost without his control, from his hands to that bit of belly to his lips to his neck. His hickey was gone, had faded while they were running, and Dean's belly jumped when he realized he'd been there for the hickey's entire life. He watched it get sucked into place, and he tracked its disappearance in the car, and now he was staring at Sam's neck like he could will a new mark into place. Maybe Dean was more curious than he should be. He turned abruptly and drank another cup of water to buy some time, and avoided his reflection. Behind him, Sam sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, facing the far wall. "You know, never mind. Forget it. I'm sorry I even brought it up." "You gotta take that last post down, man." Dean put the plastic cup behind the faucet and turned back to Sam. He watched his back tense and shook his head. "You were right about not putting your name there. If I could figure it out, so could someone else, and you're pretty much leaving whole loaves of bread behind us with that thing." Sam nodded and stood, heading straight for the table. Dean rubbed at his bottom lip for a few minutes while Sam typed. When he finished, he closed the laptop and drummed his fingers on its top, not looking towards the sink. Dean studied the tense set of his shoulders and sighed. There was his decision, made by Sam's kicked expression and averted eyes. "I haven't ever," he said. Sam stopped moving his hands and then looked over, eyebrows high. "Does the rest of that sentence exist?" Dean rolled his eyes. "With guys. Had some offers, but never did." Sam's mouth moved a few times before he answered, and then it barely counted. "Oh." Dean nodded and then toed out of his boots, one at a time. Stopping in the middle of things to deal with shoes always sucked. He walked to Sam, slow, and when he stopped in front of him, Sam had to look up to meet his eyes. "I'm saying up your game for a while, cuz I know you know how to do this." Sam's eyes widened hilariously before he got himself under control. "I already apologized, Dean. Don't fuck with me." Dean snorted. He kicked one of Sam's shins, then frowned and stepped on his socks, one at a time, to pull them off, too. "You seriously gotta stop with the secrets, Sammy, because I always find out in the end." Sam kept frowning up at him, so Dean jerked his head backwards, towards the bed. "We doing this or what?" Sam shuddered and then he stood, pushing up into Dean's space. "Yeah," he said. "All right." They didn't touch on their way to the bed. Dean sat on the edge of the mattress and watched Sam shrug out of his button down, but he closed his eyes once Sam sat next to him, and reached out for him. His brother's hand felt huge bracketing his face, turning him, and Dean shivered, full-body, when Sam pressed their lips together. "How much of it was true?" Dean asked. He didn't pull away, so their lips dragged together. The question was more of a kiss than the kiss itself had been, but Sam ran his tongue between Dean's lips, and then hot into his mouth, before answering. "How much of what?" "The, the blog." Dean pulled back far enough to look at Sam without making his eyes cross. Sam cocked his head and Dean shrugged. "What you wrote about us, that wasn't how it actually went down." "I changed that one the most." Sam shrugged. "That was us. No one else got to have that." He leaned back in and kissed Dean again, sucking at his bottom lip until Dean fisted a hand in Sam's hair to keep him there. It wasn't anywhere near as weird as Dean thought it would be. He closed his eyes and kissed back. Dean felt like a genius later, when Sam had to back away to take off his shoes while Dean stretched across the bed to watch, happily barefoot. Sam got his pants and boxers off while he stood and Dean stripped off his own jeans, holding Sam's gaze. Sam's skin felt hot under his hands when he climbed back on the mattress. Dean stroked over his chest and arms and back, suddenly uncertain of how to do what he knew should come next, but Sam nipped his neck before pulling away again. "Here," he said, and sat back on his heels with his knees on the bed. He tugged Dean's boxers off, quickly enough that Dean gasped as his dick slapped onto his belly, then pulled at Dean's legs until he was in Sam's lap, with his knees on either side of Sam's hips, and Sam's dick looking enormous between Dean's thighs. He'd put a million girls into this position himself but had never seen it from the opposite end, and he swallowed hard. "Sam," he said, a question and a warning all at once, and Sam laughed and shook his head. "Nah, just this." He licked his palm and kept his tongue between his teeth as he wrapped it around Dean's dick. His hand – Dean knew Sam's hands were ridiculous, but he never expected them to feel this good. Sam just held him for a moment, eyes locked with Dean, and then dropped his gaze to Dean's cock as he began stroking. It was the same steady rhythm Dean saw all those days ago, used on someone else, and he rolled his hips into it the same way that random guy had. Sam didn't try anything fancy at first, only jerked him off with his free hand cupping Dean's balls, but when Dean started panting, and grabbed onto Sam's knees just to have something to hold, Sam smiled and ducked down. He moved his hand to the base of Dean's cock and sucked his head into his mouth, spreading his tongue wide and slurping noisy and hard. Dean grunted and clenched his eyes closed. His hips jerked up, out of his control, but Sam moaned and let him. Dean thrust a few more times, gasping, and then came. Sam didn't move away; he stayed right where he was, mouth firmly attached to Dean's cock, and worked him through it until Dean pushed him away. "Damn," Dean said, and opened his eyes. Sam smiled at him from between his knees, with his own dick now in his hand, and it stole Dean's breath. "Damn, damn, damn." "Yeah." Sam thrust into his own fist, going slow at first but speeding quickly. Dean's heart still pounded as he watched Sam's cock slipping through Sam's fingers, as he watched Sam's chest heave and his pupils dilate further. "Can I?" he asked. He wasn't sure what he meant, really, but Sam nodded immediately. "Anything, Dean, yeah." Sam didn't stop his hand, so Dean slid his hands over his own legs and onto Sam's hips. He gripped firmly, digging his thumbs beneath Sam's hip bones, and tugged in time with Sam's thrusts, pulling him faster along as he fucked into his own fist. Sam moaned and bit his bottom lip. They had a few moments of uncoordination, but then Sam fell into the pace Dean set. He pushed Sam into the same rhythm he used he when fucking women, the same way he thrust when he was about to shoot. Dean barely had time to think how good Sam looked, flushed and sweaty, before he came all over the place, splattering jizz on Dean's chest all the way up to his neck. Dean wrinkled his nose but kept tugging Sam along until he shook his head and settled back further on his heels. His dick was still twitching. Dean watched it for a moment, fascinated as if he'd never seen a cock before, before biting his lip and rubbing one thumb over its red, wet head. Sam groaned and he batted his hand away. "Next time, man." Dean snorted and peered at his thumb. Sam's dick had felt just like his own, and he sniffed his fingers before reaching to the side, for the box of tissues on the bedside table. Sam waited until Dean wiped himself dry before untangling their legs and flopping next to him, onto the other pillow. Dean turned his head to follow Sam with his gaze. Sam raised an eyebrow at him before leaning in and kissing him again. He tasted like come, but Dean had never balked at his own second-hand jizz, and he didn't plan on starting now just because he was licking it out of his brother's mouth. It wasn't dark yet, but Dean followed Sam under the bedspread anyway when the air conditioner kicked on. Sam's warmth felt amazing against the chill, and Dean pressed slightly closer. He'd almost dozed off when he remembered something. "If you even think about blogging that," Dean said, and poked Sam in the belly, "I will leave your ass by the side of the road." Sam snorted. "Would not." "We can bet on it, if you'd like." He settled further into his pillow and closed his eyes again. "You'll have to send my winnings to Bobby for me to pick up, since you'll be in the dust, but it'll work." "Mmm hmm," Sam said. He rolled onto his side and hooked a leg over Dean's. "I'll keep that in mind." Dean smiled, but he'd be checking for updates anyway. fyi posted August 7, 2009 at 09:23 I'm taking a break from blogging, and also random sex, for the foreseeable future. Thank you all for following along; you've been great company. On a related note, he was that kind of partner after all. Maybe I should have figured it out sooner.

* The day is long for Cam and endlessly frustrating. He hasn't managed to get any sleep in 48 hours but still as soon as things have calmed down enough for him to leave the base, he sets out for Vala's. He doesn't even care that it's almost two in the morning... he wants sleep, and he wants her. Cam lets himself in the back way. He's sure Sal wouldn't approve of him having the key even to the back hallway, but Vala wanted him to have it and Cam isn't about to turn it down. It's dark, strange to be here this late at night walking through the hallways, but he feels better as soon as he puts his hand on the doorknob. Vala is asleep, tucked up in bed after a long and particularly annoying day at work. The customers were bitchy, her feet hurt and she missed Cam. She's still sleeping peacefully and he keeps as quiet as he can while he strips down to just his shorts. He feels her start to stir once he pulls down the covers, getting in beside her. "What--?" Vala mumbles, turning over in her bed to see who it was slipping into her bed. ".... Cam?" "Hey," he says, voice soft and hushed. "Didn't mean to wake you up, I just wanted to see you. Hope this is okay." He doesn't really think she'll mind but right now he wants to hear it anyway. "Save the world?" She asks him softly, smiling sleepily at him. "Little bit," he mumbles, kissing the top of her head. "For today. Just hafta save it again tomorrow though." "More tomorrow?" She mumbles making a rather sad, pathetic noise. "Let someone else save it tomorrow. Sleep in." "Sleepin' in," Cam agrees, eyes already heavy. "Mind if I crash here?" "You had better," she whispers. Smiling, she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him down and into her for a kiss. Both of them are sleepy and their lips hardly move but that is okay, Vala still enjoys just being able to have him there next to her. "How's your day?" He asks, just because he wants to hear her talk. He loves her voice... should tell her that some time... "It was long. We had a bunch of customers that just could not be pleased by anything and the day seemed to drag on and like it would never end." "Mmm..." He sort of hums a response, wanting her to keep going. "My day... had snakes..." He snickers to himself, though he can't explain it. "What?" Vala laughs, not having a clue what it is he's talking about. She nuzzles her nose into his and smiles. "Look, there was ... something really important I wanted to tell you the other night. I don't know how to really tell you this, I mean, its not something I could really tell just anyone but I need you to know because I need you to go with me. I will be leaving soon. Not just any kind of leaving though I'm talking about really leaving because see... I uh, I have this ship and I'm actually an alien hiding out here on Earth until I could get it fixed and get away from the people who are chasing me. And I didn't expect to be here this long or to find someone like you but I have and now... Now I don't want you to stay. Please come with me Cameron...?" Cam's response comes in the form of a quiet snore. He's fallen asleep, the long day catching up with him. "Cam?" Vala asks softly, nudging him slightly with her shoulder only to get another deep snore out of him. There was no way he heard anything she said, he was probably half asleep when he asked how her day was. She sighs and tucks herself up next to him, resigned that she's going to have to have this conversation with him at some point. * The next morning dawns slowly. Vala is giving herself a morning lie in and doesn't bother with the alarm, quickly shutting it off before it even has a chance to go off. She smiles to herself and rolls back into the middle of the bed and back into Cam's arms. "Morning," Cam says, giving her a kiss and pulling her to him. He yawns widely, jaw popping, and it feels great. "Oh, man. I had some crazy dreams." He reaches up and runs his fingers through his hair. She doesn't say anything, which he takes as a sign to keep talking. "Had this one... you were from another planet and someone was chasing you... crazy, huh?" He laughs. Of course, it's really no surprise to him that he'd dream something like that, considering that the both Vala, and chases with aliens, were two things he spent a lot of time involved with lately. But he thinks that she'll still find it amusing, and it seems harmless to divulge. Vala pauses before breaking into a smile. "Yeah, weird. So what was chasing me? Something green with lots of eyes?" He laughs. "Nah... aliens kinda just... looked like us." It was actually Ba'al, but Cam can't say that to her. He stretches again then settles in, enjoying the comfort of the bed and looking at her. "I hope me just crashing here was okay." "Of course its fine," Vala replies, smiling widely at him. "You know I'm happy to have you here with me." She leans in and presses her lips to his, kissing him lightly. "Would have liked it even more if you had slipped into bed without the pants." "Well, I can always take them off now," Cam says. He reaches under the covers and shoves them down, yanking them off and then tossing them onto the floor. "There, that better? I mean, you're the gracious host, I want to make you happy..." "Much better," Vala purrs, agreeing with him. She Leans in and wraps her hand around him and begins to stroke slowly. "Now, this seems more like you making me happy than the other way around..." He's not complaining, far from it, just stating the fact. He reaches out and runs his hand down her back, wanting to feel her skin. "I like it. Like the different noises you make." She runs her thumb over the tip of his cock and grins when she hears him groan out. "Mm, like that one." "That one's... a particular favorite of mine, too." Cam makes that noise when she so obligingly does it again. "Then again, I don't think you've found a trick yet that I wasn't a fan of." "That's good, glad to hear it." She smiles and begins to wrap her fingers around his balls, playing with them too. His balls tighten under her playful manipulation, his cock hard and starting to leak. Vala knows just where he's most sensitive now and knows how to toy with him until he's panting for more. He knows how much she likes hearing him, so he doesn't try to stay quiet. He's vocal in letting her know exactly what gets him going. "Ooh, very nice." She smiles and kisses him under his chin, nipping gently at his adam's apple. "More," he says, reaching for her, wanting more of her... and for her to touch more of him. Grinning, Vala slides her body over on top of his, wrapping her legs on either side of his body. "Can have lots more," she says quietly, smiling at him. "Vala..." He murmurs her name, cupping her face in his hands and drawing her mouth down to his for the kind of kiss that he craves. She opens her mouth to him and kisses him deep and long. Blindly she reaches out to the bedside table, fumbling until she gets her hand into the drawer and around an unopened condom. It takes him a moment to realize what she's doing but he wholeheartedly approves. He doesn't make any movement to take it from her, wanting to feel her fingers putting it on him. With just a few flicks of her fingers she has it opened and sliding down onto him. She quickly strokes him a few more times once again before she pushes the covers back and begins to knee up his body. He reaches down and holds himself in place while she lowers her body over his. "You look so hot riding me," he says, reaching up to push her hair out of her face. She tosses her hair back and smiles down at him. She continues to move her hips, rocking and riding him nice and slow. "Oh, just like that..." He puts his hands on her hips, guiding her just a little faster, loving how she feels moving on him. "How are you so hot?" "You're just lucky I guess," she pants. Leaning forward, she braces her hands on her bedframe and begins to move her hips faster and harder than before. You're telling me," he says, grinning. So lucky... But as much as he likes her riding him, he has other ideas, too. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her down. They're chest to chest and he's buried inside of her and he kisses her, mouth open on hers. It's too much and he needs to move, to be the one setting the pace. He rolls them over, pressing her to the bed. Vala squeals as Cam rolls her over; she's not expecting it and it throws her off. By the time that Cam is above her on the bed, she's laughing and smiling back up at him. "Oh, someone is feeling feisty this morning," she taunts, thrusting her hips up at him. "I sleep well in your bed," he says, bending and kissing her neck, meeting her thrusts. "Besides, I"m not the only one feeling feisty right now." "I like when you sleep in my bed," Vala murmurs, leaning up to kiss him back. "And I certainly like when you feel feisty." Her fingers scrabbled down his back, scratching him as he began to move harder. "Oh yeah? You like that, baby?" He feels her straining against him, their bodies so close, the sweat slick between them. "How do you feel?" He looks down at her, nipping at her jaw, kissing her mouth lightly, and then waiting for her to answer. "So, so very good," she moans, smiling hugely. "You are so good to me." She wriggles underneath him before raising her arms over her head and stretching, showing her tits off for him. She gives her chest a brief shake, teasing him and feeling giddy. He cups her breast, squeezing it and feeling her press into his hand. He sits back and puts his hands on her legs, lifting them and bending them back against her body. It opens her up to him in a new way, letting him go so much deeper. "Ooh," she groans, her eyes wide as he pushed deeper into her. She gasped hard and whimpered and began to thrust back up into him. "Come on, come on let me feel it. Give it to me deeper," she begged him. He laughs. "Anyone ever tell you that you're bossy in bed?" "What? Me?" She pants and breaks into a huge grin. "No idea what you're talking about." She laughs brightly and shoves her hips at Cam, throwing off his pace. He laughs, pushing her back into the bed and grabbing her hands, holding them over her head just to watch her squirm. "Oh, see, how do you like that now, huh?" She gasps and bites her bottom lip as Cam holds her down. She tests the strength of his bonds, surprised when she finds that she can't get out of them. "Ooh, this is a new side Cameron." He gauges her reaction but nothing he sees in her face leads him to think that she doesn't like it so he doesn't relent. "Well, you know, gotta get a little of my own back... you aren't the only one that gets bossy sometimes. I am a team leader for a reason." She starts to smile at that. "Do you like to get bossy Cameron? Would you like to ... tell me what to do?" She says it slowly, making sure to enunciate each word for him. His eyes practically glaze over at that, and he thrusts down, pressing into her. He's still careful with his response, though. "Why? That something that does it for you? Because I kind of figured it'd be the other way around with you..." Vala would agree that in most cases, she preferred to be the one on top, doing the ordering and teasing her lover. But with Cam, like this, she can't get enough of him holding her down and being over and on top of her. She licks her lips slowly and takes time to respond. "Maybe I like seeing you like this," she says softly. Her own eyes are wide with arousal. He presses his body against hers a little more just to feel her squirm. He's surprised by this reaction, but some alpha male reaction inside of him is triggered by it and he wouldn't trade Vala the way she normally is for anything but right now, the way she's looking at him? He thinks that it's hot as hell. She bites down on her lip and finally stills underneath him, letting his weight hold and press her down into the mattress. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment as she just relaxes and finally lets go. A soft smile spreads across her face before she opens her eyes to look back up at Cam, a sort of relaxed calm having gone through her body at finally letting Cam be in control. Cam doesn't have any interest in pushing any more boundaries this morning. He leans down and kisses her, his mouth gentle, not demanding anything more of her from this. He starts to move again, his body against hers, cock thrusting inside of her. Vala opens her mouth and slowly kisses him back. Her tongue presses and tangles with his own as she begins to rock her hips back into his, keeping up with his slow, measured pace. He rests one arm on the pillow by her head and angles himself so he can keep kissing her while upping the pace and speed of his movements inside of her, working them both there. She's beginning to pant and squirm again, growing restless underneath Cam as her desire grows. "Cam-- are you?" She breathes, trying to figure out how much longer he can last. He's sheepish when he says, "Not long. You?" She shakes her head. "No. No I'm--" she cuts herself off as she begins to moan low in the back of her throat. "Ooh, oh fuck Cam!" Reaching down, she begins to rub her clit faster and faster as she pushes up into him. "Fuck there, oh oh yes--" She cries out as her body jerks hard and she comes around him. He watches her come and then lifts himself up, changing the angle and moving harder and faster until it overtakes him. He groans loudly and turns his face against her neck, mouth open on her skin as he comes inside of her. She shudders around him once more, wrapping her arms around his body and holding him tightly to her. "Oh damn Cameron," she whispers, unable to even move she feels so exhausted. "That was... I can't even... oh wow." "I think we're getting pretty good at that," he jokes, breathless. He can't quite live up to the humor in his voice though, because he's shaking slightly, lowering himself onto the bed beside her but not letting go of her. She curls herself around and against him and smiles. "Yeah, I'd say we are." She gives him a huge dopey grin and leans in to kiss him. "I'd even go so far as to say I kinda like that." "You... like that we're good at it?" He matches her dopey grin with one of his own, chasing her mouth with his own for another kiss. "Well, I like that you like it, Miss Mal Doran." "I like that you like that I like it," she taunts back. She allows Cam to catch her mouth before she leans in and kisses him back, her tongue sliding into his own mouth. He rolls back toward her, hand sliding into her hair and cupping the back of her head to keep her in close. The kisses now lack the drive and direction that the ones before had, but they're all the more intense for the lack of that. It's less about sex and getting there than it is just about enjoying each other right now. They jump apart when there's a loud banging on the door. "Princess, now is not the day to oversleep. You better get your butt out of bed, we're swamped down here!" Vala scrunches her nose and throws a pillow in the direction of the door. "Whatever," she yells, burying her face into Cam's shoulder. Cam groans and says quietly enough that Betty won't hear, "Can't you make her go away?" "I've tried. Believe me. Nothing has worked so far," Vala whispers back to Cam, her eyes darting to the door as if expecting Betty to somehow materialise through it. "She's like the Termiteator or something." "Term-" He starts to ask but Betty bangs on the door again. "You don't get down here in two minutes, I'm taking that key from Sal and coming after you myself!" Vala starts to grumble and slip out of the bed. "She's serious, you know," she mutters. "Really will." Vala trails off, mumbling to herself a variety of names for Betty as she runs around, looking for her uniform. "I look like a mess and I'm sure I smell like a Braxilian playhouse," she mutters before flopping onto the bed beside Cam. "You want breakfast?" "You ever know me to turn down food?" Cam asks, leaning over and kissing her neck. She stretches to give him more room to play, and then whines when he stops. "Come on. I'm more scared of Betty than you, so we better get going." He gives her a very regretful smile and then grabs his pants. * It has taken Vala a few days to get her plan perfected but finally she is ready. She stands at the cover of tunnel on the surface right outside Cheyenne Mountain. She's been studying a basic outline of the mountain and she knows that to get the naquadah she has to get to the bottom of the mountain and the fastest way is straight down the tunnel. Vala pushes her bangs back and secures her harness. "Right, I got this," she tells herself. She keeps an eye out for guards as she pushes the cover off the tunnel and grabs her rope. She secures the end on the edge of the tunnel and climbs in, ready to finally sink down lower. * Cam jogs through the hallway with Carter by his side. They're stopping every now and then, consulting the little beeping device in her hand. He looks to her for either a nod or a shake of the head. They stop, and he looks; it's a shake, and they keep going. "How many?" He asks. "Seventeen." She's barely answered when her radio crackles to lift. "SG-14 checking in; we've got two." "Fifteen," Sam corrects herself while Cam radios back to say they've gotten the message. "Fifteen left." The relief is obvious in Cam's voice. "Down from how many?" "Forty-three. Just cross your fingers that we can get them all before they mate again. Here!" Sam stops and they make a quick turn down a short hallway. She points at the door and Cam gets his modified zat ready to blast. Reply | Reply to all | Forward | Print | Delete | Show original * Vala continues to descend, her feet pressed up against one side of the tunnel and her back up against the other side. "Right, 28 levels in this damn mountain. Why its so big..." She mutters to herself. She pauses momentarily to check her map, once she reaches the bottom of the tunnel she has another series of halls to get through. Sighing, she folds and puts it back in her pocket and continues down the tunnel until she finally reaches the bottom. She unclips her harness from the line and grabs a screwdriver, slowly letting herself out of the side wall vent. The hallway is clear but Vala doesn't know how long it will stay that way. She slips into the hall and begins to move quickly. Reply | Reply to all | Forward | Print | Delete | Show original * "That had to be at least half of the ones that were left," Cam says, panting but victorious after clearing the room. "Uh, Cam..." Sam says, looking down at her readout. "Shit. Bad news?" "Yep..." "How many?" "Do you really wanna know?" She says, grimness giving away to almost amusement. These critters are annoying but they are just that - critters. "Just, yeah. Tell me." Cam avoids a pile of goo and shuts the door behind him as he follows Sam out. "We're back up to twenty-five. All right, this way." * Vala finds another air shaft in just the nick of time, slipping inside and out of sight. She takes a moment to consult her map once more, using a small pen light so she can see. "Right, over this hall and then a left and a right and oh..." She digs down into another pocket and pulls out a handmade naquadah finder and flicks it on. "So yes, left then right." She pockets the map and the light once more and keeps her naquadah finder out as she begins to crawl and wiggle her way through the small air ducts. She grumbles as she moves through the tunnels, each duct feeling a bit smaller than the last. "Why it always has to be air ducts I don't know." She huffs softly as she takes another turn and then finally stops halfway down the duct. "Right, should be it." She looks down at her device and grins, its lit up brightly, flickering and indicating she is right above the large naquadah source. "So right now I just need a... Brilliant. A hatch." She elbow crawls over to the open air vent and looks down through the grate, not seeing anyone below her. She begins to undo one side of vent before securing her cable and letting it drop down through the hole. She shimmies and finally crawls down the rope, descending into the room below her. She takes another peek and can't find anyone, she's all alone. "Now, I just need to find the source of naquadah," she mumbles to herself as she begins to spin around on the rope. Vala trails off as her eyes widen as soon as she spots the gate. Reply | Reply to all | Forward | Print | Delete | Show original * "You know," Cam says. "I think there's a movie about this, isn't there?" "Considering the scifi genre, probably more than a few," Sam shouts back. Her voice is tinny where she's halfway into a duct, shining her flashlight around to see if the one they've been chasing is finding sanctuary in it. She shuffles back out, dust along both shoulders of her BDU jacket. Cam is not sorry that he was too broad to fit into the duct. Not sorry at all. "They look a little bit like Gremlins." "If you shaved them." Sam actually seems to be considering it. "They look like Gremlins and they mate like tribbles." "We should see if we can sell the rights- hey, there!" Cam shines his flashlight into a storage closet. They take off running... again. * "The taur'i have a chapp'ai?" Vala says to herself, still astonished to actually see one sitting in front of her in the bottom of a mountain. "Well this changes everything." Vala laughs happily to herself before she lets herself down the rest of the way and onto the ramp leading up to the gate. She makes her way up the ramp, looking the gate over, running a hand over the cool metal and checking it out to be sure. Yep, it was a real gate. "Now to make sure it actually works," she trails off. Vala spins around, looking for a DHD but unable to find one. "So, a gate but one that doesn't have a DHD. ... okay, no matter. Step two to escaping from alien planet, find alternate source of power and dial manually." Vala doesn't see the officer watching her from the upstairs viewing area. She doesn't have any inclination that the officer watching her is picking up the phone and calling his superior to check and see if a woman in leather is supposed to be strolling around the gateroom like she owns it. Someone overhears the phone call. Someone who makes it his business to know what the Tau'ri are getting up to, and this - a woman in leather? - this sounds interesting. He strolls down the stairs, since everyone else is seemingly distracted trying to figure out who the woman is and if it's a cause for emergency. He knows it won't take them long to decide that the answer to that is yes, so he makes the best of his time. He's not suspecting the face that stands in front of him. "Well, if it's not my dear old comrade, Quetesh..." * The klaxons start to sound, and every member of SG-1, scattered throughout the base as they are, stops and turns to run toward the gate room. Vala hears a voice she hasn't heard in years and she's immediately set on edge. "Ba'al," she says, giving him a slight smile as she turns to face him. "I should have known someone like you would be around here somewhere. Though, I have to admit, of all of them, you weren't going to be the one I'd expect." She stands in front of him, arms crossed over her chest as she looks him up and down slightly, a smirk on her lips. "I go by Vala now, by the way. Technically, always did." She gives Ba'al a superior smile at that, letting the realisation of it sink in. "Right, Quetesh," Ba'al says, striding further into the room. "I really don't think you're supposed to be here, now are you? The Tau'ri, they're awfully sensitive about people wandering around unbidden..." He reaches out to touch her cheek. Vala wrinkles her nose and moves away from his hand. "You're taking orders from the taur'i?" Vala asks, her eyebrows raising and eyes widening. "Now that is interesting. Not able to hold onto your empire anymore then?" Vala grins even wider as she strides past him, looking at the gate again. "No matter, I won't be here long enough to bother them. Just need to find a quick power source for this thing, grab a couple things from home, and a friend along the way, and then I'll be gone. Out of your, well, your hair. Or what's left of it." Just as she steps on the ramp, the gateroom is suddenly full of soldiers with weapons. Ba'al slips back behind them, his smirk unmatched. He so enjoys seeing other Goa'uld fail so spectacularly, and Quetesh was... always of particular interest to him. He waits until all the weapons are trained on her before stepping forward again. "Now, now, men... consider Quetesh a guest of mine, won't you?" "Excuse me?" Cam stands in the doorway, a stony expression on his face. Vala rolls her eyes. "A guest of yours? I really don't think I need any of your help Ba'al, thank you." Vala looks over at a few of the men who had their weapons trained on her; she smirks at them and blows one a kiss. "I think I can handle myself here. We go back a ways, don't we boys?" Her smirk freezes when she hears another voice that she is much more familiar with. Her eyes go wide as she looks to doorway and spots Cam, her boyfriend Cam, standing in a matching pair of BDU's with a rather pissed off look on his face. "Oh. Hi darling," she says, smiling and waving at him. General Landry, mouth open to speak, abruptly closes it and turns to look at Cam. "Mitchell? She seems to know you. Can you explain this?" From his furious tone of voice, Cam knows that no answer will be the right one. He goes with the truth. "No, sir. I cannot explain it." "Oh! And Daniel, my what a lovely reunion this seems to be turning into." Vala smiles at him and waves again. She looks back to Ba'al and then the closest marine with his gun trained on her and then finally up at the general standing behind the bullet proof glass. Not knowing what else to do, she raises her hands up and gives him her best innocent expression. "Take me to your leader?" She tries. "That would be me. And you are?" "She's Vala Mal Doran," Daniel supplies, a look of mixed annoyance and dread on his face. "And she's trouble." Cam says nothing. He's not sure what to say. Vala isn't even looking at him now, she's just pulling what he's sure she thinks is a cute face and looking at the General. "I'm not always trouble Daniel," Vala replies to him. Her gaze shifts from Daniel's face to Cam's. His face is hard, his mouth a straight line as he stares hard at her. Her gaze softens as she looks at him. "No, no... you're pretty much always trouble." Daniel is oblivious to the silent exchange between Cam and Vala until the General speaks again. "Colonel Mitchell. Do you know this woman? And I'd appreciate a direct answer this time." Daniel's eyes go wide and he looks at Cam now, comprehension dawning on some level. "Yes, sir," Cam says, stiffly. "I've been... seeing her." "Please tell me that when you say seeing you mean that in the sense that she's in your line of vision at the moment?" Daniel says, managing a smartass remark even through his shock. "No, Jackson." Cam is very abrupt. "I've been dating her." Vala manages a real smile as she looks at him. He's still angry, she can tell by the rigidity in his shoulders, but she can't help the little smile that comes up when she does hear him say they've been dating. Upstairs, Landry is muttering something to Walter before he finally bellows back through the speakers, "Stand down men. Henricks, please escort Ms Mal Doran up to the briefing room please. Jackson, Ba'al, you should probably come as well. And Mitchell, we'll be needing to speak to you." Cam falls into line with them, ending up behind Vala. He feels numb, and angry, and weirdly betrayed. He doesn't know the story yet and he tells himself that he needs to wait. Maybe there is some sort of explanation. Only, Ba'al knows Vala, and so does Daniel, so... that can't be good. Vala follows Henricks up the stairs to a meeting room, keeping her own eyes trained on the gun that he still has out. "That will do Henricks, thank you." Landry steps out of his office and into the room, eyeing all four of them. Vala moves over towards the glass that looks out at the gate and then back to the other men in the room. She places a hand on the table and looks plainly at Landry. "So, you mind telling me how you got into our top secret base?" Landry asks her, shoving his hands in his pockets as he eyes her over. "Or how each of these men know you?" Vala flicks her eyes over to each man in question before looking back to the general. "I used a rope," Vala finally says. "That one, over there. Hanging down by the gate?" Everyone turns to look at where she's pointing. There is, indeed, a rope hanging from the ceiling. Landry rubs an hand over his face. "Walter, have someone get that down." He turns to address Vala again. "Is there anyone working with you? What are you here?" Vala shakes her head. "No one is working with me. And I'm just... trying to get home, general." Her eyes flicker over to Cam's. She's hoping she can catch his gaze but he's keeping his own eyes forward, straight on the general. "I found there was a large source of naquadah somewhere in here and came in to get it so I could get home. I found your chapp'ai and figured, well, that would be much easier." She looks back out the window and then back to the general. "Or at least, it would be easier if you had a dialing device." "We have a dialing device," Daniel says, actually sounding a bit like he's taunting her... at least until the General cuts a glare his way. "Yes, Quetesh, the little Tau'ri have managed to cobble together something." Ba'al is his typical haughty self. "Quetesh?" General Landry's voice gets a whole lot more hostile. "Ba'al, is this woman a Goa'uld?" "Vala?" Cam can't help but stare at her in shock. "Oh and like he isn't?" Vala snaps back, looking and glaring over at Ba'al. She looks back at the general, her own lips settling in a firm line. "I was taken by the gou'ald Que'tesh as a host when I was younger. Thankfully, not long ago, the Tok'ra were able to capture me during a failed battle campaign." She looks over at Ba'al and glares once more. "They were eventually able to remove the gou'ald and free me. So no. I am not a gou'ald. Though I can't say much about the rest of you considering you're working with one." "Yes, but he's an ally, not the person sneaking into our base," Landry says. "And exactly why am I supposed to trust you? We've had Goa'ulds live on earth before and gather followers while they planned their takeovers. Mitchell, you're awfully quiet here. Got something you want to tell us? Like why you've been dating a Goa'uld - or at the very least, a former Goa'uld - without bothering to let us know? Because let me tell you, Mitchell, we prefer to know things like this. Just, you know, drop us a line, a quick email-" "Sir, I didn't know what she was," Cam says. He has the fight the urge to defend her, but the truth is, he's confused enough right now and he's not willing to put it all on the line for someone that has clearly been lying to him from the moment they met. And that's best case scenario - that she's honestly just been here trying to live a life, but lying. Worst case scenario... a knot forms in his stomach and he doesn't even want to think about it. "Ba'al is your ally?" She raises an eyebrow and looks over at Ba'al and then back at Landry and then finally over at Daniel and Cam. No one offers an explanation on him so she continues. "I was only sneaking in your base so I could leave. Feel free to search me, I've got no weapons on me." She holds her arms open as an offering and then finally lowers them when no one steps up. "As for Cameron, well, he didn't know anything about this. I never told him." Though I wanted to. Vala keeps her mouth shut and doesn't add that in, doubting it would help Cam's position with his superiors right now. "Mitchell? How long do you say you've been seeing her?" "A few months. She works at a diner, Sol's. I met her when I went in to eat and we... we hit it off. I thought." Cam says. He's looking at Vala now, and can't take his eyes away. He wants to believe that she's being honest when she says she doesn't have any ulterior motives, besides leaving, but that makes him realize- She was going to leave, had every intention of leaving, and there's a good chance that their meeting wasn't coincidence at all. Vala could see a dark look crossing over Cam's face. She has no idea what he's thinking of but she wishes they were on their own so she could actually talk to him and explain herself better. She looks back over at the general and nods. "He just thought I worked at the diner. Had no idea about anything about me other than what I told him." "What did you tell him?" Daniel asks, crossing his arms over his chest and looking a bit interested in this. "She told me she was a waitress from... from Los Angeles." Now, that part he'd known was a lie, and he feels stupid for not demanding to know more. He can't explain why he'd just trusted her, but he had. Clearly, that had been a mistake. Daniel smirks and kinda chuckles as he looks over at Vala. Vala glares back at Daniel, wishing there was a way to make him disappear with her eyes. "Right well. I don't know what to do with you," Landry mutters, shaking his head. Vala looks over, getting hopeful that maybe he'd just be letting her go. "Daniel, Ba'al, make sure to lock her up in one of the rooms downstairs. Mitchell, with me." Landry turns to leave, heading back to his office. Vala looks over at Cam, hoping that he'll say something or step in. Instead Ba'al steps up, smirking at her and grabs her arm, tugging her along. "This way Que'tesh." General Landry sits down at his desk. "Mitchell, you're a good officer. You're one of my best. I want to think that there's no way you knew this woman was actually the alien named Vala Mal Doran." "No, sir, I did not," Cam says. There's a sigh when no more information is forthcoming. "How serious was it? A couple of dates? Or..." Cam pauses, and finally says, "Or." "Well. Well, damn, son. We're gonna have to detain her, you know that, right?" General Landry taps a pen against the desk. Cam says nothing, so General Landry adds, "You can give me some input now." "Sir, Vala's not violent. I believe her when she says she just wanted to get home," Cam says. "You aren't suggesting we just let her go, now are you?" "No, sir. But I don't think there's any call for putting her in the brig." Cam knows that's likely where she'd have been headed otherwise, and he's not sure his thoughts will really do much good to help deter it, but he doesn't like the idea of Vala being locked up. Landry's voice goes gentler. "You know she used you, right, Mitchell?" Cam nods. "Yes, sir." "And even if she's not after information or sabotage, she still broke into this base." "Yes, sir." "And last year, she stole one of our ships." "Yes, sir." "All right. As long as you keep those things in mind." Landry leans back, and then waves a hand. "Dismissed, Colonel. Go escort your girlfriend to secure quarters. I want two men posted outside of the door, while I try and figure out what we're gonna do with her." Vala sighs as she leans against the desk in the room. There is very few things actually in her room. A desk, a chair, a lamp and a cot at the far back. Very swanky quarters indeed. She reaches out and plays with the lamp, flicking it on and off as she hears men outside her quarters talking. She had no idea that Cam worked with the same people she stole the ship from. Stupid on her part. Cam nods to the guard outside the room, who reaches around and unlocks Vala's door. "Sir, should we-" Cam shakes his head. "I'll be fine." He wants to add that they don't need to treat her like a security thread, but by the very nature of what she'd done - breaking into the base - she's proven herself to be just that. Inside the room, he suddenly has no idea what to do or say to her. He stands there, just waiting to see if she'll even try and explain. She looks up when she hears the door open and she's actually surprised to see Cam walking in. She lets go of the lamp and turns to face him, unsure of what to say just yet. "They send you to interrogate me?" She asks him quietly, not even able to be snarky or amusing, just.... sad. "No," Cam says. "Hell, I don't think so, anyway." She slumps in her spot on the edge of the desk. Sighing she pushes her self off of the desk and moves to stand in front of Cam and just looks at him, unsure of what to say. "So, this is what you do during the day," she says slowly, not sure how else to start. "Not deep space radar telemetry." But then, she had never really believed that. Cam had never seemed like the science kind of guy, more the get in and get his hands dirty kind of guy. "Yeah, Vala. This is what I really do. Because I came in here to discuss what it is that I really do." His anger starts to rise again. Vala looks away from Cam, feeling chastised. "We can talk about what I do for a living. I work in a diner, not far from the base. Serve people hearty and delicious meals with a friendly smile. On my downtime I spend it with my boyfriend and occasionally looking for enough naquadah to get my ship off the ground again." Any intentions of keeping this about SGC business and not personal were really out the window the moment he opened his mouth. "Looking for naquadah... so you can leave." Vala steps forward, putting a hand out to Cam before letting it drop. "I wanted to tell you. Wanted... you to come with me," she says, her voice quiet and desperate. "I tried to tell you the other night about me but... work called and then... I wasn't going to leave without you Cam." "You realize that might have held a little more weight if you'd actually told me before you had one foot out the door?" Cam shoots back. "Well I didn't think you'd really believe me if I just said, oh yeah, I'm from an alien planet and crash landed here on Earth." She pauses and looks at Cam. "Okay, well maybe you would have believed me but no one else would have. I know, I found that one out the hard way." "So what was your plan, then? You said you wanted me to go with you, but you had no intention of telling me, because I wouldn't believe you?" Cam shakes his head, finding her story hard to believe. "It doesn't add up, Vala. Just admit it: you knew who I was, and you played me to get information." "No, I hadn't told you yet until I could show you my ship. Show you it could fly and actually have proof for you to believe me and not think I was some space cadet that had to be locked up. I got caught here, not trying to leave, but trying to find fuel. I wasn't one foot out the door, Cam I wanted to show you my ship this weekend and take you for a ride. I thought you would have liked that." "This weekend." His tone makes it obvious that he doesn't believe her. "You're normally busy during the week. Call Sol, I asked for the weekend off." She can tell he doesn't believe her and it drives her nuts. "And what sort of information have I ever tried to get from you? Other then where you liked me to bite you? I may have asked about your job but I never tried to pry for information or try to get anything out of you any other way." He snorts. "No, I guess you didn't need to, though, did you? You probably got all the information you needed from me, anyway, didn't you? All that acting like you gave a damn about work things. I guess I should just count my luck that I got some good sex out of it at least, right?" His words are fast and furious, trying to mask the hurt underneath. Vala looks away, feeling like she's been slapped. She doesn't know what else to say to that. She takes a step backward and snorts. "Yeah, guess you got that," she agrees quietly as she turns away from him. "If you're done interrogating me then, just go. Please," Vala says quietly. She sits over in the darkened corner on her cot, looking away from Cam. She doesn't want him to see her as she breaks down. "This is not a damn interrogation. Vala, I am the leader of SG-1, and suddenly I have to deal with the fact that the woman I'm in love with is a former Goa'uld who just broke into the base? Fuck, Vala - Ba'al knows you better than I do!" He's still shouting, but shows no signs on moving. Her face is hidden, looking at the wall and she hiccups faintly from the crying. "You're in love with me?" She keeps looking at the wall, afraid to look at Cam right now. "That's-" He hadn't even realized what he'd said. "Hell, Vala. Yeah. Yes, I am... was... fuck. I don't even know. But what I thought we had, that was just a bunch of lies, wasn't it? At least I told you that there were things I couldn't tell you. You just let me think this was all I needed to know. Just a waitress at a diner, right?" "Because you would have believed otherwise?" She asks him, still looking away from Cam. "Alien. Outer space. If you didn't work here, what would you have thought Cam? Until I could actually do something about it, I didn't want to tell you and have you look at me like I was crazy." She shakes her head, breathing in deeply and swallowing down the tears that want to come out again. "Our relationship was not a lie. It is---was---the best I've had in my life." She looks carefully at Cam as she speaks, making sure to keep her voice even and not let herself breakdown just yet. Cam wants to believe her. He shuts his eyes and takes a breath and tries to fight it, but everything in him says to believe her. He can't. Not now. Not without finding out more information. "I'll be back later." He turns and leaves, signaling to the guard to lock the doors behind him. Vala watches him walk out, holding on until the door shuts behind him with a resounding click. She cries out in frustration, kicking at the wall before she falls onto the cot with a soft sob.

Cam likes the little teasing lilt in Vala's voice when she reminds him that their evening is far from over. He likes it a whole lot. He grabs his beer and tips it back, emptying the bottle. When he's done with it, he reaches for his wallet and pulls out enough cash to cover their food and drinks and a sizable tip. "Okay, Miss Mal Doran. What now?" She grins and gives him a shrug. "Your date, you're supposed to take me out and show me a good time, right?" "You? Without an opinion?" He pretends to be shocked. Reaching down, he takes her hand and leads her across the floor. He hums thoughtfully and pulls her to stand in front of him, wrapping his arms around her until she leans back against his chest. "Let's see," he says, his mouth brushing against her forehead. "We got more bowling. We got the arcade over that way. We got the mechanical bull right there... or we could just blow this popsicle stand and head somewhere else..." He sways a little with her, pulling her hair back so he can nuzzle her jaw. "Mechanical bull?" She repeats curiously. She looks around until she spots something that looks vaguely like an animal that is bucking and broncing in the corner. "What is that?" "Something dumb redneck wannabes use to prove how stupid they are..." Cam laughs. "Come on, we can go watch - I think that kid is about to give it a shot. It's fun to see how long they last. Or how long they don't last." He leads her over to where a crowd of people are gathered around to watch and cheer on (or potentially heckle) the rider. The bull starts up and Vala's eyes widen as she watches it move around, trying to throw the rider off. It takes barely any time at all before the man is chucked onto the mats. Another man is in his place, bragging about how he can go far longer as he climbs up into the stirrups. This man only lasts a bit longer than the first, chucked onto the mats in no time at all. "Thats not hard," Vala mutters to Cam, rolling her eyes. "Anyone could do that." "Uhhh...." Cam is doubtful. Vala has moves, certainly, and the things she can do with her hips... but he's not sure if that would exactly transfer to a mechanical rodeo training tool. "I'm not sure..." "Any other riders?" The conductor calls out, tickets still in his hand. "Any more riders for this round? We got a pot of money here for the one who can stay on longest so step up and try your hand!" The conductor says the magic words pot of money and Vala is quick to step up, five bucks being handed over quickly for her own ticket to ride. She looks back at Cam and gives him a huge, excited grin. "Vala!" Cam tries to grab her and pull her back but she's already moving fluidly through the crowd, beaming as she climbs astride the mechanical bull. The guys are going wild, whistling at Vala, who seems to eat it up. Shaking his head in exasperation and amusement, Cam decides to hell with it and joins in with a piercing whistle. Vala grins down and waves, throwing Cam a kiss and giggling when a few other guys around him think its for them. She looks at Cam and winks. Wrapping her hand into the wrap, Vala secures herself before giving a nod to the conductor. From what she saw from watching it was just a mechanized chair that moved back and forth, not unlike how going through an unstable wormhole could be. The bull started up slow at first, jerking first forward and then back. Vala kept her center of balance tight, her body moving and hips swaying in time with the machine. It doesn't take Cam but a couple of seconds to realize that Vala actually has a huge advantage - she's slender and knows how to use her height, how to balance so well she almost seems to be anticipating. She lasts easily three times longer than any of the guys before her. Cam's not even sure if she's actually thrown off so much as decides that there's no reason to stay on any longer. The bull goes faster, bucking harder as it tried to get her off. The bell rang out to let her know that she had reached the five minute mark. Vala figures its long enough and throws a leg over the bull and dismounts as gracefully as she can. Smiling to the crowd, she bows to the applause, eating it up. He's pushed to the front of the crowd by then, stepping into the padded area to help her down. He steps back while she takes her bow and then pulls her to him for a hug and a kiss. "Now that was hot," he murmurs in her ear. This time it's him throwing her a wink. She giggles, arms around his neck. "Yeah? You liked watching me, huh?" Her eyes were bright and her face flushed from the exertion and from excitement. "Now, now ladies and gentlemen its time to check the times but I think we all know who the winner of this round is." The crowd cheers as the man grabs a huge cowboy hat and hands it over with a small bundle of cash. "The champion tonight goes to this little filly right here," he drawls and drops the hat onto her head, handing the cash over to Vala. She takes it eagerly before looking back at Cam. "What did he call me?" She whispers, not sure if she should feel insulted or not. "He said you were a little filly," Cam says, laughing. "I can see his point. You're like a little wild filly... little bit untamed... unbroken... did I mention how hot that was, watching you ride that thing?" Vala doesn't know what a filly is but she likes the sound of those words, untamed and unbroken and she really likes the way Cam is looking at her right now. "How about we give a nice hand to this little girl," the announcer says again but Vala isn't paying attention, her eyes are on Cam. "Ha ha, looks like we've already lost her ladies and gentleman. Also looks like she may be doing a bit more of that riding later on tonight... Ain't that right son?" He grins and winks at Cam. Cam groans, hugging Vala to him and burying - hiding - his face in her hair to avoid the catcalls he's hearing from all around them. "Okay, I think you've caused enough of a spectacle here, what do you say we make a quiet exit... head on somewhere a little more private..." "You think we can exit quietly?" She giggles and pulls him close, her hand slowly sliding down his back for places far further south. He kisses her, keeping his mouth against hers, lips brushing. "Or exit loudly. I don't really care how we exit... as long as I get you alone, soon..." She laughs happily and rubs her body against his as they continue to kiss. Her hands slip into the back pockets of his jeans and she pulls him hard against her body as she continues to rub up and down against him. "You're not helping," he points out, though he doesn't actually mind the feeling of her hands on him. He doesn't, however, really want to do this in public. He pushes her back, groaning when she nips at his lip with her teeth. "Woman, do I have to sling you over my shoulder and carry you out? I'm not big on the Tarzan style, but if I have to..." "Ooh, that sounds fun!" She bounces slightly at the idea but eventually just grabs Cam's arm in hers and leads him out of the bar. "Alright, somewhere private. Lets go back to yours. Or mine, which one gets us to where I can wrap my legs around her head faster?" He can feel her pressed all against him as they walk, her hip bumping his, her hands on his arm. When she mentions her legs and his head, he swears under his breath. "You were just sent here to torment me, weren't you?" Not that he actually minds. Vala chuckles and grins brightly her lips still against his. "Maybe I was. Lucky you, huh?" She grabs his hand in hers, placing it on her ass as they walk and stumble back to his car. "Lucky, lucky..." He stops and grabs her and kisses her. "I'm gonna get luckier, right?" He pulls back a little and grins at her. Vala grins and pushes him back against the hood of his car. She snugs a thigh in between his and rubs. "Oh yeah," she breathes. "How far away is your place?" "Too far," he says, his voice almost breathless. "But I'm too old to be doing this in the back of a car, so we gotta... we gotta at least... try to make it there..." He speaks between kisses, pressing against her. His hands slide down to grasp her ass, squeezing. "Too old," Vala snorts. "Hardly." She grins and reaches down and gives him a light squeeze through his jeans. "I can make you feel so much younger," she whispers into his ear. "Make you get it up so fast for me." "Already do," he says, pushing a little into her hand so she feels the solid bulge of his cock against his jeans. "I can take care of that for you." She runs her palm over the bulge, her fingers curling around it as she squeezes. He reaches down and closes a hand over hers. "Oh, I know you can... but I think we need to... we need to at least get into the car." He's making an effort at public decency, though in the face of Vala and her wandering hands it's hard to remember why he needs to. "Go then," she replies, giving his bottom lip a soft nip before she finally lets go of him. He reaches behind him and fumbles her door open, stepping back to allow her into the car then going around to the driver's side. He starts up the car and looks at her, catching her grin. "Don't - I see that look in your eyes. That look is trouble." Vala purses her lips and sits down in her seat, buckling her seatbelt and placing her hands in her lap. She gives Cam a look like butter couldn't melt in her mouth. "I have no idea what you're talking about Cameron." "Uh huh," Cam nods, very unconvinced. He leans over and taps his finger against her chin before he kisses her again. "Trouble." "Name of the game my dear," she purrs. Leaning in she extends the kiss, her tongue slipping into his mouth. "I'll be good if you get us home right now." He floors it, looking over at her with a huge grin to gauge her reaction. Vala cries out excitedly as his car jumps into action, purring like a happy kitten. Her hand grabs the arm rest as she laughs happily, her eyes bright just as they had been on the mechanical bull. Cam is addicted to things that go fast, and since he can't go up like he used to... this is the next best thing. He keeps his foot jammed down until they near his apartment complex, where the winding roads get busier. "Fast enough for you?" Vala's head is back, her eyes closed and her hand in her lap. She's a big fan of things that move fast. He sees the look of absolute joy on her face and resolves again to take her up in a plane - one of his, something sleek and made for speed. But right now... right now he's got a different kind of ride in mind. He pulls into his parking spot and thumbs the unlock for the doors. "Come on, princess. Night isn't over yet." Her head falls forward and she smirks. "Better not be." Sliding out of the car, she slams the door and moves over to Cam, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him in close for a kiss. "This is not inside," he reminds her, but he also doesn't really have any problem letting her distract him for a few more seconds. She is, after all, very distracting... especially when she does that thing with her tongue, the thing she's doing right now... She giggles and grabs onto him, pulling him closer to her. "Then why don't you take me inside?" He grins and scoops her into his arms, cradling her and making the walk from the car to the door of the building carrying her. He puts her down once they're inside in front of the elevators. As soon as her feet are on the floor again, he's backing her against the wall to kiss her until the ding sounds and the doors open. "Up," he mumbles, tongue in her mouth as they stumble into the lift. "You talking to me or the elevator?" Vala asks with a grin as she kisses him back. She backs up to the elevator wall and uses the handrail to hoist herself up, wrapping her legs around his waist. "I meant the elevator, but, you know," he wraps his arms around her and grinds into her. The doors ding again and they're on his floor but it's hard to pull away from her. "Come on, come on..." She pushes at him and jumps down to follow. She's nicked his keys in the elevator and fumbles with them to unlock his door. He reaches for his keys only to realize that she's already unlocked the door. He knows he had them in his hand when he got out of the car, but he doesn't remember handing them to her. Still - he must have, right? And it's not like the end goal wasn't to get inside, anyway. He kicks the door shut, guiding her hand to drop the keys on the table by the door, and then wraps his arms around her. They step together, more or less, further into the room until they're nearing the couch. He stops, glancing at the couch, then at his bedroom. "Bedroom lover boy," Vala murmurs in his ear. "What I want to do with you can not be contained on that couch of yours." "... oh.... oh," Cam says, words escaping him when faced with that expression of Vala's. "Yes, ma'am." The matter of the keys is entirely forgotten by the time they pass over the threshhold to his bedroom. He stops her in front of the bed and kisses her deeply, his hands moving around her waist, sliding underneath the back of her shirt. "Vala, baby, honey, you know..." He pauses to kiss her neck and nibble up it. "You know how much I like you, don't you? I mean, by now, should be fairly obvious, but... I just... wanna put the cards on the table... oh, damn, stop, you're distracting me..." "What, I would never do such a thing," Vala murmurs, her teeth and tongue fronting a double assault on that sweet spot right behind his ear as her hands begin to massage him through his pants. "Little liar," he says, his voice full of affection for her. "Fine... ok... talk later, talk after... can't think with your hands on me." It's the truth; he has things he wants to say, but... well, maybe right now isn't the best time to be saying them, anyway. He reaches between them and cups between her legs, through the pants she's wearing, rubbing down hard with his thumb where her clit is. "Now you're calling me names," she teases. Chuckling, she runs her lips across his jawline and back to his; she presses them together, her tongue briefly flickering out against his bottom lip. "What were you going to say?" She mumbles against his lips. "You are, but I like what you're doing, so 's'okay," Cam says, stepping back and unbuttoning his shirt. He looks at her expectantly, as if silently asking why she's still wearing clothes. "Oh you want me to do it," she laughs. Her fingers move immediately to her shirt and begin to tug on it, pulling it off and over her head, dropping it onto his floor. Her hands immediately move to her own pants but she gets distracted with Cam's naked chest. Reaching out, she brushes her fingers over his pecs, fingers ghosting over a nipple. "Uh huh. I want you to do it." He does want to see her undress herself, but her touch is distracting enough to make him forget that for a moment. He catches her hand where it dances over her skin and presses her fingertips to his skin, stepping in to kiss her. His pants gape open where he has them unbuttoned and unzipped, the belt falling loose. He urges her hand down until the trail under his belly button leading to his pubic hair tickles her fingertips. She chuckles and pushes her hand a bit further, her fingernails scratching lightly at the sparse hair that's there. "What else would you like to see?" She asks him softly. Her head tilts back and she begins to work on his neck, her lips leaving small nips and kisses all the way up the column to right under his jaw. "You, under me... that look on your face when you're about to come..." His voice is low, the words odd on his tongue because Cam's a gentleman, Cam doesn't usually talk like that, but he's learning what Vala likes. Her smirk is slow, curling across her lips. "Oh, yes sir," she breathes. Leaning in, she presses her lips hard to his before pulling back and away from him. She takes her time, pulling the rest of her clothing off slowly and dropping it piece by piece down onto the floor. Eyes directly on his, Vala moves backwards and climbs onto his bed, splaying herself out on it as if a sacrifice for him. He shoves his pants and underwear down and kicks them off, kneeling on the bed and just watching her for a second, admiring how she looks with her hair tumbling in loose curls around her, her skin milky and pale and just waiting for his mouth, his hands, his body on hers. He crawls toward her and over her, cradling her face in his hands and leaning down to kiss her. She tilts her head back, opening her mouth to his. "Cam," she sighs softly, her eyes falling closed. Her legs open up wide, letting him move in between her thighs. He reaches over to the table to tug open the drawer and pull out a condom. The wrapper crinkles in his fist, but he doesn't open it yet. He kisses her instead and then sits back on his knees. The condom falls to the bed and he puts his hands on her thighs, drawing them upward until his thumbs rub at her pussy lips, spreading her open in front of him. "Oh, oh," she shudders as he touches her. It feels so good and she arches immediately up into his hands to get more of his hands on her, in her, anywhere she can get them. "More Cam," she begs softly. He presses two fingers into her and feels her clench around him. He leaves them there, his thumb circling her clit while his other hand pets her, strokes over her skin. He knows she wants more and he's not in the mood to make her wait tonight. Once he can feel the slickness coating his fingers he takes the condom and rips it open. Vala bites down on her bottom lip as she watches Cam prepare himself, sliding the condom down his cock. She reaches out, wrapping her hand around his cock and helps him slide the condom down his shaft. Her eyes flicker back up to his face as she positions him right at her entrance. Wrapping a leg around his hip, she encourages him to slide deep into her. He shudders slightly as he thrusts into her, sudden surge of stimulation without the slow ease into it of the foreplay they've gone for every other time. He likes this though, likes the connection with her immediately. He gives her a few seconds to adjust and get used to him and then starts to move, nuzzling against her mouth with his while his fingers play in her hair. She opens up to him, her tongue slipping out to meet his and intertwine. She murmurs his name as she pulls him closer, both deeper into her and against her body so she can feel him where they touch from head to toe. "You feel good," she breathes, her hips rocking slowly into his. The pace is easy and relaxed, the both of them just enjoying how it feels to have the other close. "Really, really good." He presses his face against the curve of her neck, feeling how she strains to get closer. He feels the same way, happy to take his time but still trying to feel more of her. "Vala..." He pants her name, feeling her chest moving against his. They're both struggling against it a little more now, both getting there despite trying to draw it out. He thinks about stopping, changing positions, buying some time, but he decides that right now he just wants to let it happen. He covers her mouth with his and kisses her deeply, holding off until he knows she's right there too, trying to time it as closely as possible. She slips a hand down her body to rub at her clit in time with his thrusts. "Cam, I'm--" she breaks off, moaning low and deep as Cam's cock slides past that perfect spot right inside her. "Oh god do that again." Her hips begin to speed up slightly, wanting to feel that again. As soon as he hears that rise in her voice he knows he's doing something good, and he holds himself there and keeps hitting that spot. He moves faster and harder, hips meeting hers with every thrust. He loves how she goes tight around him and cries out just as she starts to come, and his own cries start to drown out her own when he feels his orgasm starting. The tingling in the base of his spine grows, his balls throb and tighten against his body, and everything feels swollen and tight and wet and primed for something deliciously strong. Vala's orgasm is rocketing through her body; her arms jerk over her head as her hips dip and roll and her pussy pulsates around Cam's cock. She opens her mouth to tell him something but his hips jerk in, his own orgasm starting and all she can do is whimper and cry out as she jerks around him again. He groans loudly, her name somehow at the base of that noise, and presses her down against the mattress while his cock jerks and floods the condom with come. It feels like it's never going to end, the way she's milking it out of him, the way her own orgasm makes his own seem to last forever. When it's over and he's breathing like he's just run a marathon and starts to soften he still doesn't want to move away from her. Her voice goes up right at the end, ending in a soft whimper as she finally relaxes and flomps back into the bed. "Oh wow," she whispers, her eyes closed and her mouth curling into a smile. "That was amazing Cam." Opening her eyes she looks up at him, completely happy. His eyes are growing heavy lidded already but he rolls half off of her and yanks off the condom, shifting to drop it into the trash can by the bed. He moves back over to her immediately though, pulling her into his arms and resting his head on the pillow beside hers. "Yeah... sure was," he says, but the look in his eye makes it obvious that she's what made it amazing for him. She smiles back widely at him and reaches out, cupping the side of his face and pulling him into a kiss. "Mm, yeah," is all she can respond with, her own mind equally blown to smithereens. Sitting up, she reaches down and grabs at the blankets on the bed and pulls them up and around her and Cam, snuggling under them. "Was really, really good," she breathes again, laughing slightly. "Always is with you." Her smile softens as she gazes over at him, her eyes roaming slowly over his face, memorizing his features. He props himself up on one arm and reaches out to touch her, pushing her hair back over her shoulder and then smoothing down the loose, curling locks. He makes sure the blanket is tucked up so she won't be chilled. He catches her staring at him and stares right back, lowering his head to the pillow beside hers. He starts to speak but kisses her instead, biting off the words against her tongue, not sure if it'll ruin the moment or not. The last thing he wants to do is send her running. Vala smiles and kisses him back. She tucks herself very conveniently next to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pull him closer. Her lips nuzzle at his and her tongue flicks out to twine with his. "Glad I met you," he says. "Wish I could tell you... you're keeping me sane right now. Whole damn world is crazy and you're just... you make me smile and forget it for a while." Vala frowns and reaches out to move her hand to cup Cam's face. "What's wrong Cam?" She asks softly, concern showing on her face. He shakes his head. "No, nothing... that's not... I can't talk about it. Work stuff. But what I was trying to say is just... I'm glad I met you, Vala. I'm glad you're here with me." "I'm glad you walked into the diner and let me flirt shamelessly with you and pick you up." She grins and rests her head under his chin. "I think I was the one shamelessly flirting..." Cam grins at her, dimples flashing. "You knew why I kept showing up there every night." "Of course," Vala replies smugly. "But if you want to go on and tell me anyways..." She trails off and beams at him. He laughs and presses his mouth to hers. "I kept coming back because you were the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Even with that little headband thing..." "Stupid headband," she whispers, leaning in to kiss Cam again. "That works though, I thought you were the most attractive pilot I had seen. And I have seen quite a few of them." She rubs her nose against his, just breathing in the same air and enjoying the moment. "Oh yeah?" Cam asks. He's always curious about what other people like to fly. "What kind of pilots have you known before? Though you said you hadn't been up before?" He's also a little bit curious about what kind of guys Vala has dated before. "No, I mean, they come into the diner." She shakes her head slightly, her sleepiness affecting her speech. "They came in from the same base you do but their uniforms look different." "Right..." Cam says, then tries to veer away from that topic. "So when do I get to keep you for more than a night?" "How long are you trying to keep me for?" Vala tries, replying with his question with one of her own. She's cautiously optimistic. She usually isn't very good with relationships and most of the time she doesn't care to be but right now with Cam, she wants to get this right, she wants to be that perfect girlfriend that she's seen on the television for him. He thinks about it, weighing his words carefully. He decides to fall back on levity, with a hint of truth, and hope that she both understands and doesn't balk. "As long as you'll let me. But I'll start with a weekend, if he Sal can manage without you. "Oh, a weekend," Vala murmurs, her tongue flicking out to lick her lips. "What sorts of damage could we get up to with that much time to ourselves?" He keeps playing with her hair, watching her sleepy eyes. "I think we could come up with plenty to do in a weekend... go see a movie... I'll take you out somewhere to eat that doesn't have a mechanical bull..." "Somewhere fancy?" She asks hopefully. She rests her hands under her cheek and looks up at Cam as he describes the kind of date they'd go on. "I want to dress up," she continues, making demands on his date parameters. "I want to see you dressed up. Bet you turn heads, honey," he agrees. Sleep thickens his voice and he lets his eyes shut again for a few beats longer this time, visions of Vala in something fancy dancing in the back of his mind. "Scheduled to be on base through next Thursday..." "The entire time?" Vala asks, the pout already evident in her voice. "I mean, you'll be able to come by the diner for dinner, right?" She scoots closer in bed to him, her fingers reaching out for him under the blankets. In the few short weeks since they met, Vala has really enjoyed his presence most evenings, its what she looks forward to most, like a pick me up at the end of each day. "Of course," he says, letting her cuddle in closer again. "Don't think I could stay away if I tried. Being on base just means... means I'm still in Colorado Springs, not out traveling. Close enough to see you. Get my fix of that greasy gourmet." Vala burst into her usual wide grin and leaned in closer to press her lips to his. "Good. Good, I like that." Her fingers closed around his bicep, securing herself to him as she nuzzled in closer and tucked her head under his chin. Her body fit tightly against his under the sheets. "Long as Sal doesn't mind me hanging around trying to distract his best waitress," Cam says. "I'm sure Betty will LOVE the distraction," Vala teases back, trying not to snicker. "I need to remember to leave her a nice big tip next time. After all, she's the one that kept slipping me your half done crossword puzzles." He puts a hand on the small of her back, running his hand up and down her back, over the swell of her ass, dipping down between to feel heat and dampness. "So that's where they kept sneaking off too--" her voice goes up at the end as Cameron's finger slides over her asshole. He laughs, continuing his slow exploration of her. "You're being very naughty," she breathes, smiling and pushing her ass back slightly against his hand. He hesitates a little. He hadn't even realized what his hands were doing, but now that she's called attention to it he pauses. "That... okay? I can stop..." "I like it. Its... Its naughty." She shivers against his body and presses closer wanting more. "You said that already. But you like naughty, don't you?" Cam asks, because he already knows the answer to that. He presses in just slightly, teasing the tender flesh, and then he lets his finger slide down over the slick folds of her pussy. His reach is limited in this position but he can get two fingers in to the second knuckle, enough to tease. "Fuck yeah," she breathes, squirming. Opening her legs, she wraps one around his hip. "You were saying something, now weren't you?" He teases, seeing what his touch is doing to her. He lets two fingers explore her pussy slowly, the soft slick flesh under his fingertips, toying with the different textures and dipping inside every few seconds, while his thumb massages her asshole gently. She groans and rides back against his hand, licking her lips and losing herself momentarily in the way his hand feels, touching her. "You trying to go again or you just trying to tease me?" She asks him, her voice strained and breathless. He finds her hand and puts it on his cock, which is starting to wake up again, half hard. "Can't I do both?" "Suppose you could be," she agrees, stroking him nice and slow, in time with his own fingers on her. They both lay there, fingers exploring and touching as their breathing gets faster. "Then I guess that's what I'm doing," he says, kissing her softly. "What do you like, Vala? What gets you going?" She waits until Cam's fingers have slipped back towards her ass before answering. "That," she breathes, her body shuddering. "That gets me going." "Yeah?" His cock goes from hard to straining in her grasp. He slicks a finger in the wetness of her pussy and then presses it against her asshole, in to the first knuckle. "That? You like that?" Vala can't form the words to answer properly. Her body arches into his and she lets out a long, low groan before pushing back on his finger to take more into her. "Vala..." Cam kisses her again, open-mouthed and deep, while he starts to fuck her with one finger. "So tight, baby... that feel good?" She nods emphatically and slides her body on top of his. "Fuck, yes it is," she breathes. She slides her pussy against the bottom of his cock, making him nice and slick and letting him feel how hot and wet she's getting. "Oh... Christ... Vala..." He groans, grabbing her ass, feeling the motion of her cunt on him. She wiggles her bottom and he gets the message, pressing his finger back into her. "Grab a rubber... I wanna be inside you." Leaning forward, Vala begins to dig through his nightstand until she finds the right box and grabs one. Tearing the package open, she pulls the condom out and slides back to roll it down onto him. She's breathing hard as she knee-walks back up his body and holds his cock in her fist so she can slide down hard onto him. Her breasts are in perfect mouthing distance when she leans over him, and he doesn't hesitate to suck a nipple into his mouth. He doesn't complain about losing it when she backs away though because then he's inside her and his groan is loud and ragged. He's enveloped in warmth and he wants to move but Vala's got that look on her face like she's taking the reigns this time, and he's okay with that. Her head falls back, eyes closing and mouth parted as she begins to ride him. Her back arches as she slides down just a bit more, taking him in a bit deeper than before. He can't stop watching her face. She's not like any woman he's been with before. There's no hesitation, there's no self-consciousness. She knows what she wants and she chases it without shame. That's really, really hot to Cam. He rocks into her as much as he can without upsetting their rhythm, her riding him and his finger in her. Her hips begin to speed up around his cock, milking and working herself to her own orgasm. "Deeper, Cam," she demands, pushing her ass back against his hand. "You like being... full?" He asks, the words working themselves out, spurred by her own freedom with telling him what she wants from him. "You want another one?" She groans and leans forward, pressing her body against Cam's. "Yeah," she breathes. Her eyes lock with his and she grins. "Hold on," he says, knowing he can't put two fingers in her without lube. He sits up awkwardly, his cock still in her, and leans his torso over the side of the bed for the little bottle in the second drawer of his nightstand. He flops back against the bed and flips the cap open, sliding his fingers. Before he starts to fuck her ass again he finds her clit and rubs a bit, the lube making it almost frictionless. She whines though and he adds a little more lube and then presses two fingers into her ass slowly. Vala's eyes cross at how good it feels and she quickly begins pressing back against him. "Oh fuck," she breathes, making her body relax and push past the momentary burn. She hasn't done something like this with anyone, hasn't felt the connection and complete sense of comfort as she does right now with Cam. She feels like she can ask him for anything, ask him to do anything and he'd just grin and double it. He sees how much she's getting off on this and it makes him ache because if she like fingers this much... there's possibility there that just the thought of blows his mind. He needs to fuck and move so he starts to thrust into her, moving his fingers faster. "Come on Cameron," she groans, working him faster with her hips. "Want you.... Want you there with me," she moaned. "Oh," he says, laughing breathlessly, "I will be..." His other hand palms her breast, twisting the nipple in his fingertips and then stroking upward, the curve of her shoulder, up her neck. His fingertips brush her jawline and then trace her lip. She turns her head slightly to catch his finger in her mouth and sucks on it. Her hips begin to rock faster, one hand slipping down her body to rub at her own clit. "Ohyeah... yeah, Vala... just like that..." He says, feeling her pulsing around his dick and his fingers, watching her flex and ride him expertly. "Touch yourself. Lemme see you do that." "Look then," she growls and leans back, making a show for him as she gets off. She rides him hard and rubs her clit just right until she's orgasming, coming hard around his cock. His fingers slip out of her ass and he has to grasp at her hips to keep her from going boneless. He rolls them over, but they're at an angle on the bed and his foot hits the floor - but that's fine, he can work with that. He rolls her onto her stomach and pulls her back until he's half kneeling and half standing, fucking her while he stares down at the smooth, pale expanse of her back, her hair in disarray. "Gonna come," he warns her, slamming into her. "Do it," she groans, shoving back onto him. Her entire body is still vibrating from her own orgasm but she's focused single-mindedly on feeling Cam come inside her, hearing him cry out. "Do it Cam, do it, come on," she eggs him on, practically goading him. "Gonna, oh fuck, it's gonna be good... I can feel it... Vala... Christ.... Vala!" He groans and shoves into her, dropping forward so that his forehead rests against her shoulder as he breathes through a very long, very intense orgasm. "... fuck..." He pulls out gingerly, flopping onto his back beside her. Vala has to take a moment to come down herself, having come a second time around Cam when he had. Breathing hard, she finally turns to her side and smiles at him, enjoying how boneless and sated he looks there on the bed. "Good then I take it?" She asks, her own breathless. Chuckling softly, she reaches out and peels the condom off of Cam and tosses it into the trash can. With her eyes trained on Cam, she bends down and gently laps at his flaccid cock, cleaning off the bit of smeared come left. "Don't think I can move," he says, his voice drowsy, but somehow he finds energy in him to gasp when her tongue touches the oversensitive tip of his cock. He's not even hard but the tremor runs through his body with searing pleasure/pain. His toes clench and he reaches for her, though he doesn't stop her. "Yeah. You definitely killed me." "That would be very sad," she purrs as she finishes cleaning him off before crawling back up his body to curl against him. "I'd hate to not be able to do that again." They're laying sideways across the bed now, and Cam's feet are still on the ground but he can't quite muster the energy to move just yet... at least not until Vala's mouth is off of him and certain damp parts are exposed to the cooler air. He scoots up the bed and pulls the covers over them, wrapping his arms around her and spooning against her from behind. He kisses her shoulder, letting his face rest there, and says sleepily, "That was hot as hell. Just so you know." She giggles quietly and wraps her own arm on top of his, making sure he's holding her tightly. "Which part would that be?" "All of it," he answers, kissing the back of her neck this time, his nose buried in her hair. "Do I need to set the alarm? You gotta be back early?" She pauses to think about it before shaking her head. "No, I'll be fine." Sal may disagree but right now she'd like to enjoy sleeping in with Cam more than anything. "I'll make us some breakfast then... my turn to cook again..." He yawns deeply and lets his eyes shut. "Goodnight, Vala."

* General Landry is behind his desk, reviewing the hastily compiled file on Vala Mal Doran. It includes information gleaned from Ba'al, the previous reports from Daniel Jackson, and notes that Landry himself has scribbled down in the margins from their meeting the day before. He has no idea what to make of this woman but right now he's more concerned with making sure she's being honest about her intentions when breaking in than anything else. The last thing they need is an Ori planet in their base, or a cohort of Ba'als scheming with him. He looks up when she walks in, and gestures to the seat in front of him. Vala smiles as innocently as she is capable and slides into the chair opposite the general. She crosses her legs and tries to seem as nonthreatening and like that woman she's seen on tv as possible. "Thank you for seeing me, monsieur." His lip twitches as he tries not to laugh at her. "You know, I almost flunked French in college," he says, keeping his voice dry, hiding his amusement. ".... oh?" Vala pauses and cocks her head to the side, eyeing Landry. She's obviously said something wrong but she isn't sure exactly which bit it is. "That is... quite inconvenient." "Okay, listen. I don't think you want to be sitting there any more than I want to be sitting here. So, I'll make you a deal. You undergo a full search by my team to make sure you aren't smuggling anything out, and we'll let you walk through that gate right now." Vala thought about that offer and then shook her head. "No, I don't think that deal will work." She re-situates herself, moving her chair up closer to his desk so she could deal with him. "Here is what I was thinking." She scoots towards the end of the chair and looks Landry in the eye. "You've got a loose canon running around your base. I don't know what kind of safeguards you think you've put in place but I can assure you there is no way you have thought for every eventuality. At some point, Ba'al will defeat you. So here is the deal. I stay here with you guys, keep an eye on him and get to... do whatever it is you guys do here that is so fun." "You know, I'm not so sure that given the history on you Ba'al gave to us, that we really need you and Ba'al having time to... reacquaint." Landry hopes that she won't ask him to explain that further, because it's not a thought he wants to linger on. Vala's eyes narrowed slightly as she looked over at Landry. "What exactly did Ba'al tell you?" "That you were a liar, a cheat, a double crosser, that you stole at least half a dozen of his fleets from him, that you're willing to go to any length to get what you want... that there's no way the only reason you were on earth was just to hide out and that we shouldn't trust you any farther than we can throw you, and maybe not even that far," Landry finishes with a flourishing gesture of the paper in his hand. "Of course, all of those things can be said about Ba'al himself." Vala snorts. "He's one to talk. At least I don't have a Gou'ald inside me anymore. Everything he does is for the sake of power and taking back his status as a god. My aims are much smaller. I want to keep from being killed; I want a place to stay and a place to eat and I like having some people nearby that I like and admittedly I like shiny objects as well but what I may like pales to what he does. I am not the same creature that Ba'al knew. Can't say the same about him." "I'll take you at your word on that... but all the same, and I mean no offense by this, but unless you have something substantial to offer us in return, I'd rather not have you in my hair." Landry's voice is firm. "Something to offer other than information on the ticking time bomb in your midst? Well." Vala leans back in her chair and regards the general slowly. "How willing is Ba'al to offer information on Gou'ald technology?" General Landry leans forward, arms crossed over the desk. This is definitely more what he had in mind. "He's sometimes forgetful. His favorite 'game' is to give us one part of the puzzle but leave us scrambling for the rest." "I'm sure." Vala grins slowly. "He likes to think he's the smartest one around, it makes him feel better about himself." Vala folds her arms on the desk and leans in further, getting closer to Landry. "But lets be honest, he was not the brains behind any operation." She gives Landry a smile and begins to sit back. "Besides, there may be a few... things Que'tesh stole that I have kept in case of a rainy day." "All right, so what are your terms, then?" Landry is wise enough to know that she can't just be offering information in exchange for nothing. "I want to stay here on base," She starts; anything has to be bigger than her place attached to the back of Sols. "I want to be able to go and visit my friends without strict supervision and I want to be on, what was it... oh yeah, SG1." She nods decisively. "If I could be a brigadier too that would be useful." "Yes, no, no, and no," Landry says. "You can stay on base, on a trial period. You cannot leave the base without supervision and my approval. SG-1 can utilize you as they see fit, with my approval. And you do not have a rank." Vala frowns and wrinkles her nose. "Can I have access to the technology and reports that you have on base?" She asks, looking at Landry skeptically. "I mean, I need to know what it is you already have and what Ba'al has told you, misinformation or not." "With supervision," Landry says. "And it will be limited access. You should also be aware that IOA officials will probably also want to meet with you." "The who?" She has no idea who that is. "And, supervised by who, exactly?" Vala is making sure that before she gets into any deal with the Taur'i, that she has her own, and Cam's, interests covered. Whether he wants his interests covered or not. "The IOA. That's our International Oversight Advisory. They keep us running, so we tend to work with them as best we can," Landry explains. "And that includes allowing them access to any temporary guests. You will be supervised by someone that I assign." She huffs and slumps back in her seat. "You don't do negotiating very well." She scrunches her nose and finally thrusts her hand out to Landry. "That's because this isn't a negotiation, Miss Mal Doran." Landry does smile now, and offers his hand to her. "Just don't make me regret it." Vala smiles at the general, shaking his hand hard up and down. She's quite pleased that she gets to stay, work with Cam and she was able to keep the whereabouts of her ship a secret. She'll worry about getting to her ship later. She has no plans of escape, but there is enough modified specifications to her cargo ship that she's unwilling to lose it. "Very well than general. Do I get new quarters then? Perhaps without all the company? Or perhaps I can just fine my own." She bounces up to go and find Cameron, wanting to finish their talk and to tell him what she and the general have talked about. Vala sighs at the door. She dislikes the amount of rules the general, and the SGC, seem to put on everything. "Can I at least go and find Colonel Cameron then?" General Landry thinks over it for a moment and then shrugs. "If 'Colonel Cameron' wants to see you, then be my guest..." She narrows her eyes again at general Landry. "Why do you say that, gen?" "Oh, far be it from me to be presumptuous, but you seem like a handful, Miss Mal Doran. But right now? The less I know about that, the better. Do you understand?" He meets her gaze head on. Vala smiles slowly. "Ah, I gotcha." She gives Landry an exaggerated wink. "Aye, aye, gen," she says, saluting him. * True to his word, within an hour General Landry has Vala moved to non-secured quarters. Cam hears first about it like everyone else (base gossip) but shortly after he gets an email from General Landry informing him of the latest information, and that Vala has requested to be a liaison with SG-1. He realizes that all of this means one thing in particular; Vala's staying. He's not sure if he should be upset or happy about that. He hasn't eaten all day and he's not sure that getting Vala food would have been top priority so he grabs a couple of to go plates from the commissary before heading to her new digs. Vala surveys her room. It is underground base grey and drab and she's not really happy with the color decor. She looks it over, mentally planning things from her own current place to bring in to make it a bit more home like. Like a new paint job. There is a knock on the door, so Vala knows it can't be any of the officers that have been and out to see her, they never knock. "Hullo? Come in!" She calls out. "Hey, you busy?" Cam asks, standing awkwardly in her doorway holding two containers of food. "Just redecorating," Vala replies, looking over her shoulder to grin at him. "Or well, working to come up with what I need to redecorate. Are all the rooms this boring color of grey? Its so depressing, how do you not want to repaint? Anyways, Cam, Cameron, Cam, what can I do for you?" She is practically bouncing, vibrating with energy as she makes her way over to him and takes a box of food. "Food! Great! Amazing-- Well, not as amazing as I'm sure mine was but still, food, food is good." She stops talking long enough to shoot Cam a huge smile. "Please, come in." "Yeah, the commissary cook isn't exactly Sal," Cam says. "Thought you might be hungry." He hands over one of the containers. There only places to sit are the bed and the small table with two chairs on the other side of the room, so he heads over there. "Yeah, I haven't spent that much time here, to be honest. I have assigned quarters but..." He shrugs. "When I was on earth, I was usually with you." Vala moves over to where Cam is sitting and slides into a seat across from him. "You still can be," she says quietly, her eyes flicking up to look at his face as she opens her container of food. He gives her a tight smile. "Not quite the same." "No I suppose its not the same as getting out and away but, I am here." She offers him another smile and turns to her food, digging into it. She hasn't eaten since before she snuck into the base and she is starving. "Right, speaking of that," Cam says. "Landry won't let you leave? I'm surprised. Not really his style to keep someone here." "Well..." Vala pauses to finish the bit of sandwich she's eating before continuing. "I traded him to stay. He said I could leave if I submitted to a body search, interesting that, but I offered him a deal to stay instead." Cam puts his hamburger down. "What, you wanted to stay?" Vala sits back in her chair, confused. "What? Yeah." Cam can't quite wrap his mind around that. "Your whole reason for breaking into the base was to get stuff so you could leave." "Yeah, but I wasn't prepared to leave now, Cameron." She sighs and pushes her container away, leaning in closer on the table as if Cam could understand her better if she were closer. "My ship, it can be powered on and it can run some functions but it can't fly. I need naquadah to make it fly and I am fresh out of it. I'm sure you're familiar with the fact you don't have any in abundance around here. So I broke in to get naquadah to make my ship be able to fly, but I wasn't doing that to leave. I was doing that... because I wanted to take you flying this weekend in my ship." "So you're serious? That's actually what you were planning?" Cam still sounds a little bit doubtful. "Yes, I was serious about that. I thought you would enjoy space flight, once you got past the initial shock of everything, anyways. But I needed naquadah to make the ship fly. And, well, my ship has a few modified features; it was able to tell me where the nearest supply of naquadah was. It just didn't tell me it was a chapp'ai." "I still don't understand why you want to stay here," Cam says, shaking his head. "Well, its not like you're going to leave now, are you? Not when you are playing first line defense to saving the world and the galaxy. I mean, I thought it was one thing to tempt you from your job when you were just looking through telescopes all day but this, this is something else." She shakes her head. "No, I just figured you were staying so... I better find a more permanent place to stay." "So, you're staying for me?" Cam's voice is openly incredulous now. "Vala, have you thought this through? The IOA aren't exactly the nicest guys in the world." "Well," Vala pauses and worries her bottom lip. "Mostly, you? Yes. The other... I don't trust Ba'al. I don't trust him as far as I could throw him and I think you have all lost your senses to think that he can be trusted for anything. So someone needs to keep him in line and make sure he doesn't blow up your planet with you on it." Cam doesn't comment on that. He's read Ba'al's report of the history between himself and Vala's former Goa'uld. It doesn't exactly reassure him. "So what, you're signing on to stay and be Ba'al's babysitter?" Vala leans in closer. "You don't know what he can do. Whatever you think you know about him? Its worse. I'm sure he's said the same about me but the difference is, it wasn't me he's talking about. I got rid of my gou'ald. He still has his." "Trust me, Vala, we know," Cam says. "No one here is under any misconception that Ba'al is really on our side. He's just on the side that keeps his out of the line of fire. Right now, that's us." Vala looks at Cam skeptically. She doesn't believe in the slightest that they have any idea of what they are doing with Ba'al and she knows at some point, somewhere down the line, Ba'al is going to pull something on them. And when that happens, Vala is sure to be there. But for the moment she lets it go. Cam believes they have everything under control and she's not going to change his mind right now. Cam watches her, not sure what that look on her face means. "You know, blue doesn't look half bad on you." He's referring to the BDU's she's wearing. They're too big for her, the shirt hanging off of her. "If you're staying here, you'll need your stuff. I'll talk to Landry about getting you out later to go pack up your place at Sol's." Vala pauses, thinking about that for a moment. "Will I be allowed to go and visit?" She asks him hopefully. She does care for Betty and Sal and can't imagine just cutting off contact completely. Even if Betty does enjoy interrupting her when she tries to have alone time with Cam. "I think so," Cam says. "You've been living here for months already. Look awfully strange if you just disappeared from your life...." He's spinning the story he'll tell to General Landry out loud. She gives Cam a heartfelt smile, really appreciating it. "Thank you. I would miss them.... And Sal's blue plate specials." Cam isn't actually sure if he'll ever want to go back there. Even thinking of it now gives him sort of a gnawing empty feeling inside that he's just not used to. "Yeah. Well. I'm sure you'll get to have one again." Vala frowns looking over at him. "You'd go with me right? I could actually sit at the table with you and eat this time." She's joking, but deep down, Vala gets a bit excited at the idea. "Yeah, I guess, if you want me to," Cam says. Somehow, he doesn't actually see that happening, though. "I would like that." Vala smiles at him and reaches across the table to find Cam's hand to squeeze it. "Vala..." He looks down at their hands and then pulls his away. Vala frowns down at where her hand is left on her own. She raises her head up to look at Cam, "What...?" He shakes his head. "Don't do this. You know this... changes things." Vala's forehead burrows slightly. "I know there are some differences, but I still am the same person I was before. I mean, bumps in the road, right?" She says, her voice going up higher as she just hopes Cam isn't trying to do and say what she maybe might be thinking. "Vala, you aren't the same person to me. Everything I thought I knew about you was a lie. That changes things for me." Cam can't help how miserable he sounds when he says it. "I am the same." Vala insists, her voice rising again. She gets up and moves over to his side, sitting on the bed and looking right at him. "Okay the background is a bit different and there are some things we'll have to work on and talk about but... my feelings for you aren't changed, I still want you." "Vala, you had a Goa'uld inside of you for who knows how long. I don't know where you're from. I don't know if you have any family or not. I don't know how old you are. I don't know anything about your life, and what I do know was just a cover story." His voice doesn't rise; it stays flat and level, but it's a struggle. "Yes, but we can go through that, talk about it. And having a Gou'ald inside my head wasn't my choice. I was not consulted at any point of that procedure," Vala says honestly. "I know, I know you weren't," Cam says, shaking his head. "I'm just saying, that's a lot of your life that I just... I don't know about. Besides, I read your file. You really saying you'd be happy just sticking around here for the next decade or so? Because I'm not leaving SG-1. Not until they kick my ass out." Vala opens her mouth as she thinks about that scenario. "I can stay in one spot," she finally says, jutting her chin out. "And its not like I couldn't go anywhere. You go off world and go places all the time. And then ... we'd be able to stay together." "General Landry said you wanted to work with SG-1." Cam tries another tactic. "I don't think it's a good idea for people on the same team to be in a relationship. It complicates things. And, hell, things are already pretty complicated." She shakes her head again. "It won't be complicated," she insists, scooting closer to the edge of her bed. "I can be quite uncomplicated, okay no I can't thats a lie, but ... I can make it uncomplicated. I can, just, not be on SG-1 then. Problem solved. Just don't-- don't do this Cam, please, please don't. I can't lose you," she whispers, her voice desperate. "I love you Cam, please don't do this." "Vala..." Cam can't quite handle hearing her voice shake like that. "You mean it?" There's something guarded in his voice, like he just needs to hear it one more time before he can really believe it. Vala drops her head a bit, feeling overwhelmed and more naked and open than she has to anyone in a long time. "I wouldn't lie to you, not about this Cam." Her voice is quiet but steady as she picks up her head to look him in the eye. "I mean it." He rubs a hand over his mouth and then nods. "Yeah. Okay. We'll try this." "Yeah?" Vala repeats, her own voice still quiet as if she's scared to get her hopes up. "Yeah." He sits back, still at the table, and nods. "Just don't make me regret this, Vala." She shakes her head, her face splitting into a huge grin. "Oh you won't, you won't at all," she assures him. Vala is quick to slip off the bed and into his lap, taking Cam's face in her hands and kissing him softly. He can't do anything but smile in response to that look on her face, that utter elation. She loves him; she said she loves him, and he's never been the type of guy to a woman before anything else but right now Cam can't imagine not being with her, even considering everything that's happened. He wraps his arms around her, kissing her back. She chuckles happily and rubs her nose against Cam's as she slides her tongue into his mouth, curling it agianst his own. "What do you want to know? I'll tell you. Anything, just ask." He pauses and thinks for a minute before settling on an easy question, something basic. "Where are you from?" "A small back water little planet that no one ever goes to. We knew it as Lantanna. I'm sure you would have a different name for the place." She answers Cam honestly and quickly, wanting him to feel like he can ask her now, she won't make the mistake she did before. "Lantanna?" Cam repeats it after her, smiling a little bit. "Sounds... pretty." "It was. If you liked strongly agrarian society and heavily forested planets. But still, it was a very, peaceful, quiet sort of place. It wasn't very rich and it didn't have any naquadah so growing we were left alone by the gou'ald. Mostly, anyways." "Mostly?" He's certainly curious though he can't help but assume she'll try to deflect. Its heading into territory that Vala previously steered wide away from. She didn't like to talk about her childhood too much and she didn't usually like sharing too much of her past either. But this isn't usually and usually isn't Cam. She shifts in his lap, pulling away from him slightly as she works out how she wants to word what she wants to say. "Most worlds under gou'ald rule are accustomed to having their god come in when they wanted something. My world did not have much to offer, we had few people and fewer resources but we were not forgotten by the gou'ald either." Cam has a hand resting around her waist, but he's not forcing her to stay where she is. If she wants to leave, she can. He hopes she doesn't, though. He might still be wary but he also wants to hear this. "What did they do when they did remember you?" Vala shrugs slightly. It has been a long time since she was a child back on Lantanna and most of her memories of that time were faded around the edges. "Mostly they wanted tribute, something in the way of servitude and what not. For most people it was portions of their crop or what they had been able to make in the harvest." He reaches up and pushes her hair from her face. "What about your family? What did they take from you?" Vala frowns and shifts again in Cam's lap. Her eyes flicker up to the concern in his and the soft expression on his face. She smiles lopsidedly at Cam and reaches up to brush the tips of her fingers over what feels like a five o'clock shadow growing across his face. "My father would trade with them for whatever he might have lying around. He traveled around past Lantanna and had a variety of wares and information that the gou'ald found useful." He gives her a brief flicker of a smile on response to the touch of her fingers. "Your dad... your family. You still see them a lot? Ever? Where are they at? Brothers, sisters, parents?" "Cam..." Vala starts, her brow furrowing slightly. "I'm not sure where any of my family are anymore. If any of them are even still alive. Not sure if I'd really like to see any of them even if I did." "None of them?" He's aware that he's delving into personal space right now, but that's what he wants. He can't imagine dating anyone else for as long as he and Vala have been together now and still knowing nothing about her family. "Why not?" "Cam," Vala says, finally standing up and moving. She paces back and forth in front of Cam, burning off nervous energy. "I was a host Cam. Its not exactly a short term gig." Cam tenses as soon as she does. He crosses his arms over his chest, fighting the urge to stand because standing always makes him feel better. He doesn't like having to look up to people. "Right. How long, then?" Vala looks away from Cam. She stops in front of her dresser and leans back against it. She can feel the tension in the air and she knows its her doing. She wants to be upfront with Cam but many of her memories are not pleasant ones for her to recall. "I can't remember exactly," she finally says quietly. "My best guess was around fifty years." "Okay." He doesn't ask her to linger on that. It's still something he needs to wrap his mind around, and he has a feeling he's pushed as far as she'll let him push, anyway. She feels awkward and open and vulnerable. Not a feeling she has felt in a very long time. Vala wraps her arms around her middle, hugging herself before she pushes off the dresser and moves into Cam. She presses her nose into his neck and breathes him in as she leans against his body, letting him hold her up instead of the dresser now. She needs this, needs to feel this closeness with him right now and know that he's not going to push her away again after all of that. He doesn't have any problem doing that for her. He hugs her to him, kissing her temple. Part of him things that being open and honest with someone you claim to love should never be this hard. But he's not Vala, and he hasn't had her life, and while this is something he's not going to bend on, he will try and be understanding. She slowly relaxes until her body sags against Cam's almost completely. She takes a deep shuddering breath in before releasing it slowly. Smiling to herself, she presses a brief kiss to the nape of Cam's neck. Her arms tighten their hold around him as she moves her body closer to him. Her past is not an easy one and its not something Vala shares easily with anyone. With Cam, however, there is a large part of her that wants him to know about her but there is also another part that is equally scared by what he will think once he finds out everything about her. "I should go," he says, after a minute, pulling back slightly. He knows it won't look good if he stays here all night, and he's not really sure that Vala would want him to, anyway. She pulls back from Cam slightly, frowning. "Go? ... now?" She doesn't want him to leave but she is beginning to think he doesn't want to stay either. She drops her arms to her sides so he can step back away from her. "Do you have to go now?" She asks him, her voice sounding tiny and quiet and unlike it normally does. He doesn't step away. Instead, he reaches for her again, sighing and pressing his face against her hair. "I can stay a little while longer," he says, after a minute. "But I shouldn't stay the night. That wouldn't help your case any, or mine either." "My case? What case is that?" Vala asks, turning to look at Cam as best she can this close to him. He shakes his head lightly. "Never mind." He doesn't see much need to rehashing the same stuff they both know; that if she does one thing wrong, she's out of here, knowledge about the Ori and Ba'al or not. And... no matter what issues he might be having right now, he does want her here. He wants her to stay. Vala wants to stay with Cam. Doesn't want to have to leave him and she knows now there is no way she can just go back to working at Sol's. Even if she wanted to go back to her old life, there is no way that she could now with the SGC knowing about her. She pulls away slightly so she could see him. "So you mean that they would not like you... with me?" She asks him quietly. "They already know we were together," Cam says. He lets go of her and then sits back down at the table, not sure where else to go. The only other option is the bed, and... well. He's not sure they're quite there in the conversation yet. "Hell. I don't know what to do, Vala. Never exactly been in a situation like this." It almost makes him laugh, how different this is from what he'd always imagined being on SG-1 would be like. "Neither have I," she replies honestly. She's never been in a position where she wanted to stay and not leave. "I just want you to stay with me. Or me with you, I'm very flexible." Cam almost cracks a smile. "Yeah. Yeah, you are." Vala's lips curl into a wide smile. "I know what you're thinking about," she teases him lightly. He falls to the bait. "Oh yeah? You think so, huh?" Vala beams ridiculously at him. "Mm, oh yeah. Cause I'm thinking about it too." "So..." He pauses. "You and Jackson, huh? You know, there were rumors about you two. Ships have security cameras built in." Vala sighs and chuckles softly. She shifts on her feet and does lean back against the dresser behind her. "Yeah, I suppose there were some rumours after that." She reaches out and grabs Cam's hand, squeezing it before letting it go. "He was... interesting though perhaps a liability to keep. Probably would have worked out better for me if I hadn't." Cam hesitates, picking his words carefully, trying to keep the blatant jealousy out of his voice. "He didn't name you. Said he thought you were harmless. Didn't see any reason to include you in his report. I know Jackson pretty well. That means you did something he liked." Vala stops, actually surprised by that. "He said that? That I'm harmless?" She frowns for a moment before responding. "Not much... happened between him and I. A lot of fighting. I cold cocked him a few times and he finally hit me with a z'at gun." Cam lifts an eyebrow. "That's all, huh?" Part of him is relieved, and part of him... isn't even sure if he should believe her. "Just about. I think I tried to kiss him at the beginning before I knocked him out too. But that, yeah, definitely all that happened. Were you... worried? About something else happening?" "Not worried," Cam answers, just a little too quickly. "Not worried?" She repeats, this time a bit softer. "Not jealous at all?" She steps forward and offers Cam a soft smile, wrapping her arms around his middle. "No," Cam says, and some of the sulk definitely slips through this time. Vala smiles slowly and pulls him even closer. "You were too." "You don't wish he'd been the one to walk into that diner?" He rests his forehead against hers. "He's in more of a position to help you out right now than I am." Vala cupped her hand against his cheek and nuzzled softly at his forehead. "I couldn't have asked for anyone else to have walked into the diner." Cam lets his eyes close. "I wanted to take you home. Kept thinking about it, last time I was on a mission. Taking you to Kansas to meet my folks." Vala is surprised, having not expected that at all. ".... really?" She asks him, her voice tiny and hopeful. "I thought my momma would love you," Cam admits, smiling a little. "And I sure as hell know she'd be relieved if I found someone I was serious about." "... you thought...?" She asks, repeating his use of the past tense. "You don't think she would now?" "You don't exactly seem like the type of person that wants to meet the parents," Cam says, and that reminds him just how little he knows now about what type of person she is at all. The reminder makes him stiffen and pull back a little without even meaning to. "I'd like to meet your mother," she replies back. Vala moves forward, reaching out for Cam once more. Her hands curl around his biceps and she pulls him closer to her. "Vala..." It's on the tip of his tongue to say again that he just doesn't think this will work. He wants it to, but it just doesn't feel real to him right now. He feels cheated out of something he thought he had. Vala drops her hands from his arms and looks up at his face, almost afraid of what she is going to see there. "What, Cam?" He shakes his head. "Nothing. Nothing. I should go now." Vala moves, jumping up on the bed and then down to block Cam's easy exit to the door. "That was not nothing. That was my name. Said in a tone of voice that usually indicates annoyance, exhaustion or sadness. None of these are particularly good emotions Cameron and I would really like to have some clarification here on what you meant by that. Oh, and your comment about not being the meeting parents type." "Vala, you would be so bored by Auburn, Kansas. You'd be bored by my hometown, by my parents, by my life." His temper flares slightly. "I'm not bored by you." Vala's own temper is beginning to flare back and she moves closer to him. "You are easily the most amazing thing I've had enter my life in a very, very long time. I don't care what you think, if its connected to you I already know I love it." She nods her head firmly as if that alone settles the matter. Cam doesn't really have a comeback to that. "Why? Look, I'm not saying I don't know my own strengths, but why would you want to stay here when you have a life out there?" "Because right now what I have here is the most important thing," Vala replies back. "Not whatever sort of life I may have out there somewhere." "So you're seriously saying whatever you had going on out there before you got stuck here is so worthless that you'd give it all up for some guy you just met who can't offer you anything but partial imprisonment in an underground facility?" Cam's voice belays the incredulousness that he feels. Vala just stares back at Cam for a moment before she replies quietly, "He says he loves me." Cam feels like he can't breathe for a few seconds. "He does." "Then, I have every reason to stay." Vala says it simply, for her the choice is easy. She wants whatever life keeps him in hers. He'd never thought that this thing could be fixed with just a few words, and truthfully it's not entirely all right now - there are still problems, still things they'll need to work through, but hearing her say that... for the first time, he believes it. He's shaking slightly as he pulls her to him, not upset but overwhelmed with what he feels right now. She goes where he pulls her, easily folding herself into him. She wraps her arms around him, shaking herself slightly. There were a few moments there that Vala had actually begun to worry that Cam was going to leave and everything she had been trying to fix would fall apart once more. She sniffles ever so slightly into his neck, rubbing her nose against him. Cam is exhausted, suddenly, as if the adrenaline that's been keeping him afloat has suddenly decided to leave his system all at once. She can feel how he sags against her and she nuzzles him gently, walking them both over to the bed. "Its been a long day," she says quietly. All Vala wants to do is lay down and relax, maybe cuddle with her boyfriend for a little bit. He lets her guide him, his hand loosely in hers. The bed is standard issue for guest rooms, same size as the one in his own quarters. He follows her down, stretching out on top of the covers and pulling her against him. He wishes he could just blank his mind out right now, focus on nothing but laying here, with her. She stretches out alongside him, smiling over at him as she scooches and moves to cuddle herself up against his chest. She rests her head right under his, tucked up under his chin. "This, this is nice," she whispers, just closing her eyes and enjoying the moment as well. "Yeah," Cam says, enjoying the weight of her against him. He has no idea what time it is but his internal clock says late. He's been in here for a while, a couple of hours at least. Vala runs her hand through his hair and leans in close, pressing her lips just chaste and softly to his, testing to see how he feels. He kisses back, turning them slightly and lowering her to the bed so he's leaning over her. He cups her face, fingers in her hair, and brushes his mouth over hers. She smiles into the kiss and presses her lips against his a bit firmer now that she knows he isn't going to pull away from her. Reaching out, she cups her hand to his cheek and slightly parts her lips, inviting him in. His tongue sweeps over hers, and the kiss turns from something hesitant to something more, stronger, letting his weight fall close to the bed as he moves from supporting himself with an arm to supporting himself with a forearm on the pillow close to her head. She tilts her head back and opens her legs a bit wider. Cam slides in, laying against her perfectly just as they had before. Her fingers card through his hair, playing with the soft strands as she tugs him in closer to her and kisses him back deeper. She can feel the intensity notching up in the kiss and rushes to match it. His hair is short enough that her fingers can barely find purchase there but it still feels good, her nails scraping against sensitive skin. It makes him shiver, makes his cock start to harden, and his pulse begin to pound as he works his mouth against hers. She whimpers ever so softly into his mouth and begins to push up on his body. She wants to feel him closer to her and pushing into her. "Cam," she moans quietly, her tongue curling around his. His hand moves alongside her body, cupping her breast through the shirt she's wearing, feeling the way her nipple stiffens. Her body arches toward him and he lets his thigh push between her legs, giving her something to move into. She really likes that and moves eagerly into him. Her hips dip and roll against his thigh as her kisses turn more energetic. She sucks his tongue into her mouth, nibbling on the tip of it as she finally lets it go only to chase after it with her own tongue. He sits up and tugs at her shirt until he gets it off, leaning back down to suck her nipple through her bra. He's impatient all of a sudden, wants her, wants to prove to himself that he still has her. A lot might have changed but this is still the same. "Oh." Its a small movement but just the feel of Cam's hands tugging and pulling her shirt off is enough to get her excited. "Cam--" she tarts to say, breaking herself off when she feels the soft suction of his mouth on her bra over her breast. "I need to feel you Cam," she finally says. Her voice is low and desperate as she curls her fingers in his shirt. He helps her unbutton his BDU shirt and then shrugs it off. His t-shirt follows after and then he wraps his arms around her, mouth against hers, their chests pressed together. "Oh, oh yes," she agrees, fingers already moving to her own pants. She wants to be undressed, pressed nakedly against Cam. "Help me--?" She asks him softly, her lips and tongue still sliding and moving against his own. He kisses down her neck, between her breasts, mouth on her stomach as his fingers undo her pants and push them down her body. Her legs are long and smooth and he loves how they feel against his hands. She smiles and lifts her hips up as Cam tugs and pulls everything down. She loves the way he looks between her legs, the top of his head right at her hips. She arches off the bed once more and reaches down to run her fingers through his short hair. Wrapping one leg around him, she pulls him in close to her. He gets the hint she's dropping and leans down to kiss the insides of her thighs, swiping his tongue over her pussy lips and then sucking lightly on her clit. He's too impatient for too much foreplay right now, though. He just wants to be inside of her. He has his pants almost all the way off when he realizes something. "Fuck. We can't." "What--? Why not?" Vala asks him. Her breathing is heavy and fast; she's turned on and she wants to feel him above her now. She doesn't want to hear that they can't. "The SGC doesn't exactly keep guest quarters stocked with condoms," Cam mutters, kicking his pants off and then rolling over to lay down beside her. His fist hits the rumpled covers on the bed, fingers tightly clenched in frustration. "... you don't have any?" She asks, rolling on her side to look at him hopefully. She doesn't want to just give up, right now she wants him. "Don't exactly imagine situations in which I'd need condoms while I'm on base very often," Cam says, glaring slightly up at the ceiling. "Yeah I was thinking maybe... wallet?" She continues hopefully. She reaches out and curls her hand around the side of his face, tugging him until she can look at him. "No," he says. "I used to carry one but we used it. Haven't really been considering myself the kind of guy that needed a 'just in case' anymore." He gives her a look. She smiles softly at him and leans in, pressing her lips against his own. "We could..." She starts to say, looking down at where his pants are still pulled down low, his cock almost halfway out. He kisses her back, though he's still frustrated. He could walk down to his quarters and see if he has one in his bag somewhere but he doesn't think there's a good chance of it, and he also doesn't particularly want to walk out of her quarters and down a floor with a hard on. "We could what?" She bites on her bottom lip and gives him a grin. "Do we need one?" She finally asks. She trusts him to have told her if there was anything she needed to worry about but given how things have gone the past few days she isn't sure if he trusts her like that. It takes him a second to think about what she's saying. "Don't we?" "Well... Its up to you," she finally says. She hopes he gets what she's trying to say because she really doesn't want to have to come out and say it right now. "But... don't we... need it?" He says again. He's a guy, and of course he likes the idea of being inside of her with no protection, but he's not naive. "What about birth control?" She shakes her head slowly. "I wouldn't get pregnant," she assures him. "I have a tiny implant that gives off hormones that would keep me from conceiving." "Implant?" He looks at her, naked except for the bra she's still wearing, and considers it. "And there's nothing else to worry about?" He wants to trust her, and his gut instinct says she'd never lie to him about this, but he has to ask just to be sure. She shakes her head. "Nothing else that we need to worry about," she repeats for him. She offers him another smile and reaches out for his hand. He tugs her over on top of him and kisses her, giving her his answer nonverbally. He cups her face and runs a hand up her back, feeling the bumps of her spine underneath his fingertips. She shivers and squirms in his arms until she's able to slide her body just right against his. Her nipples drag across his chest as she moves to dominate the kiss. He reaches behind her and manages to unhook the bra, sliding it off so he can feel her without that between them. He feels her tongue on his and his cock is waking back up, hardening against her hip. She pulls back to grab her bra and toss it aside. Smiling back down at him, she leans forward and presses her lips to his and slides her tongue back in to stroke alongside his. "Mm, Cam," she begins, shivering in his arms as she rolls them back over, wanting him on top of her again. He reaches down and checks to see if she's ready, fumbling with his fingers and rubbing against her lips, finding the wetness there. His breathes quickens as he thinks about what it will be like to be inside of that heat, and he doesn't want to wait long. He kisses her and grasps his cock, rubbing the head where his fingers had just been, the flared head of his cock swiping over her clit. Vala gasps and jerks slightly underneath him. Her clit is already sensitive and the feeling of him rubbing against her feels amazing. She wraps a leg around his hip, encouraging him to move into her. He finds just the right spot and presses in, moving slowly, taking his time. He pushes her hair back from her face and says, "That okay? Feel good?" Vala can't respond with words. She moans low and deep and pushes her hips up towards Cam eagerly wanting more. Her arms wrap around his chest and she pulls him down and close to her so she can kiss him as he slides into her pussy. He settles above her, between her legs, and starts to thrust. "Feels good," he admits, not having realize what a difference it would really make. "Never done this before without a condom. Well, not sober and that I could remember." She shudders around him as she laughs. "So good," she moans happily, biting down on her bottom lip as she jerks her hips up again. "Haven't done it like this...." She trails off, shaking her head. She isn't able to focus and talk too well, but she hasn't had it like this either. Her legs are around his waist and his body is pressed to hears, sweat forming between them. The bed is starting to smell like sex and he lets his mind just check out, lets his body take over and do what feels good. "Ooh, yeah, thats it," she encourages, her whole body getting in to it. "Yeah thats the spot. You know right where I want it don't you?" She always gets talky during really good sex, her mouth just beginning to go without any sort of filter. "Know right where I need you to put that cock. Mm, oh yeah fill me up Cam--fuck--" Cam's less interested in talking right now. He just wants to connect, to feel her, to get off, to let go of the awful feeling plaguing him for this entire day. He kisses her, not really meaning to shut her up, just wanting to kiss. She turns her head into the kiss and runs her tongue against his own. Her words come out garbled and murmured before she gives in and goes quiet. Wrapping a second leg around him, Vala is able to fully rock and push into him, opening herself completely to Cam. "Need me to..." He murmurs, a hand brushing low on her belly, fingertips against the trimmed curls of her pubic hair. "Mm, yeah," she moans, squirming again. "Yeah do it. Like that." His fingers rub over her clit and he can feel how much wetter she gets and the way she starts to clench around him. "Yeah, you there?" "Almost," she pants. She's not quite there yet but she can tell by how his back clenches that he's getting very close. "So close baby," she whispers softly, her lips moving along his jawline to his ear. "God yes, yes Cam, oh fuck me, yes-- Cameron--" She groans and rubs up into his fingers as she can just feel her orgasm about to hit. He moves his hand away and changes the angle between them sitting up and leaning over her so he can slam home, thrusting hard, hoping it'll be enough to send her over the edge. He loves watching her come. Its more than enough. She gasps and cries out as she comes hard around Cam's cock. Her voice is probably louder than it should be in her quarters on base but she can't help it. She stuffs her fist into her mouth to try and deaden the sound. He balances over her, biceps bulging with the strain, sweat rolling down and getting caught in the hair on his chest, sliding down his stomach. It doesn't take much more for him to reach that peak himself, and it feels so good to spill inside of her. She shudders again around him, her eyes closing shut as she feels him fill her. "Ohfuck," she breathes, pulling her fist from her mouth so that she can breathe better. "That feels... Ohgod." She shakes her head and pants, rolling her hips up just to stretch and enjoy how he feels inside her right now. "That felt amazing." His own throat is raw from his vocal expression of his pleasure. He slumps down against her, still buried inside of her. "Damn. Damn." Vala is breathing hard but smiling. "Good for you? Good damn?" She checks, feeling pretty sure of the answer, but always appreciating a bit of ego stroking. He kisses the corner of her mouth and then rolls off of her. His cock is wet and sticky as it softens against his thigh and he can't help but look down and see where there's a sheen of slickness over her pussy, knowing that it's him, he left that there. She catches his gaze and grins, stretching her entire body out on the bed and giving him something to actually look at. "Like what you see?" She asks him softly, a smile on her face. He opts again to not answer her verbally, leaning over and kissing her. He draws her in, arms wrapped around her, and pulls her against him. She shivers happily and curls herself up against him. She nuzzles underneath his jaw and nips slightly before soothing over with her tongue. "I love you Cam," she whispers into his neck. He's tired now, the urge to sleep creeping over him. Her words make him smile, though, and he absently strokes his fingers through her hair. "I love you, too." She smiles hugely at those words and buries her face into his neck even further. She can't quite believe something like this is happening to her. "Happiest pseudo-prisoner I think we've ever had here," Cam teases her gently. He's smiling too, because she's here, she's staying. She wants to stay for him. She doesn't like being a pseudo-prisoner but she hopes, in time, she'll be able to change that. "I would hope you aren't this hospitable to all your prisoners..." Vala teases him back. "Oh, trust me, Ba'al didn't get nearly as nice of a welcome..." He rubs his fingertips down her side, touching her. "Yeah? Didn't lay out that nice red carpet or anything?" She chuckles and rolls a bit onto her side so she can look at him easier. Something about that strikes him and he gives her a crooked smile. "Red carpet, huh? Guess you have been doing your homework on earth terminology." Vala beams over at him, obviously very proud of herself. "Came from one of Betty's shows," she explains. "But you did, didn't you?" Cam asks, playing with her hair. "You did study up. Learn a lot about.... us. Hell, I've been sleeping with you for months now, and... I mean, once in a while you said something that was a little off but I never really noticed." Vala blushes and looks away slightly, feeling a bit embarrassed. "I didn't want people to know. It was... I thought it was important that I blended in with Earth culture as much as possible." "You did good. You're... smart. A little too smart, maybe." He gives her a wry grin. She grabs his hand in hers and squeezes it. "If I had known--" she starts and pauses. "If I had known that telling you about me wouldn't have freaked you out and made you call the authorities, I would have." "And if I'd known that you were secretly an alien con woman, I would have told you what it was I had to keep leaving for days and weeks at a time to do," he says, cupping her face and rubbing his thumb over her bottom lip. She offers him a smile and parts her lips around his thumb. "Not conning you," she assures him softly. Better not be." He kisses her again and then sits up. He grabs his shorts and slides them on then walks into the bathroom, taking care of a full bladder and then washing up quickly. He still isn't sure if he should stay or go. Vala sits up to watch him before sliding down towards the end of the bed. She stands up on her knees and reaches out for him, pulling him to her. "Can you stay?" She asks him quietly, tucking her head under his chin. "Please say you'll stay with me." He holds her, feeling her bare skin against his. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I'll stay." He pulls away to walk around the bed, turning the light off before he slides under the covers. Vala has to bite down on her bottom lip so she doesn't make too much noise as excited as she is. She waits for Cam to get into bed before she slides her body next to his, curving around him and wrapping an arm around his waist. She always liked when he stayed with her overnight, or her with him, when they were together. She seemed to sleep deeper and easier with him around. * He wakes up in the morning at his normal time, even without an alarm set. It jars him for a moment; he's in bed with Vala, which is normal, and he's in a standard base quarters bed, which is also normal, but what isn't normal is that those two things coincide. Vala can feel Cam stirring beside her and she turns in her sleep towards him. She wants more sleep, wants him moving less next to her. She yawns and tucks herself in closer to him as she lets herself fall back asleep again.

See a Better Time by Solo & Jo Jin isn't surprised to be working on Christmas Eve. He doesn't even mind, much. Some of his 'bandmates' are moaning - Hideyuki had hoped to go to an onsen with his girlfriend and Nobuaki is worried that he hasn't even bought a cake yet and will be in the dog house for the next two weeks. Jin hasn't bought cake, either, doesn't have to worry about cake. At least it means less hassle, no queuing out in the cold, and the director brought home-made onigiri for them all because they had to work, which was nice. Sure, he could spend the evening with his parents, or with some other dateless soul, but this is fine, too. He likes the film, and his colleagues, and all day it's been a tight, cosy atmosphere, the sort of set he likes working on best. He knows Kame is shooting, too - they called that right in that interview, not that it was hard to predict. Kame likes it that way, has always liked it that way, more than Jin, but Jin's starting to understand why. It's a nice feeling to know you're getting stuff done while the rest of Tokyo is fooling around. "Oh my god, look at that," Nobuaki says, pointing to the window next to the tiny kitchenette where they congregate between takes. Two doors down the set's being rearranged for a later scene. They'll be on again soon. Jin looks. Huge snow flakes are coming down, eerily lit from below and sparkling in the never-quite-darkness. They trickle down shyly where they land on the window to melt. "They said that," Kitano says. "On the forecast earlier." "I didn't have time today to listen to weather forecasts," Nobuaki says. His metal bracelets clink when he runs a nervous hand through his hair. "Besides, I don't believe them." Jin doesn't have much of an opinion. But the flakes are pretty. "Looks like that one got it right," Hideyuki mutters from where he's seized the comfy reclining chair. "Hm," Kitano says critically, ignoring the beep of her special slimmer's Christmas hotpot in the microwave for a second. "It's not exactly heavy. Or lying." "Is that what it said?" Nobuaki sounds panicky. "I brought the car." "But it's there," says Hideyuki. "For December, that's pretty amazing." "Global warming," Jin contributes, not that he gets why global warming means sudden snow in December. It's just that no matter what weird weather stuff happens, that's what it gets blamed on these days. Nakamaru goes on about it all the time. Everybody nods as though he's said something clever. He looks out at the flakes again, more of them now, just a little bit thicker, and maybe if it keeps up like that they'll start lying, piling up--- He watches the line of soft white that's settled at the bottom of the window frame, snow flakes shushed into the corners by a gentle wind. "Just how heavy is it supposed to get?" *~*~* He stops at a media store after shooting finishes at ten, gets the Dark Knight DVD that's just out, gets it wrapped. If it's a crap idea, they'll take it back, exchange it for something better. The streets are much quieter now, people taking their cars home, nobody's used to much snow in the city and people... well, they panic sometimes, and then there's a big rush and everybody is gone. It's nice when it's so peaceful. Kame's shoot is in Ikebukuro and Jin's taking it kind of fast, worried that maybe they finished early because of snow, too, that he'll be too late. He's a bit too busy worrying about that to figure out what he's actually going to say. But he's got time to think once he's there, when he leans against the hood of his car and waits, glad he brought a knit hat and scarf and mitts, not so glad that his jacket doesn't go down far enough to keep his ass from freezing on the metal. It's not a long wait. When Kame comes out, his scarf wrapped around his head and neck, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat, Jin doesn't say anything, just shifts a little, and Kame stops. "What are you doing here?" Kame blinks through the snow, smaller flakes now but more of them. "Is something... has something happened?" "No," Jin says quickly. "Just figured you might be finishing up by now. Figured you didn't take the car because you never do. Figured you might like a ride." Kame considers this. "You drove from Yokohama to Ikebukuro on the chance that I wanted a ride." "Streets are nice and quiet," Jin shrugs. "You know I like that," and Kame nods. "Was going to drive around a bit more," Jin adds. "Tokyo Bay maybe, must be nice down there now. Wind down from shooting a little. How was it?" Kame makes a face, and tucks his head low against the cold. A bit like a turtle. A very young turtle, with a shiny nose. "I got to put water with food colouring in my mouth about twenty times and pretend it was a different wine each time." He opens the passenger door, flings his holdall in the back. "And look sophisticated." Jin laughs. "I got to look like a thug. A thug with a guitar. Nice guitar, though." *~*~* Kame says nothing when Jin swings onto the Shuuto expressway, though he's not dozing, has his eyes on the road and the snow whirling down in the headlights. They're heading east. The wipers work soundlessly, dealing with dancing flakes that attack the windshield, try to cling. It's still melting on the asphalt; Jin feels the squish in the way the car is handling, drives more slowly now. Off the road it's lying, a proper coat of white where it's not dipped into the colours of the fancy city lights you can never quite leave behind. It's quiet inside. Jin sneaks a look, he's going slow enough. Kame has his hands back in his pockets and a calm expression on his face. He glances over, peeks at Jin's speed and then he smiles when their eyes meet, quirky and self-conscious, and Jin has to smile back because that's so typical and because the funny feeling has to go somewhere. Jin's dashboard lights are red and look a little bit like monster eyes when you squint the wrong way. Right now it's a nice glow, though. Christmas-y. He hasn't touched the CD player. He didn't think to change the CD, and having Dr Dre blare out at them isn't quite what he thinks should happen. He catches the movement when Kame leans back his head, and when he sneaks another glance, Kame is gazing out across the bay through the passenger window. They've gone far enough that the lights from Odaiba aren't blinking opposite, just a muted glow in the sky reflecting off the fallen snow. You can almost imagine there are no masses of people, no shops, no arcades, nothing busy and crazy and loud. "You didn't make any plans?" Kame asks, soft in the silence. His voice turns full, deeper when he's relaxed. "I mean, you could have, after work." Jin raises his shoulders a bit. "Who'd I make plans with?" He hears Kame sigh quietly, but it's the good way, the easy way. "Yeah." He's turning towards Jin now, shuffling sideways a little. "Thanks for the ride," he says, sounding pleased. "This is much nicer than the subway." "It's my car," Jin says right away, "of course it's nicer than the subway," and then lives with the fact that it's kind of lame. Kame doesn't look like he minds. *~*~* It's never dark in Tokyo or anywhere near it, and you're never alone. But when they've precariously slithered down the grassy slope from where Jin parked the car, and the lights across the bay are dim behind the driving snow and all sounds are muted and there's nobody except indistinct shapes of muffled-up dogwalkers, it's as close as they'll get tonight. They put in some distance to the road, stalking on snow over sand, and Kame shakes his head when the snow sticks to his sneaker soles. "Okay?" Jin asks, waiting. He's two steps ahead and bouncing a bit, to keep warm. Funny thing about sudden weird ideas. You've never got the right shoes on. His boots aren't so hot, either, more fashion than functionality, no lining and the soles are way too thin. "You need any help?" Kame straightens, giving up on scraping off the extra layer. "You've got a sled?" he asks, eyes bright like there's Christmas lights all around them, and Jin just shakes his head. "Poor planning," he says when Kame has drawn level, and wonders if the small grin on Kame's face means that Kame would like that, playing around in the snow, like they're not too old and too cool; and they stand for a bit and it's quiet again. "Isn't the snow pretty," Jin says then, looking up, and he smiles to himself when Kame looks up too because that's how this is supposed to go. "It's really nice," Kame says quietly. "I like this. The sea... the snow, it's... peaceful. It's pure somehow." "Yeah," Jin says. "I know." When Kame looks at him, surprised, he adds, "And so do all your fangirls." He waits for Kame's eyes to widen in recollection, to narrow because Kame isn't stupid. "I was right about the piling up though," he then says mournfully, drawing a clumsy half-circle in the snow in front of them with his inappropriate footwear. "It's not working." There's quite a pause while Kame is... thinking, presumably. Jin feels a little silly. But he hasn't really said much, not really, and he's sure he can handle whatever Kame might decide to say. "That's very un-cooperative of it," is what it turns out to be, and that's... pretty good. That could have been worse. "Yeah," he says. "I'm glad you agree." "And you are quite crazy." There's a big smile in Kame's voice. "They say that," Jin says, easily because he knows now it's good, he didn't make a complete fool of himself, and that's why he brings out the wrapped DVD and just hands it over. "So, I can't really put this on any snow piles, you'll have to take it like this." "What is this?" Now Kame sounds confused. "Dark Knight," Jin says. "Batman. If you don't like it, you can get it exchanged, but I think it's pretty good." "You know that's not what I mean." "I needed something to put on your hypothetical snow-pile," Jin shrugs. "Right," Kame says, a little bit slow as if he has to think again. He's blinking snow out of his eyelashes when he looks at Jin, and then he looks down at the DVD he's holding with both hands, and Jin still feels silly, but he's okay with that now. "I guess you did," Kame agrees eventually, sounding like it all makes sense now, and the bay is calm and pretty in front of them with white flakes sinking gently into it, and Jin doesn't really mind that his feet are turning to ice. Kame's eyes flicker back to Jin now and then between the long stares out, like he's still putting something together, and Jin thinks that he didn't want to make Kame nervous, but then he catches another sideways glance, and it stays, and Kame doesn't look nervous. He looks kind of happy. And that's when Kame takes his hand, and pulls a little and Jin gives, wonders if they're going to go closer to the water or back to the car, but Kame doesn't move at all, has just pulled Jin to him and reaches up a little and Jin realizes what's going to happen about two seconds before it does. Kame's lips are softer than they look. They feel a little warm despite the snow, maybe because Jin is freezing by now and Kame has always had more bodyheat. He hasn't thought about what it would be like, not really, not for a long time, and before he's got a handle on what it is, beyond soft and warm and surprising, Kame pauses, not much space between them but enough for a question, if it's okay, if Jin wants to stop, there in his dark eyes. As if, Jin thinks dimly, he may feel a little dazed but not so dazed he's stupid, and he leans towards Kame and kisses him right back. And Kame slides a hand around his neck when his tongue touches Jin's lips, slips inside when Jin parts them, Kame feels sure and certain and maybe that's the part he didn't say in the interview, and it's good if one of them knows what's supposed to happen next because Jin never got to planning that far. He can't slip his hands inside Kame's heavy, buttoned-up coat so he just tightens his arms around him a bit and... yes, that's good, that's nice, he can get used to that. "I think we're supposed to picture Nakamaru over there, flinging his useless presents into the water," he says when Kame's tongue is gone for a moment. "Get him arrested for polluting the environment," Kame murmurs into his mouth, and then the tongue is back, slicker and hotter and Jin has his hands on Kame's hips before he can think. Then thinks, and pulls them closer anyway, and Kame sighs between kisses. Kame's hands on his back are dulled by Jin's coat and probably cold, though at least he doesn't have that extra layer of gloves that is making Jin impatient. Maybe he can shed them, there are just way too many layers here and then his face heats up even more when he gets to the end of that thought. After a while Kame leans back, enough to look up at him but still holding on. He's smiling. "You're still crazy. I like it, but... crazy." Jin runs his hands up Kame's arms, thinks he can be lots crazier if Kame likes that. "Did you have anything better to do tonight?" There's a pause; Kame links his hands more firmly, Jin can feel it at the small of his back. "No," Kame says, and his voice has gone serious and soft. "Doesn't get better than this." "Sure?" Jin retorts, and it's light and teasing and he didn't even intend the innuendo but now it's there, between them. "I... don't know," Kame says, and it's not the answer to the question, it's the answer to the other question. "We..." Kame never told Jin what they said to him that day in the office, even when Jin finally found the courage to bring it up -- whether he got the grown-up, the leader version or whether it was the same oblique hints about group dynamics and image and things that were no longer fanservice, hints that left Jin embarrassed and confused and made everything weird, made them almost strangers. But they're years older now, they know what's at stake and how to be careful, and what they've got to lose. And Kame looks like he knows what they've got to lose very, very well, his eyes are wide and shining with it and his arms go tight for a moment, and that feels good, everywhere, but it's just a moment and then Kame lets go again a bit, gives him space. "Do you," he says, quiet and earnest. "Do you want to?" They both forget to breathe. At least Kame is silly too, Jin thinks. He nods before he's even thought it through because he doesn't need to think it through, says "yes," just as quiet, just as serious. He may be vague on the details but whatever they are they're going to be fine by him, he knows that. "Not here, though," he says when he feels the cold air again, feels light with a deep breath, "unless there's more parts you forgot to mention." Kame laughs and shakes his head and pulls him really, really close to kiss him again. "Not here," he says, and then he snickers. "We'd freeze." *~*~* Kame taps his sneakers together before he gets in the car, knocking off the snow. Jin throws his hat in the back, where it lands on Kame's holdall. All that damp and cold makes the windows fog up, and Jin switches the fan to high. He's warming up fast, and Kame is smiling at him with his ears turning red. Better get moving. Even fewer cars on the road now, even more snow, and driving wouldn't be much fun anymore if it wasn't for Kame next to him, trying to make small talk that's just as dumb as anything Jin is coming out with because they're feeling kind of shy and kind of hyper and of course that's when you talk about winter tyres. "Had it done three weeks ago, it wasn't much hassle. I just went and had a coffee," Jin says, "could pick it up right after, they were really fast." "That's cool," Kame nods, "I mean… cool," and then they laugh at themselves. When Jin suggests the Holiday Inn two turn-offs down the road, his voice sounds strange to himself and they both fall silent for a moment because this is where it's suddenly real, starker than before; that they're going to do something, something that can fuck them up, fuck up the band, kill their careers if anybody finds out. Real, and clear, what it could mean and what it could be like, without all those layers and Kame will touch him and he won't have to watch any stupid roads, he can just see and feel and it's there in his head, clear. "Yeah," Kame says. "Yeah, that sounds good," his voice sounding just as thick as Jin's and Jin wonders if he's thinking what Jin's thinking, "let's do that," and that's when Jin thinks to stop at a convenience store and tell Kame to wait, blushing just a little. Blushing more when he pays for his supplies, but blushing most of all when he hands Kame the cheap Christmas cake he picked up on impulse at the till. "You bought cake," Kame says, sounding intrigued and incredibly amused. "Not just cake," Jin mumbles, and they stare at each other a little in disbelief, and then Kame blushes, too, and exhales, and the way he's looking at Jin makes Jin feel naked and tingly and he wonders if he's safe to drive when he's this lightheaded. Then Kame looks away, quietly breathing, like he's worried that Jin minds he's turned on, and Jin reaches over and for a moment, they touch hands between their seats, before Jin needs his back for the gear shift. When they're in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn it's Kame who puts the cake and the DVD and the plastic bag with the other stuff into his holdall, and brushes against Jin when he comes round to Jin's side of the car. Kame gets them the room; gets two of them, in fact, because they're colleagues travelling together and Kame is smart like that, and Jin stares at the brochures at the far end of the reception desk and tries not to look like he's up to something. They take the first room, second door from the elevator, everything comfy and a bit bland in beige and burgundy but they're not here to marvel at unique interior design, and when Kame closes the door behind them it feels cosy somehow; when they strip off their jackets it's easy and when Kame drapes his stuff out enough to dry and Jin drops everything over the back of an armchair, it's normal, and then they look at each other and smile and suddenly it's… not. "Well," Jin says, but then he dries up and feels himself blush because god, how lame. "Here we are," Kame finishes the platitude for him, a little shy and like he thinks it's lame, too, but also like he thinks they're going to be okay. "Useful," Jin says. Kame nods solemnly. "Totally." His hair's still damp from outside, the cute wet-spaniel look, and Jin's got woolly-hat-hair with fucking static in it, and they're both lame and Kame is right, they're going to be okay, Jin can feel it. "I showered at the studio," he says, just to get that out of the way, and suddenly that look is back on Kame's face, intent and turned on just from looking at Jin, making Jin feel all shaky and warm. "Me too," Kame says. "Also useful," Jin manages. Then Kame takes a step towards him and he's got Kame's hand in his again a moment before Kame brings their mouths together, and their bodies together, and Jin goes with the movement and then there's a nice strong wall at his back, and Kame up against him, and it's more than okay. Still new, but not like it was before, not tentative, Kame licking at his mouth and pushing against his tongue and he feels woozy when it all fuses together, Kame's hands hot and strong on his chest, then up, skin on skin on his neck and he wraps his arms around Kame and pulls him closer, even closer because it's just not close enough, and he notes fuzzily that the hardness against his hip would be an erection, Kame's erection, and it makes him feel flustered and sweaty and he doesn't ever need to move if Kame keeps kissing him like that. He should, though; they should soon because they're not getting any more clothes off like that and right now that would be an excellent progression, and it's when Kame's hands have moved down to his hips that he takes them, holds on a bit, and smiles when Kame looks at him in question. "Come on," he says, "we can..." And tugs randomly because it's not like he's got a plan here or the world's best coordination at the moment, but Kame gets it anyway, Kame wants it and it makes Jin's breath catch again, just to see. "You sure?" Kame asks quietly. Jin didn't think he was sending mixed signals here, but just in case, he gives Kame the most straightforward look he's got, holds it. "Totally," he says, and it's serious now. And then he adds, "Let's make sure the door is locked," because Kame isn't going to be the only responsible one here; and Kame nods and Jin feels cold when Kame steps away, but there's stuff that needs doing. Kame turns the bolt on the door; Jin pulls the curtains closed. Then he pulls his shirt over his head, drops it next to the desk chair, and when he's down to his underwear he sees Kame unzip, too, and it feels so, so funny. He folds his trousers a little more carefully over the back of the chair. It's not like he's never seen Kame naked before, but he's a little embarrassed to look and embarrassed not to look and when he gets over himself Kame is not-watching him from where he's dropped his own clothes on the spare bed, focusing intently on Jin's face and looking exactly like Jin is feeling. They grin at each other. And then Kame picks up their wet socks and puts them on the radiator, and Jin laughs and drags the quilted throw off the bed, sits down on the mattress and waits for him. "In your bag," he reminds Kame when he starts to move, and they both look away again but Kame goes and gets the whole plastic bag, and puts it on the nightstand, and he looks really, really beautiful when he moves like that, Jin knows people say he's got moves but Kame is something else, so focused and pure and intense and... not that pure at all, not really, oh no, and Jin's breath hitches a little but mostly because that's just hot. And it's for him, and that's all kinds of amazing and the thrill of that is going right through him. Then Kame sits down on the bed, but demurely, feet still on the floor, and before any silly questions can start Jin stretches his arm out, ignores how it prickles just to put his palm flat on Kame's waist, and pulls him in. The kiss is light again but it doesn't stay like that, gets better when Kame is sure once more, certain, and much better without all the clothes in the way, and when Jin leans back Kame goes with him, settles down against his side and Jin inhales sharply, so much contact all at once Kame looks down at him, looks happy again, and pretty excited and Jin feels that all over, too. He runs his hands down, all along Kame's naked back and Kame arches a little, there's that hardness again and Jin pushes back against it, and they look at each other for a moment before Jin laughs at Kame's careful concentration, and Kame plants a very sloppy kiss on him. Moves down, and Jin stops laughing, starts shivering from the wet hot mouth on his neck and all the touching, Kame's hands all over him and his muscles moving where Jin is touching him back, warm smooth skin under his fingers and even if he'd thought this far ahead he wouldn't have thought it would all feel like this. "What," he whispers one time, when Kame has stopped kissing him, is looking at him with a smile on dark lips, "what do you want to do?" Because he doesn't need to stop this anytime soon but they're not just here for kiddie stuff and if Kame wants more Jin's totally up for it and he wants Kame to know that. "This," Kame says just like that, and then a tiny frown makes it half a question. "This is great." "Yeah," Jin breathes, because it is, and they don't ever need to stop as long as Kame doesn't think he's hesitating or afraid or something, and he moves his hips because by now Kame has to feel him too, and there's a slow grind back and Kame laughs, low and breathless. "Yeah," Kame agrees, and something about the way his voice drops makes it all even hotter, even the twitches and giggles that Jin can't help when Kame gets playful; the way Kame is touching him with no hesitation and like he can't imagine doing anything better than making Jin gasp and writhe with his hands everywhere, all over. No hesitation, not really, just a focused little lull when Kame wraps his hand around Jin for the first time and it feels amazing but it's the naked fascinated look on Kame's face that makes it almost unbearable. Jin wants to do that back but there's arms in the way and his brain is shot and Kame laughs and strokes him again and makes him shudder, says wait for later, they can do all sorts of things later. He loses track, then, a bit; hard to coordinate, touch with purpose when everything's so good and so much and it's easy just to slip into Kame's rhythm. It seems to work well for Kame, too, he feels like he knows what he's doing or like he knows what he wants and just so fucking happy, hot and lithe on top of him and looking like he loves every reaction he gets, and he gets plenty of those, Jin couldn't help it if he wanted to. And then Kame's mouth is on his again and Kame is... Kame's hard-on is firm against his thigh and Kame is making slow little pushing movements, breathing into his mouth in time and his eyes are closed and Jin has a feeling this could go differently, Kame wouldn't mind getting this differently. "Hey," he says quietly when he gets a chance, and Kame lifts his head, gives him a dazed kind of look. Blinks, and flushes, and Jin lifts a hand to run fingers through Kame's hair. "Do you..." He glances meaningfully in the direction of Kame's cock, doesn't giggle when Kame looks kind of guilty. It's not like he isn't hard himself. "If you want to do something else," he says, and he's flushing too but that's nothing to what happens when Kame gets it, eyes flicking to the nightstand and yes, and he goes on, thickly, "that would be okay." And Kame is thinking and clearly into the idea but thinking, and so Jin adds, "really," only it comes out a little hoarse. And Kame swallows hard, twice, and then he nods, and he has to close his eyes for a moment, and Jin thinks that might be the hottest thing he's ever seen. And it's still a little hot when he pushes gently against Kame's weight, sees Kame take a breath as he lifts off, and then it's chilly where the touch is gone, where he ends up flat on his stomach on a colder stretch of bed, and waits. Up to Kame to arrange himself, and Jin pulls in his elbows, gives him some time to do that. Wishes, maybe, that he was faster, because now he can't see Kame any more and it's... different. Different even when Kame shifts his weight and slips a knee between Jin's legs, but Jin moves with it, spreads out to give Kame proper room and... breathes, and reaches up for the nightstand where Kame didn't take anything, got distracted maybe, and it's good to pass down lube and condoms where Kame takes them from him, fingers touching, because it gives him something to do. And before he's pulled his arm back up Kame's fingers are back, an awkward grasp on his hand and Jin doesn't mind awkward at all, just shudders a little, and he doesn't feel so naked anymore. And he must have made some sound because there's a stillness behind him, a tension he can just feel even before Kame says tightly, "Jin?" "Right here," he manages. "Are you okay?" He nods, realizes that's probably not getting the message across. "I'm okay," he says, and now there's another touch... on his back, low, but not where he thought, just a hand, lying there, stroking gently, a little hesitantly. "Touching is good," Jin mumbles, and he squeezes Kame's hand because that helps, too. "So's talking." "I can do that. I can do a lot of that." Kame's other hand slides up Jin's back to his shoulder, presses down as Kame leans forward and kisses the back of Jin's neck. "You've got no idea how hot you are." "People keep telling me," Jin says, half into the mattress, concentrating on feeling Kame, as much as possible. "You've got no idea," Kame insists, and the kisses are wandering down his spine, round to the side, and then further down, down to... Until he stops; still there, just not moving. "I'm a bit nervous." And that... that's funny, and Jin giggles. "That's normal," he says, voice slipping a little, "that's just normal," and Kame strokes his wrist with the fingers that are free to move. "Yeah." "Be easier next time." It's just a tiny pause. "Next time, huh?" There's a smile back in Kame's voice. "You bet," Jin says. He eases his grip a bit because who knows if he's cutting off Kame's circulation, they don't need to add that to the list of things to stress about, and then he giggles again. "God, how hard can it be?" "Um," Kame says, and then there's a snort. "Don't let Junno hear that." "Ow." Jin thumps his forehead against the pillow once, slowly. Then he peeks out from under his fringe. "How hard is it?" "Very," Kame admits a little sheepishly. Jin twists his neck so he can see and boy, no kidding, and totally beautiful, so he spreads his legs more and suddenly it's easier, and he lets go of Kame's hand and says, "So do it." He's not going to worry about logistics. It works for other people, so it'll work for them, and Kame's other hand is still warm and steadying on his back. "Okay," Kame says, and there's a pause and another moment of stillness, and then he says, "okay," again. Jin wriggles a bit to indicate that it really is. "I'm... uh, I need to..." Kame says. "You know. One moment." And all touch is gone except Kame's knees between his thighs, but it's okay this time, he knows why, he hears the sound of the sachets tearing and thinks next time he can do that for Kame, they can get this organised together. It doesn't take long and Kame's hand is back, right where it was but kind of sticky now, and Kame says, "Right, I..." and stops. "Do you need me to do something?" Jin says. Both hands now, stroking slow circles on his back and down onto his ass, it's nice, pleasant, even when they spread him a bit and it gets pretty damn unfamiliar pretty damn quick. "Just relax," Kame says. "Just... take it easy. We'll take it easy." "Okay." He should be able to do that. "Well, and," Kame says, and he sounds amused now and that's good, Kame needs to be relaxed too, Jin thinks, "this angle is kind of..." Ah. Jin's not so keen on the visual he's getting but okay. "You want me to---" "No." Kame leans on him, keeps him down. "Can you give me the pillow?" So he tugs the pillow away from under his head, hands it down along his body and when Kame nudges him to raise his hips it doesn't feel bad, just a little practical, and Kame strokes reassurance into his skin when he settles and he's fine, Kame's got it covered. He breathes out calmly when Kame moves in even closer, when his hands hold him open and then one disappears, is replaced by a slick and cool touch slipping between and stopping where it feels strange and intense and like maybe he's not sure about this, only he is. "Hey," Kame says, and his voice sounds a bit wobbly, and it's odd how that helps. "Don't worry, all good," Jin says. "I'm ready." It's slow. That's probably the right idea, Jin thinks while he's trying not to hold his breath, trying to think about Kame's hand holding on to him, trying to follow Kame's breathing and figure out how he's doing, trying to ignore the weird stretching that's just waiting to turn into pain if he gives it his full attention. Better things to think about, and Kame helps, Kame is talking to him, saying, "Tell me if I should stop," and he shakes his head a tiny little bit because he can't move too much right now, says, "Don't stop," just in case, and Kame doesn't stop, just keeps it slow, and eventually it's no longer so tense and somehow they fit, they've done it and he breathes and above him, he hears Kame sigh. "Okay?" Kame asks after a moment, holding still. "Yeah," Jin says. "Are you?" Kame chokes off a little noise and there's a shudder Jin can feel where Kame is--- inside him, and it's not uncomfortable, it feels okay. Feels nice. "Don't make me laugh now," Kame says. "Seriously." Probably means yes. Jin almost giggles again, seems to come easy tonight, but then he gets a grip because that's probably covered by Kame's general request. After a moment or two he shifts a bit, to see what it's like, and it still feels full and strange and a little nice, and Kame's hands on his back falter slightly but there's just a breath and more gentle stroking and yes, Kame's okay. Another beat. Jin waits. "I could move now," Kame says quietly, stopping with one hand on Jin's hip, breathing. "Without embarrassing myself." Jin bites his lip, manages for about four seconds before he feels himself start to shake, gets out, "You are not helping," very firmly because this isn't his fault, and neither is the gasp that happens when Kame's hips jerk and it shivers all through Jin's laughter. "Neither are you!" Kame squeaks out, stilling again, but it's a tight, shaky control, the first time he's holding on to Jin really hard and Jin doesn't mind that either. "Jin, I--- can---" "Yes." And there's the first pull out. And Jin feels it and it's okay, feels the tension in Kame's body and then the slow slide as Kame moves back inside him, all the way, and it's working, Kame is close and shivery and Jin loves that and he waits for the next one and it's working fine, and that little hitch, that's just when Kame leans forward, leans to cover him and Jin feels wide open and good and safe. Kame holds himself up on an elbow and Jin finds his hand, they manage to hold on without upsetting Kame's balance, and Kame is kissing the back of his neck again, hotter and messier, and mumbling things that aren't proper sentences, that make Jin just want to open more, and there's a soft, slow rhythm now, settling in. He can feel his own erection coming back, nothing urgent, just a bit of a tingle every time his hips press into the pillow, and he keeps on rocking gently with Kame's rhythm, spreading his legs wider because he can take more now. Kame notices, of course he notices, and now the pace is more intense and Jin grips his hand more firmly, it's okay, meets every thrust and loves the way it pushes him down more, rougher brushes of friction that are perfect, until it turns faster, and even faster and he gets it and just holds still in the end, lets Kame thrust and thrust and pant and gasp helpless nonsense and finally stop, his head coming down beside Jin's and their hands still clinging together. It takes a moment for Kame's breathing to come down and Jin is in no rush, he can take the weight. And then Kame lifts off him gently, the final slide; rolls off. Jin pushes up to lie on his side, watches him deal with the condom and then he pulls him back, and Kame flops down bonelessly against him. "I..." Kame tries vaguely, but then he just hums something incomprehensible. Jin grins and plays with a stray strand of Kame's hair, waits; this is perfect, he's in no rush for anything. But Kame is still trying to find words; the next one is, "You," and Jin isn't laughing at him, really not. "Did you..." Kame says, raising his head and blinking at Jin. "When you don't..." Jin wants to enquire if there's a verb coming soon, but Kame is trying to ask seriously even if he's all fuzzy-brained and adorable, and Jin cups the side of his face. "It felt really good." Kame leans into his touch, slow smile spreading over his face. Jin is almost startled how much that affects him. "Bit fast, though," Kame says, sounding like he'd blush if he wasn't all heat and high colour anyway. "Really good," Jin repeats, because it would be wrong for Kame to think any different; adds quietly, "I liked it," and ignores that his face gets kind of warm when he thinks of it like that, because he did. Kame stares at him for another second or two before the doubt goes completely. Some of the cloudiness goes with it, and watching focus come back into Kame's eyes is... "What about you?" Kame asks, leaning down more intently, and Jin's suddenly very aware of his hard-on, very. "I don't..." He runs his hand down to Kame's back, holds tight to keep Kame in place while he takes a moment to figure out what he means. "I can..." He turns a bit, until his dick is against Kame's thigh, stifles a gasp. "Like that." But Kame's hand is already sliding down, sneaking between them hot and insistent and then his fingers are tickly on Jin's hip until they find what they're looking for, close around him, firm and warm and oh god. "Okay," Jin gulps, and he goes with the gentle nudge, is on his back with Kame propped up over him, that look on his face and that hand... "Or like that." Kame knows what he's doing; it's just right, just tight enough, just fast enough, like Kame's reading every twitch he makes, every faint fleeting thought he has, and there's a flick where he's most sensitive, over and over and he closes his eyes, he's getting hot and sweaty and shaky but it's when Kame leans in and slips his tongue into his mouth without breaking rhythm that things get swirly and too much, too good and he's losing it, bucking and grasping and hearing himself moan and he comes, crazy and wild and when it's over he knows nothing, nothing at all except Kame solid and warm by his side. Kame who has slowed, who eases him down gently until they're both still. Eventually, Jin opens his eyes. It's all over the place. There's come on Kame's arm and some on his neck and Jin has no idea how he managed that and Kame is laughing, eyes dancing, looking like he's fifteen. Jin gets his co-ordination sorted somehow, reaches up and wipes at the stuff on Kame's neck with his fingers, says, "Whoops," and Kame grins. "Guess that was really good, too." "That's what I like," Jin smiles. "Guy with deductive skills." "I have many skills," Kame says happily, and he starts trailing a fingertip over Jin's shoulder and chest, circling his bellybutton, looks at Jin like he's the most fascinating thing in the world as he lies for a while and does nothing but breathe. "We should probably make a mess in the other room, too," Jin says eventually, "just so we're all..." He can't think of the word, though he knows it's a long one. "You know, secret." Kame considers that and nods, slowly, with that hungry expression that's giving Jin little hot shivers when he thinks of Kame covering him, sliding into him... "That's a very good idea," he declares, and manages just to miss bumping Jin's nose when he reaches up for a kiss. "You have the best ideas." "You helped with this one," Jin says generously, and Kame smiles. "Teamwork," he says, and then he buries his face against Jin, breath fanning warm over his chest. "We're so good when we're... good," Jin says, and Kame gives a soft little laugh. "Always have been." Jin doesn't move when Kame slides a leg closer over him, just feels it, and it's good, and he breathes out slowly. Yeah. Kame's chin pokes him when Kame twists his head up. "Are you falling asleep?" he asks suspiciously. Jin raises his eyebrows, looks outraged. "What, I'm not allowed? It's traditional. Christmas is all about tradition." Kame's small laugh turns into a badly stifled yawn. "I don't think that's how they meant it." "Besides, I had a long day," Jin says, grinning. Kame nods in understanding. "You had to work. On Christmas, even." "Yes, work. And drive, too," he adds. "On squishy snow." The thin film of sweat on Kame's skin is cooling and Jin runs his hand up and down his back, tries to spread warmth around. "And be all cunning and stuff." "I can see how that would have been strenuous," Kame agrees solemnly. "Challenging." Jin pokes him in the side. "It's bad form to fuck people one moment and insult them the next." And then he swallows a bit because the word hits him coming back, out loud like that, it feels a bit different when it means--- And Kame says, "Sorry," and sounds just a little too serious, and that's all wrong, Jin didn't mean it like that. "Was... are you okay with it?" Jin can think quickly when he wants to. "What," he says, "with being insulted? I don't---" "You know what I mean." This time it's Jin who pulls Kame to him for a kiss, just a little one. "Totally okay." And when Kame's smiling again he adds, "I'm also kind of hungry." Kame laughs, and slumps down boneless again, which isn't going to get them any food but feels nice all along Jin's sleepy body, so it's not like he's complaining. "We still have cake," Kame reminds him, and sighs drowsily, like he's very fond of that cake. "Full of excellent strawberries," Jin mumbles, strokes Kame's arm where it lies across his chest. "Wha---" Kame says, and then, "If only I'd known you pay so much attention to my interviews." He sounds groggily entertained. "All those missed opportunities. I'll have to come up with some interesting dream-dates for the next one. Visit to a haunted house maybe." Jin pokes him again. "Hey!" "Okay, romantic New Year's walk in Hokkaido." "Hey, I just froze my ass off on a beach," Jin points out, feeling pleased, "you've got to try harder." And immediately wishes he hadn't because braver souls have regretted daring Kame. "Wild animal cages," he goes on the offensive, not that Kame minds that terribly, certainly no more than Jin does. "Juniors' dressing room." "Pi's apartment." "Maru's apartment." "Bungee jump." "Deal!" "What," Jin says, "show Nakamaru how it's really done?" "God, don't remind me," Kame sighs and snuggles closer, and for a minute or so they're silent and Jin feels heavy and warm and wonders if he's going to fall asleep now; whether Kame will really mind, as long as they're holding on to each other. "Okinawa," Kame says then, quietly. "Okinawa would be good." "Tent on the beach," Jin says, dragging his brain cells back from wherever they were settling into drowsy stupor. He feels Kame nod. "Very small tent," he says hazily. And after a pause, "Zipped-together sleeping bags." Still with the good ideas, Kame, Jin thinks, picturing that, smiling to himself. "I'll catch you a squid for breakfast," he says and finally pulls a sheet over them, draws it up just to Kame's nose. END

1. Hunter's Moon: Oktober 1867 Ludwig was twenty-two when he first saw the Swan-Dancer. He was in retreat at Hohenschwangau following the end of his disastrous engagement. Duty, in its most acute form, still warred agonisingly with the young king's Inner Self; and his devout Catholicism offered no source of comfort. He knew – none better – how much the absolute core of his being rose in revolt against both Dynasty and Religion. He was God-cursed – and yet he could no more relinquish this thrilling pull that drew him to his Master-of-Horse, or intensified his feelings towards his tender new soul-friend Richard Wagner; than he could give up his crown, his life. The Hunter's Moon leapt upwards, in the very traces of the setting sun; reflecting its overwhelming disc in the waters of Schwansee – the Swan Lake – below the schloss. Ludwig's inchoate yearning spread outwards from his high vantage-point to encompass the water below…. … and, from the mists at the lake's far reaches, an image rose in response. * * * * 2. Festival-tide: October 2007 Sod it! Understudy again! Hiranu Enokki looked mournfully over the expanse of water, thrillingly misty below the sheltering schloss; and yearned to become Odette at last. He'd had enough of "First Cygnet" – charging (to uncertain audience laughter) downstage, cleverly interlaced with three others! It was time he got a chance at Lead. He'd served his apprenticeship – and then some! – with this crazy team of balletic cross-dressers. But no – The San Francisco Trucking Ballet-Boys (alias The Trucks), had once again consigned their sole Japanese representative to chorus-and-understudy in this rather unique performance of the complete Swan Lake, to be danced outdoors on the original Schwansee as part of a dance festival dedicated to some old-time king. Rollova, sweetie," the Director had used Hiranu's female stage-name for emphasis – always a bad sign, "I know I promised, and I'd love to play you, really I would! But – you know Peaches – I'd never recover from the ear-bashing if I knocked him back on this particular show! Be kind to me, sweetie, and lay off, hmmm? Next time! … I absolutely promise ….swear on my mother's ass … Hey - I could offer you Benno, if you don't mind being Rytov Springski instead of Rollova Baethövina …. No? …. Well, First Cygnet it is then!" Hiranu had gone away, disappointed but not entirely surprised, to prepare for the flight to Europe. He had grown up with successive versions of Swan Lake as his main inspiration; and had long felt that he owed some kind of thanking ritual – to Tchaikovsky, and to a rather vague Russo-Germanic Romantic ideal. He therefore resolved – since he was here at the very Lake of Swans - that he could do no less than dance the whole of Odette's role, alone on Schwansee. So he had sneaked out of the hostel, leaving the guys to settle in, and scandalise the locals with their screamingly camp behaviour in a local bier Keller. He took his shoe-bag containing his satin hand-made-to-his-exact-size, ballet shoes; but not his usual clutter of working leotard and leg-warmers. Tonight he was going to BE Odette – alone on the swaying, creaky stage, slung low over the waters of the Schwansee, here in the oldtime King's fantasy-landscape. It was his own, private ritual. The costumes were stashed in the rather primitive practice room and dressing complex, housed in a series of picturesque alpine nissen huts hidden behind the reed thickets at the lake's far end. Hiranu – aware that the local authorities were a little behind-hand with state-of-the-art alarm systems – broke in with relative ease; and found his swan-costume without difficulty. It felt strange at first to be outside in the chilly night under a brash, orange moon; with only the quiet slap of the water and oddly magnified night-noises for company. Hiranu spent time setting up his specially-recorded tape of the music (minus the whole of Act 1, naturally!). He set about the part of the swan-princess Odette with some carefully prepared choreographical amendments which reflected the fact that all the pas de deux must be danced with an invisible Prince Siegfried. He was halfway through his first arabesque when he became aware of a subtle presence; not-quite-visible, but warm, near, appreciative and almost tangible. Tentatively, Hiranu extended his right hand at the point where he would expect his partner to take it …… * * * * 3. Hunter's Moon: Oktober 1867 Ludwig watched, entranced, as the misty form rose from the lake accompanied by languid skeins of faint, sweet music. The dancing figure was neat, petit and trimly precise as it made exquisite shapes with its limber torso and slender legs. It embodied feminine purity, and the wildness of the swan; and yet it was clearly, beautifully, desirably male. Ludwig's very soul yearned outwards from its high vantage point on the castle rampart; until it alighted softly beside The Swan. Reaching gently, he took the proffered hand in his, and held it protectively. * * * * 4. Festival-tide: October 2007 Hiranu felt the answering pressure; but somehow knew that his spectral partner was inexperienced; unused to the language of the dance. He felt, however, the eager tenderness in the firm clasp; and (thus encouraged) was inspired to some neat Impro around his invisible partner's steadying grip. He knew that the next move should be – MUST be - a Lift; and yearned to feel the strength of the Unknown's hands at his hips as he was swung aloft over his partner's shoulders. *Lift me!* he thought desperately, as the music imposed its stern discipline on the dream of synchronised movement, and directed him though the steps …… On the exact and climatic beat, his thighs were grasped lightly and he was swung high above the swaying stage, over the gently-lapping waters. Perched on invisible shoulders, he yearned upwards towards the triumphal moon in its iced-velvet sky. His body, thinking for his numbed and bemused brain, melted into the swan-pose. His arms lifted and transformed into fringed, air-beating pinions. His chest thrust itself forward and his neck extended so that his torso became an exquisite bow, aimed directly at the moon's blood-infused disk. Confident that he was anchored by the firm careful grip on his lower body, he flung himself skywards as the music climaxed. * * * * 5. Hunter's Moon: Oktober 1867 The Swan cried out in desperate demand to the moon. Ludwig finally discerned that his purpose – here on the beautiful, imperfect earth -was to raise The Swan beyond, into the Transcendent Imperative. He would devote his life to this; he resolved. Sparkling liquid energy rose from the depths of the Lake, through his straining body and The Swan's; a silver arrow that sped upwards to impale the moon. The Swan gave another thrilling cry; and vanished into the night. Ludwig was left, exalted but unsatisfied, thrust back into his body on the faux-rampart of Hohenschwangau. * * * * INTERLUDE Festival-tide: October 2007 Hiranu exited as Odette, all his senses tingling at the unseen touch of his spectral Siegfried. He was a little ashamed to have cried out; but he'd succumbed to the heady mixture of adrenalin and fear. Really; he thought with a little frisson; it was very like Giselle, Act 2. He sallied forth again, briefly, to attempt a solo Cygnet dance. This did not go too well, in spite of the fact that he knew all the choreography inside-out and backwards; and had even essayed the Matthew Bourne "male swan" variation. It was just too difficult to accomplish without the three others, and the complicated enlacement of four sets of arms, which made the original Petipa dance so endearing. He retreated to the inadequate backstage area once more, and took a quick swig of bottled water, preparatory to reappearing as Odette. * * * * ACT 2 1. Hunter's Moon: Oktober 1870 The King sought Hohenschwangau – and the messy foundations of his New Swan Palace – in a state of anguish and doubt. It was the sixth year of his reign. The war with France was being won. Paris itself was rumoured to be under siege; and Ludwig – agonised – had little choice but to allow his soldiers to fight on the wrong, winning side. His idolisation of The Sun King had not been allowed to stand in the way as he entertained the Prussian Crown Prince in Munich that summer; and now he was in the process of killing one part of his soul in order that another might thrive. His devotion to his building projects and the patronage of his soul-friend, Richard Wagner constituted the most important part of his life; now that Bavaria was barely his any more. His dreams, however, did not come cheaply; and so – in return for an unspecified sum arranged by Chancellor Bismarck, Ludwig had been politely requested to sign a letter proposing the Kaiser of Prussia as Emperor of Germany. It lay on his desk, even now, awaiting his signature. He sought his room, with its vista over Schwansee, in waning hope. He had not been granted a vision of The Swan for three long years …. * * * * 2. Festival-tide: October 2007 Hiranu felt the pull, even before he emerged from the wings. The Presence was back, intensified by an intriguing darkness that fringed it – almost a mélange of Siegfried and von Rothbart. An opaque shadow manifested; tapering upwards to a misty, but visible face. A pair of large, dark, expressive eyes scrutinised him, deep-set, framed with straight brows and adorned with the sort of lashes that Peaches Pavlova would kill for. The generous, mobile mouth was bracketed by a finger-thin moustache and small beard that limned the rounded chin. There was an impression of luxuriant dark curls above the broad brow. The apparition was regal and beautiful; his ideal of Prince Siegfried. Hiranu squeaked, and broke eye-contact, covering his embarrassment by reactivating the music tape. His relief in finding his Siegfried – misty, but nonetheless still present on his return – was palpable. Next would come the most thrilling and important pas de deux of Act II, during which Siegfried and Odette cement their love, before the sorcerer von Rothbart arrives to force Odette back into swan-form, and part the lovers. Hiranu took to the stage in a flutter of anticipation. His Prince was unschooled in the exact formalities of balletic lovemaking. It would be for Hiranu, therefore, to provide a lead – whilst simultaneously enacting a melting surrender. One helluva challenge! * * * * 3. Hunter's Moon: Oktober 1870 The mists retreated, and Ludwig could see The Swan more clearly than before. As a man, this figure would be short. Even en pointe, he barely reached tall Ludwig's shoulder. The delicate oriental features, and speaking dark eyes might easily belong to a woman. Indeed – even this close, an untutored eye might be deceived. However, Ludwig – accustomed to masked balls, carnivals, and even the rude midwinter fests of the Alpine peasantry in which men-women were common – was not fooled. It excited him; and he forced back his customary feelings of shame. This was not – after all – one of the real servants, with whom he conducted an occasional secretive liaison. The usual self-flagellation and empty promises to God need not apply here! Tenderly he extended his hand to cup The Swan's exquisite face. Beneath his fingers the smooth skin was warm and pliant, with barely a rasp at jaw and chin; but his circling thumb found, first the adam's apple; then an uneven pulse at the throat. It felt like the heartbeat of a snared bird; rapid and softly feathered, in his hand. The King leaned forward. The Swan's face tilted up. * * * * 4. Festival-tide: October 2007 Hiranu raised his face more in hope than expectation. There were no guarantees when kissing a ghost, after all. However, the mouth that descended on his was warm and mobile. It was also, he discovered, skilled and slyly knowledgeable too. A solid – but respectful – hand descended on his bum beneath the foamy tutu. It lifted him effortlessly, so that The Kiss was somehow flattened our and made equal. His feet left the ground and his torso aligned naturally with that of the ghost's half-seen physique. Hiranu's supple-jointed dancer's thighs lifted and clamped around a trim, invisible waist. The apparition staggered, then steadied under his weight as he settled. This could be sublime, except that he and The Ghost were both inconveniently clothed. His tights, tutu-incorporated knickers and truss; and The Ghost's tight, military-style pantaloons appeared to be insurmountable obstacles. Hiranu Roared his frustration to the indifferent moon…… * * * * 5. Hunter's Moon: Oktober 1870 Ludwig almost laughed aloud. This was a DREAM, after all; so why was his Swan so agitated when inconvenient clothing would vanish, just for the wishing? Ludwig accordingly made his wish. His own clothes melted effortlessly. For a couple of struggling seconds he felt scratchily stiffened tulle and the hardness of a boned corset against his flesh. Then, as the Beloved emitted an unswanlike squeak, things were suddenly rearranged. He found he was holding a smooth, nude, amber-skinned youth with enormous startled eyes, his mouth bowed into an enticing 'O' of astonishment. Ludwig could do nothing but cover that mouth again with his own. The golden Swan was wound close around him, moving languidly to the dictate of the faint, thin music. The supple dancer's limbs twined him like wild summer honeysuckle on winter-thorn. This was his dream; so he breached the citadel effortlessly; impaling the quivering Beloved without stay or anguish. The music, throughout and forever, dictated pace and a rhythm that was slow and dreamy, but having increasingly loud percussive strikes as it intensified to climax. The Swan cried out once again, his arms pressing hard on Ludwig's shoulders. A ghostly spume engulfed the king's belly and chest, faintly perfumed with oyster and trompette de la mort. Unseen cymbals crashed as Ludwig too climaxed. Inevitably The Antagonist manifested, like an owl spewed from darkness. * * * * 6. Festival-tide: October 2007 With the submerged part of his mind, Hiranu knew that he was still dancing a lonely solo Odette on a fragile concatenation of wooden planks in a godforsaken lake in Bavaria. The rest of him – Soul, Instinct and the scared remnant of Mind – was making love to his Prince on the shore of the Swan Lake during the all-too-short hours between magical midnight and drowned dawn; when Odette the Swan Princess was free to take her human form once more. This was a Dance of a different (and much more ancient) kind; where his honed, minutely-trained body was impelled and subsumed entirely into the service of Desire – sought, implemented, gratified, fulfilled. Neither dancing nor lovemaking had ever been like this before. The music crescendo'ed to its timeless finale; and Hiranu found himself back (fully-costumed) in his Odette-role, as Swan Lake, Act 2 drew to its conclusion, with the appearance of von Rothbart the sorcerer who must part the lovers, and take his bespelled Swan back over the lake of centuries-old tears cried by bereft parents. Hiranu extended one hand to his post-coital Prince, flinging the other arm wide to simulate the genteel and rhythmic tug-of-war that was supposed to take place between Siegfried and von Rothbart. His free wrist was seized in a fast and demanding grip. He was unglamorously pulled with rough force for several steps across the stage, before he could assert his own strength, and dig-in his satin-clad heels. His lover came in on cue to draw him back; and he took the opportunity to glance away beneath his lashes, toward his second captor. The face was identical to that of his Prince; but the level brows were lowered, and the fine mouth was set in a line of outrage and denial. The apparition wore strict and excessive formal evening-wear. The silver cross of a military order caught the wan moonlight and blazed palely on its ribbon across the chest. Over the broad shoulders a heavy outer coat - collar, cuffs and lapels heavily furred – swung like a cape. This peculiarly personal von Rothbart let him go, and back-stepped smartly, to loom behind them. Grabbing Siegfried's wrist in one powerful fist; and Hiranu's in the other; he forced them apart. Then, disdaining the dance altogether, he placed both palms on the Prince's chest and pushed backwards step by step. An unintelligible, but patently angry torrent of words flew from his lips. The Prince dropped abjectly to his knees in a universal gesture that besought mercy. The Antagonist – his identical features twisted into a mask of Absolute Denial – folded his arms in total unforgiveness. Both the ghostly partners dislimned on this stylised tableau; leaving Hiranu to effect his exit forlornly, in Swan-Odette's elegant, wing-beating sideways-tiptoe, into the wings. * * * * INTERLUDE Festival-tide: October 2007 Hiranu took a longer break than usual between Acts 2 and 3. His soul might be leaping, but his brain was jangled and his body – sticky and damp – needed respite. Furthermore, at this point in the plot, it was necessary to change costumes from the snow-white of Odette to Odile's identically-cut, sexy, figured-black. Hiranu was also in urgent need of clean underwear. He took time to sit and think-through his ghostly experiences. It had been like a dream, but he was awake now and, although still committed to the ballet in its entirety, able to see the weirdness of the whole thing. Who was this guy? Ghost or no, he had a real personality – maybe even two of them, if the identical von Rothbart thing was genuine. Eventually, he gave up on the ghost-mystery, and began to anticipate his moves. Act 3 would really be more than half-over by the time the seductress Odile made her appearance. He should prepare for some highly physical stuff, including the flashy and accomplished party-piece – the 32 fouettés which would show off his skills en pointe. He hoped his ghostly lover would appreciate them! Hiranu regarded his bare feet with distaste as he began to strip down. He'd once heard the ideal ballerina's physique described as "Torso of a fairy; feet of a gnome"; and this was becoming progressively true of him. The more pointe work he did; the more often the whole of his body-weight rested – so apparently feather-lightly – on one toe within its blocked ballet shoe, the more distorted his feet became. However, beautiful the body was; however airily it appeared to float over the solid earth; the reality always involved hammer-toes, compacted feet-bones and permanently aching hips. It was just the price you paid. Well, hopefully the Prince had failed to notice his imperfections during that brief dream-within-a-dream when they'd both been naked. Hiranu paused to savour that memory. His Ghost was so perfect – imperial, yet knowledgeable; tender, yet commanding. The pale, western body, lightly but duskily furred at chest, underarm and groin, had been exotic enough (even after Hiranu's six years in the States) to seem daring and exciting. Hiranu's head swam a little. He thought he was maybe in love! He couldn't wait to show off his sexy side as Odile the temptress! The black tutu felt light on him; almost ready to fall off. He bound the tender torture-instruments that were his ballet-pumps to his feet, like the red-hot shoes in that folk-tale he'd suddenly remembered. He thrust the comparison away. He was ready! Odile leapt forth into an imagined formal court-setting; seeking the tender Prey that might – if her father's plot were successful – become the ideal soul-mate. * * * * ACT 3 1. Midsummer Moon: 11 Juni 1886 King Ludwig II, aged 40, stood at the balcony of his elaborate throne room at the top of his unfinished fantasy castle, Neuschwanstein, and looked out to where Schwansee glimmered in the distance. It was almost two decades since he'd encountered The Swan; and now the fairytale – like the huge pile behind him – would remain incomplete forever. He was under siege here. His treacherous ministers were on the point of having him declared insane and deposing him. He'd been urged by everyone who had his good at heart to leave his mountain fastness; to show himself to the people in Munich; to appeal for their loyalty and aid. He would get it, he knew, just for the asking. He also knew that he would not so trouble his subjects. This was his citadel, his refuge, built for him at great labour and – sadly – expense. He would stay here until the Forces of smallness, philistinism and chaos overwhelmed the Dream, and took him away! And … there might still be a chance … remote and tantalising … that he might see His Swan one last time. * * * * 2. Festival-tide: October 2007 The music called him forth, and Hiranu-Odile stepped into the moon-drenched arena. He danced as he'd never danced in his life before. He embodied sensuality for the Moon, for Pyotr Illych Tchaikovsky, for Petipa and Ivanov the choreographers; and above all for his phantom lover. This was the most physical and earthy part of the ballet; and Hiranu met it head-on; like a Cretan bull-dancer. The pull from two diametrically-opposite directions alerted him. Turning fast en pointe, he found first the von Rothbart figure's hot gaze fixed on him from the shadows. The man was barely recognisable. If he had been forbidding before, this time he was monstrous. Face and body were grotesquely bloated. His alpine-green, velvet-lapelled overcoat strained its buttons over the swollen belly that it inadequately covered. The balloon face was fringed now with full moustache and beard. From behind the slabs of flesh over the cheekbones, the same fine eyes looked from beneath their level brows in righteous condemnation. To Hiranu, they embodied all the Gazes he had ever received as he identified, first as a gay man in Japan; and then as a cross-dressing ballerina. Under that Gaze, his soul shrank within him. A whipping turn took him away from those censoring eyes. Beyond – palely and mistily lurking on the lapping waters, hovered his Prince; beautiful but transparent. It stretched forth a disembodied hand, as Hiranu attempted the opening of the black swan pas de deux. His fingers grasped air and he almost fell – tragically, comically – from his unsupported arabesque. Von Rothbart was sneering as he turned back to grab his flailing wrist in one fist. * * * * 3. Midsummer Moon: 11 Juni 1886 The Swan was black! This could only presage a doom long-expected. Ludwig gazed at it in blank dismay, mixed with a helpless longing. He was starkly aware that he was no longer the handsome, beloved king of yester-year. Now he was no longer fit for His Swan. Over a fleeting period of mere months sometime in his mid-thirties, his body had betrayed him; bloating up into a grotesque parody of itself. So here he was – appearing to The Beloved in the guise of some small-town Alpine bürgermeister; fat, bourgeois and mean of soul. Desperately he attempted to actualise his REAL self – the one that His Beloved knew best – onto the stage. But his gross flesh could no longer project his dream-self with ease. It manifested; but even he could see that it was weak, boneless, scarcely believable. He sobbed aloud. Death was preferable to this humiliation. Trapped, he watched as the Black Swan attempted to interact with his feeble and emasculated phantom of youth. The puppet-self faltered, and The Beloved almost fell. Ludwig rescued the Black Swan, and hoped – hopelessly – that he would somehow be recognised. The Swan flapped desperately in his hammy fist. He hated himself; and hated The Beloved for being so BLIND. He flung the lithe body from him, raised his arm to heaven, and swore that he would never be fallaciously deceived by Youth or shallow optimism, ever again. Tomorrow he would surrender; agree that the Soulless Politicians and perverted neuro-anatomists were right; and allow himself to be incarcerated! He would accept the madness. Why fight it any longer? The Black swan – wing-broken – was floundering away over an increasing expanse of cruel water. Ludwig wept as it dislimned. * * * * INTERLUDE Jesus! That had been weird. And heartbreaking! Hiranu felt guilty, as if he and von Rothbart had been conspiring to drive away – not the desperate Swan-Odette who usually appeared outside the palace-window in the ballet – but an attenuated vision of Prince Siegfried. Who had betrayed whom, here? Hiranu shed a few tears for the lost idyll of Act 2. He wondered also at the strength and oddly deep darkness in his von Rothbart. Would His Prince return for the final Act? Who could tell….. * * * * ACT 4 1. Evening: 13 Juni 1886 The dark waters lapped around Ludwig's feet as he pounded heavily and with increasing pneumonic distress, along the shingle. Beside him, the setting sun faded and died into the sullen depths of the Wurmsee by Starnberg. From behind him, he could hear the steady crescendo of pursuit. Johann Bernhard Aloys von Gudden; psychiatrist and Neuro-anatomist extraordinaire! Ludwig's nemesis had taken it upon himself to pronounce the King mad without having physically seen or examined him. Ludwig had been condemned in absentia for his love of young male bodies, his extravagance, and for having invented a flying machine! He hated von Gudden, who had always sought to tabulate The Infinite within the King; and on that calculation, issue a damning condemnation of a life. Ludwig had been denied the water-death he sought on Schwansee, or his beloved Alpensee below Neuschwanstein. So he had cravenly allowed himself to be taken away from his soul's landscape; and imprisoned here in Black Starnberg with its heavy earthiness; and the demeaning spy-holes gouged in his cell-door. He should have jumped when he was free to do so. Now, he would have to give this undignified, hasty death to Wurmsee, and not to his dreamscape! His personal Otherworld – pulled into existence in the Alps via the inspiration of Wagner's divine music, Prussian money, and a large amount of sweat and blood from his loyal Bavarian peasantry – was far away south, now; and lost beyond recall. But he would seek to enact – here by the shadow-lake – his final liebestod for Bavaria; the love-death that Wagner had written, under his patronage. Perhaps His Swan would come at the last, to witness his demise. * * * * 2. Festival-tide: October 2007 Hiranu stepped onstage with distinct unease; not sure what to expect as the music started. There was nothing save the quiet slap of water against the underside of the stage, and a faint hissing wind in the dry reeds. Forlornly, Hiranu began his final scene as Odette; betrayed and distraught after von Rothbart's Odile-deception. This time, he thought dismally, he really WOULD have to attempt a pas de deux for one! Fleeing an imaginary, repentant Prince, Hiranu chanced to glance outwards across the lake. In the fainter light of a now-declining moon it seemed more sinister; darker, deeper and stretching an endless distance. Across it, a path of golden sunlight which was not a part of Hiranu's October-night, suddenly manifested. Movement caught his attention on the left-hand shore. Against an alien configuration of trees, on an enlarged shingle-beach, two figures were struggling. The large figure of von Rothbart was unmistakeable. He seemed to be attempting to free himself from the desperate grip of a second, slighter figure. As Hiranu watched, stock still at centre-stage, his dance temporarily forgotten, von Rothbart bent and seized a weapon from the ground. As he raised it high, and brought it down with crashing force across his opponent's forehead, Hiranu saw that – incongruously – it was a man's black, furled, umbrella. The antagonist collapsed slowly into the shallows. Von Rothbart tore free of the slackening grip, and rushed forward into the water. Before wading into the deeps, he stopped to divest himself of his heavy outer coat. He straightened, standing tall and gazing over the lake, direct to Hiranu. The heavy face lit up, and the pouting lips moved to call an incomprehensible greeting. Fixing his eyes – the eyes of Prince Siegfried – on Hiranu, he walked forward slowly until the dark waters rose about his shoulders. "No!" shrieked Hiranu, as realisation struck; but (nightmare-like) it only came out as a whisper. This was no monster or ballet-villain at all! It was merely His Prince, committing the inevitable sin of growing older, and the lesser one of gaining an impressive amount of weight! In spite of this, it seemed Siegfried had defeated a von Rothbart of his own; and was swimming – quite astonishingly well, given his physical shape – towards the stage. Hiranu began to will him on, calling Japanese love-names in his useless shout-whisper, and extending his arms in encouragement, or supplication. His Prince almost made it. * * * * 3. Evening: 13 Juni 1886 As he waded into Wurmsee, its black emanations vainly striving to impede him with a treacly undertow, Ludwig was supremely happy. He'd finally completed a real Enaction; and conquered his enemy. He even spared a smile for the ironic fact that it was his opponent's umbrella through which he had wrought the victory. He didn't look back at the slumped heap that feebly struggled in the shallows as he struck out for the shining point on the lake where His Swan was dancing, light-footed, on the edge of the sun-path. He had always been a strong swimmer. Water was his element; his destiny. Now, it caressed his limbs as he cleft it lightly as air; allowing it to bring him gently to The Swan's feet. The Swan leaned down. Ludwig stretched his length to grasp the proffered hand. * * * * 4. Timeless-time For a brief interval, both sets of hands were doubled-clasped; real and warm, one pair within the other. * * * * Hiranu felt the seductive tug that The Prince exerted; and contemplated for one eternal instant, a shared grave at the absolute roots of this strange, yet intuitively familiar land of sublime heights and breathtaking depths. * * * * Ludwig, poised between the elements of Air and Water; between Swan and Peacock; felt the imperative pull of a glorious liebestod shared between himself, His Swan, and the Land he had ruled. * * * * Hiranu – suddenly aware of danger – gasped, and pulled away. * * * * Ludwig sighed in completion; and pulled His Swan nearer. * * * * The tension built, broke, and spilled away. * * * * The Swan's hands slid through his like water, and Ludwig kicked desperately upwards from the surface, towards the final vision of his lover, now dislimning once again into golden nudity. At the apex of his heavy salmon-leap – a change began. Something's happening to me! ….. he thought ….. * * * * As The Prince's hand slid through his fingers like smoke, Hiranu cried out one last time in mingled relief and loss. Petrified, he watched the heavy body (eyes still fixed on him, but leaking their bright life like a fish on a slab) jerk once, twice; and begin to sink slowly below the surface, mouth slack and gaping. In the same instant that he recognised death, in its absolute and most grotesque form, a luminous ribbon issued from the dark cave of the mouth. It hovered, shivered and slowly took form. His Siegfried – young once more, and radiant – regarded him; full of love and sensual promise. He yearned upwards; felt the press of a nude body on his, and then expelled his own ardent breath into a mist of silver droplets, as the vision faded into the air, and water, and solid bones of this place. The Landscape pulsed once; and was still. * * * * 5. Festival-tide: October 2007 Faced with this real, regal sacrifice, Hiranu felt his stage-death as Odette to be as painted and fragile as a blown egg. He accomplished it in an abbreviated, symbolic form that was less an apotheosis as a hasty stringing-together of several balletic clichés. He even managed to finish a little ahead of the music. What a tragic farce! He fled the stage, with its faint glimmer of moonlight; and collapsed in a bedraggled heap of feathers and tulle, behind a stack of scenery. There, in the blessed, familiar darkness of backstage, he cried for what felt like the rest of the night – until his throat and eyes were swollen half-closed (the lashes tangled together with gluey mascara); the skin of his face was sore and roughened, and his head pounded like an unforgiving timpani-obbligato. It was a heavy thing to be the recipient of someone's willed death. The moon had set, and the featureless sky breathed a chill pre-dawn exhalation as he finally staggered up to remove all traces of his presence here. His supple joints betrayed him, and he fell around like a drunkard whilst he got himself back into street clothes, hung up his sodden costume, gathered his effects, and reeled out into the grey prescience of a new day. * * * * CODA: October 2009 Hiranu stepped daintily across the stylised stage-area. The willow-pattern bridge provided a backing; and he would dance slowly onto its miniature span to meet his phantom lover later this evening. He hoped they'd get a full house – for all the kids, if for no other reason. He'd gone to the local western-ballet dance school for his chorus of pre-adolescent Swans, and had been swamped with volunteers. At least all the parents and relations would undoubtedly buy tickets! This mixed-media event was not, in any case, Swan Lake itself, although the ballet was obviously referenced; and he'd based the western-dance elements on its choreography. No – in reality this was the story – told via elements of Noh and Kabouki (plus some mind-boggling acrobatics from a troupe run by a school friend) – of a love-affair between an actor-dancer and a kingly ghost. It was the opening night. It had taken him two years – since his ignominious exit from the Trucks – to get to this! From the unfinished Disney-castle of Neuschwanstein, via some rather nasty and equally unfinished business between himself, the Director and a very catty Peaches Pavlova, he'd fled. He left both the Company and Bavaria within a week. He'd taken a vow to honour his king fittingly – but in his own way and through his own native traditions. Now the piece was ready. Maybe his lover would consent to obviate space as well as time, and attend his opening night, here at the foot of Mount Fuji …. Hiranu hoped so.

Jack Bauer looked up at the ominous white haze draping over the coulees a few miles west outside Cut Bank, felt the air temperature drop and the wind pick up around the flatbed of the truck. It was very early afternoon, just after lunch, and the winter storm was rolling in a little too quick for comfort. It was mid-December on the high plains, home of unpredictable weather; this was the third one already to come along this season, and winter hadn't even officially started yet. Beside him, Nate Whimby, the elderly shop proprietor who was helping him load the truck up with lumber and supplies, scanned the greying horizon with a practiced eye. "There it is, John. Just as the trick knee predicted. Best be gettin on now if you're gonna make it home, that blizzard's rollin in quick," Whimby drawled. In these parts, Jack Bauer was known as John Westin, a quiet reclusive man who owned an acreage half an hour out of town and who lived for his dog, a skittish but lovable chocolate brown retriever; who came into town only occasionally for groceries and supplies for a wood refinishing hobby-type business; who always paid cash, never kept credit, who rarely spoke unless spoken to, and who silently nursed a coffee for three hours every Thursday when the old-timers gathered for their weekly bull sessions in Rosie's Roadside Cafe on the Number Nine. Westin had arrived about a year ago, no wife or family to be known of and kept largely to himself. Nathaniel Whimby had known Westin to have had only one visitor since, back in spring sometime. The visitor drove a rented silver Dodge from the city and had stayed only one night, and he'd known that only because he'd seen the truck ahead of him pull into the driveway in the afternoon as he drove back home from Havre; when he'd gone to visit to take some of the Missus' fresh-baked muffins over the next day the truck had gone. No, Westin was OK, if he had secrets he kept them close to his heart, and that was a damn sight better than most of the gossips around town. Whimby had no need or desire to know about them. John Westin fit in and kept his nose clean, never expected anything, never complained, and Whimby had no problem with anyone who respected the ways of life round here as Westin did. That, plus Whimby could identify with the lines of sadness that dwelt around the blond man's odd-colored eyes. It was the type of sadness that came from living a hard and often lonely life, the type of life that people came to out here--the type of life that either left you broken or diamond-hard. So John Westin was the type of man you wanted to look out for, because you knew in a pinch he'd do the same for you. Whimby's wife stepped to the door of the shop and called outside. "Nate, the radio's sayin the Number Two's restricted to essential service vehicles only west a here. She's blowin in mighty fast. Jen's just called and it's settled in by her place already." "Thanks, Missus," He looked at Jack. "I'm closin up now. Jen's our daughter, lives just a few miles out a town. If you leave now you'll most likely beat it home. You OK with supplies to ride it out, John? Food, gas for the generator?" The question was just a formality. John Westin was a competent guy and always prepared, Whimby knew. Though both he and Mrs. Whimby worried about him sometimes, living by himself on the old Jackson homestead. Yep, it had been a year now, since Westin had arrived--quiet, polite, quiet. Still, Whimby trusted the man implicitly. He was likable and pleasant enough, he had an honest smile, and the taciturn types were the most dependable. That, plus any man who had the temerity to fix up that old rat-hole of a house single-handedly had to be a stubborn old gun, and that had earned John Westin no end of respect from the old-timers around these parts. "Yeah. Thanks, Nate." "Drive safe now. Be seein you. Call you in a day or two if the phone lines don't go down." Jack waved, climbed into the cab and spun out of the shop parking lot. He didn't know why old Nate Whimby seemed so enamored of him, but it felt oddly nice to know someone was watching out for him out here in this new life he'd carved on the plains. Someone to count on if he needed anything--heading east, he hoped to beat the storm swooping in and get the truck unloaded, the woodworking supplies into the barn, before having to hole up in the house for the duration. He'd been here long enough to know the blizzards often settled in for days, and he didn't want the kiln-dried lumber to get snowed on and warped in the bed of the truck. The road was already slippery though under the wheels on the trip back; a fine sheen of moisture had settled in already and froze, and what was normally a twenty minute drive dragged out to over forty. More than once he felt the wheels slip on the asphalt and the storm proper hadn't even hit yet. Christ, it was only December, a couple of weeks to Christmas. He'd been here long enough to expect the unexpected, but it still caught him off-guard sometimes. The wind was gusting at his back too, and thank God he had the back weighted down with the lumber or he'd be fishtailing across into the other lane. Finally Jack came up to the long hill just outside his house, with its hidden driveway just below the crest; turning left he had to traverse blindly, counting on instinct that nothing was coming the other way. He made it, barely--the semi plowing up the other side crested the hill just as his back tires ground on the gravel. He angled up to the driveway of his house as the first snowflakes were already drifting in on the cold air. As he shifted down to neutral and shut off the ignition he realized he still had to get all the supplies into the barn before he could hole up in the house, and he'd need help to get them all in before visibility dropped to nothing. Damn. Then he saw the black sheen of an unfamiliar late-model Dodge Ram pulled up by the house. Jack tensed--not expecting anyone because he was still in hiding, sonofabitch his Glock semi-automatic was in the house dammit and he cursed himself roundly for not having it on his person as he should. He was getting too comfortable here, he was alone, he should've known better-- One breath, two, and he steadied his thoughts. There were intruders unknown out there, but he knew he couldn't stay in his own cab either, because the plummeting temperature outside would eventually kill him if he did. CTU training kicked in by instinct. Assess, plan, attack. The truck was a rental, he knew that by the plates on the back, and someone was inside, though that didn't rule out anyone else lurking around the perimeter in the surrounding bushes. Whoever was here, was likely unfamiliar with the territory and would probably do something stupid if Jack just waited him out. The truck had been sitting for a while, he could tell by the lack of shimmering heated air around the front hood and by the frost on the inside of the cab windows. The house still appeared closed-up, no windows broken, no doors ajar, a promising sign--still it was best to take out whoever was in the truck first, then worry about any hovering backup later. He ducked low and slid his hand under the front passenger seat to find something to use as a weapon. His fingers bumped against something smooth and metallic--he pulled out a mid-sized Maglite flashlight. It was light, but it would have to do. He pulled on the door latch as quietly as possible, slid out of the cab and crouched behind the tire, keeping low, taking small steps around the back of the truck to reduce the crackle on the powdered gravel. He crept up the driver's side of the rental, reached out one hand to fling the door open, ambush the driver and yank him out, to throttle him with bare hands if necessary--then the window rolled down and an all-too-familiar voice called out. "Jack? That you?" Jack stopped in mid-pounce, thunderstruck. He lost his balance, sliding to one knee on the gravel and dropping the Maglite, which rolled under the chassis and out of his reach. "For fuck sakes Tony, what the hell are you doing here?" Tony Almeida grinned, white teeth flashing in the semi-dark space of the cab. "Special surprise, Jack. Early Christmas present. Thought you wouldn't mind." He rolled up the window, opened the door and jumped out. "Good to see you." He extended his hand in greeting. Jack visibly seethed, heart pumping, mouth desert-dry, muscles tensed and ready to spring--still pumped on adrenaline, he had to forcibly calm his staccato breathing. Then he let himself sag with relief--it was only Tony. He rolled his eyes and laughed wryly. "I could've killed you and you never would've seen it coming, you sonofabitch." He clasped Tony's proffered hand, letting Tony pull him up to standing; he then clapped his friend's and former colleague's shoulder, anger dissipating for now. "It's not like anyone would find you out here anyway unless they knew where to look," Tony replied. Jack frowned, but Tony missed it; a gust whipped through the clearing in the driveway that made him shiver. "Christ, it's cold." "Blizzard's coming," Jack said, feeling the snow drive a little harder into his face, attention now turning to the job at hand. "Come on, I gotta get this stuff into the barn before it hits full on." They both hopped back into Jack's truck, and Jack backed it up to the barn door. Jack kept shooting anxious looks into the descending sky as they rushed to unload the lumber. "Just pile it inside, I don't like how fast that's coming," Jack yelled over the shifting wind. Tony only nodded, and they hoisted up the last of the plywood sheeting, haphazardly dropping it just inside the barn. Both men wrestled with the wind to shut and bolt the door, faces stinging red with cold and exertion by the time they finished. "How do you stand this, Jack?" Tony shouted, wind and snow now whipping his hair and piercing through his jacket. "You get inside and stay there," Jack replied matter of factly. "Let's go." He clapped his shoulder; they piled back into the truck and drove the fifty or so yards back to the house. They just got inside the front porch as the storm landed in earnest, the snow drifting across the driveway and blotting out any view of the outbuildings. Inside the house was almost eerily quiet after the wind outside, now muffled but still audible around the eaves. Both men kicked off their boots and Jack shucked his coat before heading into the house proper. Once inside the safety of the kitchen, Jack found himself shivering not with cold but with suppressed adrenaline. Jack rounded on Tony, eyes searching Tony's face for some sort of reason for this apparent madness. "Hope you don't have to be anywhere important where they're going to miss you, Almeida. You could be stuck here for days." Tony shrugged. "Michelle and Chloe know. They can cover for me fine." Jack gaped at his friend in stunned disbelief at his cool response, previous anger again rising to flashpoint, and his voice rose. "Do you realize how stupid this is, not calling, not even letting me know beforehand? I could've been stuck in town with this storm, you could've frozen to death waiting for me--" "I would've broken in and made myself at home." Jack snorted, shaking his head with the force of erupting anger. "I would've killed you out there with my bare hands!" he shouted. "Dammit, Tony! I can't afford you doing anything reckless like that, Michelle can't--" A strange expression crossed Tony's features--a weary sadness that stopped Jack cold in mid-tirade. His voice softened and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Listen, do you want some coffee to warm up?" Tony rubbed his bare, red and freezing hands together, teeth still chattering. "Thought you'd never ask." As Jack moved about in the kitchen Tony wandered restlessly around the living room, turning on the occasional light against the stormy greyness outside, adding a warm glow to the room that almost fought back the eerie silver sheen of the blowing snow. The aroma of fresh-brewed Colombian suffused from the kitchen, almost comforting in its bitterness. He noted that Jack had continued fixing up the house since he'd last been here, working on the small touches that made the room feel more at ease, as if he lived here rather than just stayed here--paint, trim, a pair of reading glasses on top of a folded paper on the end table beside the armchair. He had to grin wryly at a feather-down quilt carelessly tossed at one end of the sofa. Had it been a year already, since Jack left his former life? Jack seemed fully settled in now, like he truly belonged in this landscape instead of just passing through-- Jack's dog, who'd been napping curled in the armchair, hopped down, came up and nuzzled at his hand with a low welcoming whine. Tony looked down and smiled sadly--the first genuine one to touch his lips in a long time. "Hey, Kola," Tony murmured, kneeling down to ruffle the dog's fur. "Long time no see, girl." The dog nuzzled up against him, and Tony wrapped his arms around her, running his fingers through her fur, reveling in her trusting warmth. It felt a lifetime since he'd last seen Jack--and in some ways it was, a small, well-buried part of his mind whispered. But dammit, this wasn't the reason why he was here. He clutched at the small parcel inside the pocket of his jacket, telling himself that what was in the parcel was the only reason, hoping his bruised heart would listen... He'd hoped he'd simply be able to visit a few hours, drop off what he needed to, and leave right away, because -- don't go there. But he wasn't from the prairies, he didn't have a feel for the changeable weather so he hadn't counted on being stranded--and now he was stuck here with Jack, and Jack would know, would find out--he hadn't told him, hadn't been able to find a way without risking Jack's safety in the process, though maybe, being here now, it might be a good thing--he was tired, just so tired of shouldering the burden by himself anymore and maybe he was being reckless, but-- "Are you going to take your coat off and stay a while?" Jack asked with an oddly wistful smile, derailing Tony's train of thought. Tony realized with a start that Jack had been studying him for a while; realized that he was clinging to Kola more desperately than he should. Oh crap. Tony looked up at the steaming mug of coffee Jack held in his outstretched hand, rapidly collecting his disjointed thoughts together. "Guess I could," Tony replied, disentangling his fingers from Kola's fur, rising and shrugging off his jacket and dropping it on the back of the overstuffed armchair before taking the proffered cup. "You can't leave now anyway. Blizzard's here. Nothing's going to move now." Jack curled his hands around his own mug. "The radio just announced all the roads are closed. Troopers will simply turn you back if you try to head out, so you may as well enjoy being here." Kola nudged up against Jack's leg, earning a loving scratch behind her ears, then padded off into the kitchen to curl up by the stove. Tony watched the dog settle down and lay her head on her front paws to drift off to sleep again. Tony felt an odd loss at that--like losing an ally somehow. As much as he liked and respected Jack, he had a single-mindedness that was terrifying. The man could be truly relentless when trying to find out information, and he didn't think he could stand that type of interrogation. Especially now. Tony lowered his nose to the rim of the mug, gratefully inhaling the fragrant steam. He noted Jack had a mug of what looked like tea and was sipping it, eyes hooded. "So why are you here then?" Jack spoke over the mug with a slightly wary tone. Tony, caught in mid-sip, had a couple of seconds to mull the question. Why indeed--he told himself it was the small envelope in his jacket pocket, just that, fighting down a sudden prickling in his eyes. Dammit, not now--this was going to be so much harder than he thought, if he couldn't even bring himself to answer the simplest of questions without--he inhaled, forcibly centering himself around the effort, trying to choose his words carefully, concentrating on their even timbre. "I brought you pictures of your granddaughter. I thought you might want to see them." Jack looked up, eyes wide, and his heart leapt even as he wanted to throttle Tony for being so reckless. "Of Theresa?" Jack swallowed, an incredulous grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Tony--you know that--" The unspoken words hung between them. You know how dangerous it is to do this. To bring them. To have them. To even come here. Jack let them pass though, settling on the feeling of eager expectation to see the pictures--to touch the image of his granddaughter for the first time. "Can I see them?" His voice wavered slightly. Tony nodded slowly. "Sure." Tony set down his mug, withdrew the small packet from his jacket and handed it over. "Chloe took most of them. Kim and Chase don't even know--they figure Michelle and I are keeping them for ourselves." "You didn't--" "No. No copies. No one else knows, don't worry." It came out sharper than he'd intended, and hoped that Jack wouldn't notice. Jack opened the packet with barely steady hands, leaning heavily against the armchair for support. He had been steeling himself for his granddaughter's birth for months, since Tony had been here last--tracking the infinitesimal clock movements as Kim's due date approached, never far from his mind even as he worked. The phone call from Chloe two weeks ago had been shell-shocked relief; how he'd clung to her voice then, to each measured word in her nasal matter-of-fact tone, ravenous for every detail she could offer in that brief minute. Though at the time he'd wondered why Tony wasn't the one who called--wondered, then shrugged it off, telling himself that wasn't the important thing. After he'd disconnected, he'd wept unashamedly, equal parts of joy and sadness--holding onto the vivid mental picture Chloe had painted, of his little girl, of her little girl, who would carry on forever the spirit of her grandmother in her name. Photographs though--holy God he'd never counted on those, never even dared to dream of seeing them because he knew how much of a risk they'd entail. Jack had forced himself to be satisfied with just the news, with Chloe's quiet relaying of the details. But here they were, wonderful and impossible, the glossy paper cool and inviting under his hands. Tony had brought them and he felt his heart pounding, ready to explode, both insanely eager and terribly afraid to see them. With a sharp intake of breath, he pulled out the first one, and gazed with damp eyes at the first photograph, of Kim, exhausted and smiling in the hospital bed; cradling a small pink bundle with a red, scrunched-up face. Tony watched Jack study the pictures, tracing one trembling finger over Kim's sweat-soaked hair in one, caressing the small pink bundle in her arms in another. Jack's lips curved into a tremulous and watery smile at the close-up of Tony holding the baby snuggled against his chest, and Tony knew exactly what he was thinking from the envious expression on his face. Yes that should be you in that picture, Jack, he replied wearily in his head, and you have no idea how I wish to God it was. Tony bit his lip and blinked rapidly when he saw Jack's lips move silently, forming the unmistakable shape of "Love you" over a third close-up picture of Kim and Theresa. Jack stared intently at each picture, memorizing each small detail. Each curve, each smile, each fall of hair and each expression, he committed them all to memory. There was no way, either of them knew, that he would keep the photographs, except in his heart--any tangible connection left here, no matter how tenuous, to his former life in California was an unacceptable risk here to his carefully constructed life in hiding. Tony had risked a lot in coming to see him once, had risked much more in coming to visit now--and Jack had never in his life felt more ridiculously grateful for such misplaced thoughtfulness. He looked up from the pictures at last, placing them reverently back in their manila envelope. He pressed the packet against his heart with an audible sniff; bowing his head, he watched the floor dissolve into a varnished shimmer for a long moment. He owed Tony everything for this--for bringing him life again, the promise of it, the reassurance that hope and love would go on without him. Everything, anything--he looked up again, not caring about the wetness on his lashes, or the slightly shaky breath he took just before he spoke. "Thank you, Tony." Complete and utter sincerity colored his words. "Yeah. Sure. No problem." Jack started and blinked at the unintended bitter catch in his friend's voice. Tony had turned away from him to watch the gathering storm build outside the living room's bay window. Tony stood rod-straight, shoulders tensed and fists clenched--and Jack saw Tony's jaw twitch, as it did when he was trying very hard to suppress something unbearably painful. Jack realized that Tony had not mentioned anything about his own family since he'd arrived. He hadn't asked either, but normally that wasn't a problem. Something had happened. Oh dear God, please no-- Jack studied Tony with growing trepidation. "What's wrong?" he finally asked, keeping his voice even and quiet. "What's happened, Tony?" Tony inhaled sharply at the aching kindness in that tone and visibly coiled in further on himself. Here it comes-- "Tony?" He knew if he turned around now, if he saw that worn and knowing face, he'd shatter. Unable to turn around and face his friend, he spoke instead to the window, breath fogging then immediately crystallizing into a fine lace on the frigid glass. "In--in July. Michelle gave birth. You--you knew we were having twins, right? A boy and a girl?" Jack nodded slowly, his eyes already widening in horrified understanding. We--we lost one of the twins, Jack," he managed finally, surprised that he seemed to sound almost normal about it. "At birth. Stillborn--our son died." The stark words echoed in the cold air around them. Jack staggered as if slapped. There was a sharp intake of shocked breath, followed by stunned silence. Then "Oh Christ, Tony, I'm so sorry--" his voice fell to a stricken whisper. He quickly regained control, spreading his hands out as if reaching to touch the other man. "Why--why didn't you let me know until now?" Tony stared out at the whipping snow, white and grey against the frozen windowpane. The wind had edged up in strength, and he felt it slide through around the edges of the window. He touched the frosted glass, wishing it would freeze him too. "It's--it's OK." He shrugged, attempting to ignore the question. "Our daughter's alive. That's a blessing, really, right? We have her. She keeps us going. She's beautiful." He grinned shakily, his voice unnaturally light. "Her name's Marissa. She looks like Michelle. They say girls always look like their mothers." Jack's lips quirked in sympathy and let it pass. "How is Michelle doing?" "All right, I guess. As expected. She--she's taking a while to get over it. But she's strong." "And how are you?" Tony froze, not knowing how to answer that one. In the months since the twins were born, no one had asked him that, ever--through the first nightmarish, fogged days, even at the funeral--all sympathy and attention had been, rightly he'd thought at the time, directed at Michelle. This was the first time anyone had asked him, and it was Jack--the words cut through, leaving him dazed. Because no one bothers to ask the father, he heard the resentful voice in his mind snap, and he was now shocked at just how sore he was at that. What do you think? Jack studied him with a curious, sad expression, a hazy reflection behind him through the ice on the window. Christ, did I say that out loud? Tony wondered. Jack's voice came across as if from a fog. "You're just as important, Tony, he was your son." A slight catch on the last word. "What did he look like? What was his name?" Each question was softly worded, but they still pierced his heart, threatening to make it bleed anew. He struggled to answer, keeping his voice completely even and emotionless. "Tomas," he finally said with a tinge of pride. "After my father. God he was--he was perfect, head full of curly dark hair, ten tiny fingers, all his toes." He tried to laugh, but it came out with a harsh choking gasp that grated in his throat. "The neonatal nurse said he looked like me. So I guess sons take after their fathers." His voice cracked; his lips twisted into a caricature of a grin. "Do you know--?" Tony sighed, trying to regroup. "They--they think Marissa may have compressed his cord during labor. That plus there was a knot in it, they think it was both that did it. They did a crash C-section on Michelle and they tried to resuscitate him but--" his voice trailed off into the fog on the glass. Jack closed his eyes, lips forming a soundless "Dear God." Another awkward silence followed, punctuated only by slightly ragged breaths and the soft whir of the furnace turning on. He opened his eyes. "Why didn't you let me know?" he asked again, his voice infinitely soft. "Christ, Tony, why'd you keep something like that from me? If I'd known--" Tony shrugged. "There's nothing you could've done. Nothing. These things happen." He tried to sound nonchalant, wondering why he didn't feel relieved now he had someone to share with; he felt himself scrabbling to cling onto the numbness that had kept him going the past four months--the numbness that was now dissipating, leaving only jagged raw hurt in its place. "You didn't have to suffer through it alone." Jack's voice carried a faint note of recrimination. "What could you have done, Jack?" Tony shot back, his voice cracking like a whip through the hushed air around them. "How far does a fucking one-minute phone call go?" When your world's falling apart? Jack flinched but didn't reply. He only stepped closer until he stood beside Tony at the window, watching the huge crystalline flakes swirl in the rising wind. "I'm here now," he murmured. Standing this close, Jack felt the fine string of tension vibrating through Tony--the force of grief welling, roiling underneath--he knew down to his core, one touch and Tony would shatter. For now though he simply stood beside him, offering his strength and presence, sensing Tony wanted and needed to say something more, but was willfully holding it back out of some sense of misdirected duty. Tony swiped his fist angrily across his eyes, trying blindly to regain the control that was rapidly slipping away. How many times had he wanted to call Jack, to hear his voice anchor him through the sadness--to cling to his steady, gravel-tinged words like a lifeline--even picked up the phone and started to dial a few times--only to realize that one minute wouldn't even allow him to begin. When he slammed the phone on the receiver hard enough to crack the casing and wrestled the rising grief back down, trying to forget the way his arms had curved around his stillborn son when he'd had to say goodbye. It had been hard enough before Kim delivered, seeing her glowing face in the end stages of pregnancy, remembering how Michelle had glowed just the same way. Michelle didn't glow afterwards; wan and white, she had barely enough energy to care for their surviving daughter, and none to spare for herself, let alone him. Oh Christ, he did what he could--struggling to keep going, keep together, hold his job, provide for them; holding her as Michelle fell apart, shedding a few tears with her when he thought she needed to see them, but only a few--holding back, keeping strong, his own heart breaking more and more each time. And still they started to grow apart, Tomas' lifeless presence wedged between them, measured by the distance between them in their bed, now sleeping on opposite sides. He'd promised Jack, as soon as Kim's baby was born Jack would know about it, and Tony Almeida was, if nothing, a man of his word, no matter how difficult it would be for him. When it was time, he had been there because Kim and Chase had asked him to, because Jack would have wanted it if he couldn't be there himself. It had been infinitely hard to be there, holding Kim's hand as she pushed, taking the place Jack should have had beside her, when he held Jack's newborn granddaughter in his arms and thought of his own dead son. In the end he'd asked Chloe O'Brien to call, swearing her to silence about his own loss. Though he listened in as Chloe called, standing in the outside courtyard of the birthing centre in the California sunshine and surrounded by blood-red bougainvillea, making sure she revealed nothing except the necessary details. Chloe, good to her word, did so, and he watched her nod at the end with a quiet "You too," before ending the call. Then Chloe, whose level of empathy for others normally didn't fill a thimble, had handed the cell back to Tony with an odd expression somewhere between curiosity and sadness, said simply "Jack says thanks for letting him know, and wishes everyone a Happy Thanksgiving," and touched his shoulder briefly before walking off to see Kim and Chase and their new baby girl. Christ it was Thanksgiving Day, he'd realized. Tony couldn't help but think with a painful laugh that his son's birthday and death day, three months and a lifetime ago, had been just as sunny and bright. When he'd returned home, to find Michelle and their daughter asleep on the sofa, the house a ramshackle mess and no welcoming smells of dinner in the oven, he'd simply watched them for a while, jaw working silently; then he climbed the stairs and went into the upstairs bathroom. He stared at his haggard reflection in the mirror for a long time, dry eyes burning--he turned on the shower, then turning back, he coolly and calmly punched the mirror. Afterwards he scowled at the multiple images of him in the shattered silver, but he'd felt no pain, and he stupidly wished he did, because it would have been something real to focus on. Only the blood that steadily flowed from his lacerated fist reminded him that dammit, he was still alive and that he still bled. Although now the scars on his knuckles started to ache. He'd never called Jack because he knew, once he heard Jack's voice at the other end he'd split wide open, and then Jack would come back to find out why, the exile that kept him alive be damned and risking his life--and Tony would have never forgiven himself, because Jack alive in exile was far more important than Jack dead, even if he needed him there. All of this flashed through his head, his mouth forming the words soundlessly, but unable to utter any of it aloud--to say it would mean to admit it and oh God it hurt so fucking much, to watch helplessly as Michelle drifted away from him, to turn into a stranger sharing their bed; to hold Marissa and never be able to hold Tomas; to think of the tiny blue cap they'd put on him, the blanket he'd been wrapped in, footprints on a slip of paper the only reminders of what could and should have been... "I try to be strong for Michelle, but it's so hard, it's so fucking hard and she tries to be there for me but she's too overwhelmed still and--" a half-choked sob escaped, and he raised his head, jaw set and blinking rapidly. "Oh God I don't know what to do anymore." The words tumbled out, free at last, until Tony pursed his lips shut to try to keep them from quivering as his voice wavered. His arms ached--dammit, this wasn't his place to break here, not when Jack would need him to be strong and steady, but the waves of pain were cresting just below the surface and threatening to flood him and he couldn't help it-- Jack listened patiently, watched Tony forcibly try to rein in his grief, suddenly realizing with a sharp pang that this was probably the first time Tony was able to voice it openly without having to worry about hurting anyone else with it. He reached out and laid his hand gently on Tony's shoulder. Tony squeezed his eyes shut at the warm weight of Jack's hand on his shoulder and he tensed at the contact but did not push it away, even as he felt himself break a little with it. Nor did he resist when Jack drew Tony away from the iced-over window towards him--as one errant tear escaped out of the corner of Tony's eye, then another--and then Jack was embracing him tightly, a sure but gentle hand threading through his short dark hair and guiding his head to rest on Jack's shoulder. "It's all right, Tony," Jack murmured against the shell of his ear. "It's all right." That did it then; the embrace, the words and above all the surety in Jack's gesture--the tenuous reserves broke, and Tony collapsed under their weight, his face crumpling, the months of bottled-up grief spilling over at last. "Fuck, Jack," he gasped into his shoulder, voice dissolving. "Oh fuck and goddammit to hell--" He sagged into Jack, and Jack held him up, held him, as Tony huddled against Jack and sobbed. Like a child, with angry howls and snot on Jack's shirt and pounding on Jack's arms and back; clinging so hard to him that he left finger-shaped bruises; alone and lost and letting the jagged tear in his soul rip him all the way through. Jack held him fiercely, accepting the blows and the growing wetness on his shoulder, his own heart aching. While he may never hold, or see his granddaughter except in pictures, at least he knew she was alive, and healthy, and there was always a chance they would meet--while Tony would never see his son again, would never know him. It didn't compare, how could it? Jack was used to this pain, had had months to prepare himself for it. Tony's was an absolute shock--expecting two babies home but only taking one; having to say goodbye before having the chance to say hello--and having no one really to share it. Yes he could fathom it, the warm wriggling weight that should be there, missing permanently from his arms. The air by the window was cold, and when the wind shifted the piercing draught around the moulding dropped the temperature a few more degrees. He felt more draughts at his back, from around the door, and probably every window around the house too. At the back of his mind Jack thought he would have to caulk in some more foam insulation once the storm was over--he realized he didn't have any of that on hand, so they'd just have to ride the cold and the draughts out awhile, he mused. As the worst of his grief subsided and the wrenching sobs gave way to shuddering gasps, Tony stilled, his mouth working soundlessly against the damp sliminess of Jack's shirt. He was content to just be and not think for a while, resting against Jack's shoulder; almost like a child, lulled by the comfort of a steady heartbeat under his ear and the warmth in the close embrace of a friend who knew. When Tony opened his eyes and finally drew back, Jack was gazing at him with those intense blue/green eyes and an expression of utter sadness behind a sympathetic sheen. Tony blinked, trying to clear his own eyes from the hot grit of tears, knowing he probably should be embarrassed for breaking like this, but realizing he was not. Until Jack's gaze lowered to Tony's slightly open mouth; Tony closed his eyes again, slightly trembling as he realized what was going to happen--and was strangely unwilling to stop it. Jack closed the distance to touch his lips to Tony's; being the same height it wasn't a reach--just brushing light and gentle, neither eager nor demanding, just--warm and comforting, Tony thought. Like he knew how Tony felt, isolated and helpless like this, expected to be strong for everyone else but needing someone there for himself to lean on. Because he did know, Tony knew, he had witnessed it more than once, Jack pulling everyone else together even while he himself was privately falling apart. And that was what allowed Tony to accept Jack's kiss, even to return it, in the spirit it was offered. Jack felt Tony's mouth move slightly against his, accepting and returning the kiss in kind; he tasted the bitter salt on his lips, hoping Tony understood what he was trying to say now that all words failed. Things like I'm here and trust me and I'll take care of you; things he could never say aloud, but could show. Let me be here for you now. Jack's hand came up to caress Tony's jawline, feeling the slight rasp of stubble under his thumb pad, and Tony leaned into the touch, rubbing his tear-stained cheek against Jack's palm. The grief was still there, under the surface, God knew how his own heart ached with the loneliness of it--and oh sonofabitch... Jack had spent the better part of the last seven months trying very hard not to think about what had happened that early spring morning the last time Tony had visited; as isolated and helpless as Tony was now, learning that he would be a grandfather and being able to do nothing about it. Shattered inside, both fueled by Scotch and resistance broached by it, he'd wept much as Tony just had, until he'd fallen into uneasy sleep, and Tony had been there to hold on to; he remembered waking up sweaty and wearing only his T-shirt, with stickiness on his belly and Tony sprawled, asleep and naked from the waist down, beside him. And the hazy recollection of desperate pleasure driving away the pain, of panting Scotch-sour breath, of tongues twining, dawn rising and the heat of Tony's body writhing under him; the recollection that had been all too real, anchored in the smells of sex in the bed and on them in the brilliant morning sun. How he'd tried to forget, and failed miserably--but together and storm-bound, with Tony shattered and lost in his arms, he decided it didn't matter. Oh fuck, he didn't know why it was turning this way again--maybe because in some way it had to, that they both had been through too fucking much in their lives to be able to salve this crushing pain and loneliness any other way. So here they were, about to cross that threshold again between comfort and something else as had happened before, and he realized he didn't really care. All he knew was that this was payback in a way, for when Tony had been there for him--something he realized he could fulfill, that he now wanted to fulfill, and they would be even. Give and take--it was his turn to give now, if Tony wanted it. Dammit, he would offer. "What do you want, Tony?" Jack murmured finally, drawing back, studying him with a hooded expression. Tony swallowed, recognizing what Jack was offering. He'd offered it himself once, comfort and refuge with his body, and Jack had taken it, the desperate coupling at dawn in the hazy spring rain--and they had meant simply to leave it at that, a one-time offer, nothing more than that. But nothing ever turned out as they intended, he thought bitterly--and Christ he was tired, so tired now of being alone and lonely and in this unending, soul-sucking pain. If he had to turn to someone else for physical solace, at least it would be a friend who'd been there himself. "Please." He spoke scarcely above a whisper, just barely a brush of breath against his cheek; his arms shook as he pulled Jack back against him, leaning his forehead against Jack's, wanting, needing and aching for the missing warmth and contact of his friend's body. "Please, I--I just don't want to feel like this anymore." Any resistance Jack might have had to this course of action shattered with Tony's anguished plea. Jack nodded, then started to brush light flutters with his lips across Tony's wet cheeks, his closed eyelids, tasting the tears and the skin beneath. He felt Tony's breath start to shudder again, and, unable to bear witness to it anymore, he captured Tony's mouth with his own to still it; brushing against the corner of his mouth then sliding to full contact, his tongue gently seeking entrance. It was the closeness that did it, oh God Jack was holding him so close and kissing him so gently that Tony thought he might break once more with the sheer tenderness of it. Their mouths met with a clumsy bump, Jack's tongue licking lightly along his lips, but not forcing; Tony let him in with a strangled moan, not caring if Jack tasted snot and desperation there. Jack didn't recoil but simply explored Tony's mouth, slowly and thoroughly with his tongue, tasting its remnants of tears and anger and coffee-shadowed grief. Tony explored his in turn, the hints of stale tea, cigarettes, old things, nothing and everything familiar; drawing at Jack's mouth, drinking in the closeness he hadn't had in a lifetime-- They drew back again, shaky breaths and pulses racing, and when Jack reached out to caress his cheek with his thumb Tony closed his eyes. "Christ, Jack," he managed, voice unsteady. "I--I need ..." "What do you need?" The low graveled tone of Jack's voice shot shivers up and down Tony's spine, and longing instantly exploded along his veins, every nerve ending suddenly on fire. "You, Jack," he whispered at last, voice rough and tight. "Oh fuck. You. Me--just--fuck it, do something, dammit I don't care." Just don't let me be alone. Jack wordlessly pulled Tony to the sofa, pushed him down by the shoulders, wasting no time; he unfastened Tony's jeans and pulled them off with no hesitation, discarding them haphazardly onto the hardwood floor, eyes flickering between Tony's swelling erection and his face. He was already hard as he tugged down his own pants, letting them drop on top of Tony's. In the blizzard-hued light of the room Tony's eyes darkened at the sight of Jack's erection jutting out from his body as he straightened up, and Tony licked his lips in anticipation, his own cock throbbing in response. "Jack--" Tony's voice broke and re-formed at once, imploring, harsh and aching; Jack stood trembling in front of him, unable to speak. In that moment, they both knew that they were going further than before, and oh holy hell they both wanted it enough to hurt. Jack clambered and lay beside him, fitting himself between Tony's legs--a tight fit on the narrow sofa, shoulders and chests and hips flush. He reached for the feather down quilt at the end of the sofa and covered both of them with it, not so much because of the cold air in the room as for its simple comfort, forming a cocoon of sorts to wrap themselves in, seeking shelter and solace from the reality outside. His left hand gripped Tony's right; lying so closely aligned, he slid his other hand between their bodies, to wrap his fingers around both their cocks, slowly fisting them both up and down as they started to search for a rhythm with their hips. Tony tilted his head back against the pillows of the sofa, baring his throat, forgetting it was Jack's hand doing this, losing himself in the feeling of Jack bringing him off with such unbearably sweet friction of hand and cock against his own. Soon enough he forgot grief entirely, forgot pain; concentrating only on the ever-pulsing ache echoing and building across his groin, and Jack's other hand clasping his own, anchoring them. Eyes squeezed shut, face contorted and jaw clenched, blocking out the hopelessness, and oh holy God Jack knew, he knew--he felt it, heard it in the hand holding his own, speaking in a silent conversation of shared grief and loss and understanding. Even as he thrust into Jack's hand stroking him, as he scrabbled at Jack's upper arm with his free hand for some sort of purchase, for something warm and alive to hold onto; even as he felt himself plunging headlong toward orgasm, he clung to the hand holding his own, solid and warm and safe, trusting implicitly in its tacit promise I won't let go. Jack watched Tony's face writhe with anguished pleasure, listened to him gasp and moan--this was only temporary respite he could give him, and it hurt, but it was something he could give, would give, relief and release for a while. Jack's wet lips braised Tony's throat, trailing up and down the straining column of his neck, hot humid breath ghosting in panting counterpoint with their lower bodies arching against each other; his own desire mounting, driving out the prickling loneliness he'd felt since Tony had left all those months ago. He'd missed, oh God how he'd missed--he rubbed against Tony, hard and fast now, trying to get as near as he possibly could, pushing him back into the sofa with the force of it. And oh Christ he craved, wanted, needed this closeness, for as long as Tony was willing to grant it. As Tony's hips ground against his, convulsing with heated desperate pleasure, Jack knew Tony was searching for that closeness too--and sonofabitch it was so fucking tight and hot and perfect and he felt himself starting to fall-- Tony let go first, surrendering to release at last with a shudder and a strangled cry, and Jack still held on, his grip on Tony's hand firm and strong while his mouth covered Tony's to swallow his groans whole with devouring intensity, as if only by kissing him with such desperation he could hold on that much longer. Jack followed Tony almost right after, urged on by the pulse of Tony's orgasm against him; as he felt the bloom of warm jets on his skin, his own spilt over his hand between their bellies, while Tony's mouth clamped down hard on Jack's as he came, drawing out Jack's moans, claiming them as his own, their hands still firmly clasped. I've got you. Afterwards they lay spent and shaking against each other, huddled and entangled beneath the quilt, their hands clasped still, inhaling the mingled scents of sweat and breath and semen between them. As their heartbeats slowed they leaned into each other, saying nothing, shifting only to find a comfortable embrace. Finally they both dropped into exhausted sleep, realizing at the edge of consciousness that maybe they'd found what they were looking for, at least for a while--shelter and solace here in these arms, against this body under this quilt, as the snow outside swirled and drifted in the howling wind.

Bill cornered Tom after the concert. Well, actually he just knocked on Tom's hotel room door after the concert and Tom let him in, but Tom felt cornered. Bill looked different. His hair was sleek after a shower but he still had some make-up on, and there was a satisfied little smile playing on his lips. He looked soft and warm and inviting and a whole lot of other things that Tom tried to push out of his mind. "Mmm," Bill said, and put his arms above his head and stretched. Tom's eyes were drawn to his stomach. Bill had a worn shirt on that was just long enough to hide skin, even in that position. For some reason, it made Tom feel worse. Maybe because the disappointment in not seeing Bill's skin made it impossible to ignore that he wanted to see it. "A great concert, wasn't it?" Bill asked. "Uh-huh," Tom said, and took a step back. It was probably best to put some distance between them. He tried to look casual and not like he was backing away. "I think it was amazing," Bill said, and walked toward Tom. Tom tried to turn and walk away – casually – but Bill intercepted him. "And it's mostly your doing." Tom was now between Bill and the wall; it looked like Bill had cornered him after all. Somehow he'd seen this coming, and yet he hadn't been able to stop it. He wasn't able to stop his body's most interesting reactions to Bill being so close, either. Tom wasn't completely without weapons, though. "You're not serious," he said, attempting a light tone. "It's not mostly my doing when you are so good on stage." Flattery usually distracted Bill from anything, but this time it seemed to backfire on Tom. Bill looked at him beneath his lashes and put his hand up to toy with the collar of Tom's shirt. "Really? You thought I was good?" Tom swallowed. "The fans," he said, and had to clear his throat. "The fans think you're amazing. You know exactly what appeals to them, you know? And your..." he searched for words, frantic. "Your dancing?" he tried. Bill pursed his lips. Not that Tom was looking at his lips. "I am good," Bill concluded, "but I need to be relaxed before I can give my all. And that's where you came in." Bill smiled his little smile again. Sexy, Tom's mind informed him; all of Bill practically screamed that. You sick, miserable fuck, that's your brother, Tom thought. "I," he started, but Bill didn't let him speak. "I want you to know how grateful I am," Bill said, and suddenly he looked completely serious. "This means so much to me. You've done me a huge favour and I'd like to repay it. So..." Bill looked down and then back at Tom, who was staring at him helplessly. "Is there anything you want?" Bill's fingers, still caressing Tom's collar, slipped and touched skin. It was a simple, flirty but basically innocent thing exactly like the dozens of others Bill did every day, but this time it was making Tom's blood boil with temptation and guilt. Neither of which were helped with Bill shifting a tiny bit closer and saying, in a husky voice that Tom hadn't ever heard before, "I'll do anything you want. Anything at all." Tom had vivid visions of exactly what he wanted Bill to do, or how he wanted to do Bill... but that was wrong. Bill was so noble and innocent, and his generous words were turning Tom on like the lecherous pervert that he was. "Ack!" he squawked. Bill looked at him curiously and Tom blushed. "Eh, you don't have to do anything," he said, before adding, "You silly thing!" in a false cheerful voice to cover up his earlier exclamation. He tried to move past Bill and dislodge him, but Bill was making it difficult to do so casually, without actually pushing Bill aside. "But I want to," Bill insisted. He stepped closer, crowding Tom's personal space, and he smelled absolutely amazing and Tom thought he might cry. "Isn't there anything you have in mind?" Tom couldn't possibly tell Bill that he wanted to fuck him. He pressed his lips together and shook his head emphatically. When his brain felt like some sense had poured into it again, he said, "Nope, nothing." Bill looked at him expectantly, but when Tom didn't say anything else, he seemed to finally believe that Tom meant it. He drew back a little, giving Tom more breathing room, for which Tom was grateful. He was also confused. Bill looked displeased, almost like he was pouting, and that was crazy. In what kind of a world did Bill pout when he was denied doing a favour for someone else? "Are you okay?" Tom asked. He was actually kind of worried. Bill shrugged. "Sure," he said. He looked away, and Tom could tell that he was thinking about something else. Tom felt like a weight had been lifted when Bill's focus wasn't on him anymore. Tom didn't even feel as desperately aroused anymore, although he was watching Bill bite his lip. It was more like a fascination over what Bill's abused lip looked like than imagining, for example, how it would feel hot and spit-slick between Tom's teeth. Fine, so he was imagining that, but anyway the desperation had faded and he didn't feel like he'd die from the sheer wrongness of an insistent incest-related erection anymore. "Uh, so," Tom said. "Do you want to stay? Watch some TV maybe?" Bill lifted his head. There was a determined look in his eyes that Tom had grown to fear. "No, actually I hoped we could do it again." Tom's heart grew cold with dread. It wasn't a pleasant sensation. "Do what?" he asked, hoping that if he sounded innocent enough, the world would pity him and stop being so cruel. Bill looked at him under his lashes. "Do that thing where you make me feel relaxed," he said. "I hope you don't mind?" It was like a nightmare. Every which way Tom turned, there were his bad past decisions, mocking him. "Uh, actually," he said. "Please? It would just be something to help me sleep," Bill said. Tom shook his head, but Bill pressed on. "You didn't seem to mind before," he said sweetly. "If I can ask you this one more favour..." Tom was breathing so erratically, he was afraid that he was hyperventilating. And then he was panicking and breaking. Before he knew it the words he'd sworn he wouldn't say were spilling out. "I'm sorry!" he babbled. "I'm so sorry, but it's gay! It's sex, Bill – it's gay sex!" He squeezed Bill's shoulders, almost shaking him. "I didn't know, I swear I didn't!" Bill looked surprised. He was probably in shock and couldn't absorb it at once. "Tom," he said slowly. "Yes, I mean, the second time I did know, but I just couldn't tell you," Tom said. He felt miserable. Bill was going to hate him, or something worse. It was awful. "It was sex, and I know you don't get it and it's my fault." Bill was obviously still clueless. He looked at Tom calmly. "The only thing I don't get is how you thought it wasn't," he said. Tom stared at him. "Huh?" he said. "It was kind of hard to miss," Bill said with a patient air. "Wait," Tom said. "You-" Had Bill known all along? Tom felt suddenly very stupid. "But the website said-" "I know," Bill said gently, with an understanding look on his face. He cradled Tom's cheek like he was comforting him. "And it worked, right? You said it would make me relaxed. And it made me very relaxed." His expression changed into pure heavy-lidded, smoky seduction and he whispered, "But now it seems like you could use some tension release." Tom could feel his eyes widening wildly. If he wasn't careful, they'd pop right out of his head. "Wait," he said. "Do you mean-" "I think we should fuck," Bill said. He said it with a normal voice, like he was talking about a new hobby and he looked determined, like he was actually going to do it. Like he'd planned it. That was when Tom realised that being a lecherous pervert wasn't enough; he'd turned his little brother into one, too. Bill moved frighteningly quickly, but Tom was quick, too, and he pulled his head back, evading Bill's advance. "Stop! It's wrong!" he said. He wanted to say it was his fault and that he'd done something to corrupt Bill, but he wasn't sure he could express it diplomatically enough. Telling Bill You're not right in the head didn't seem like a good idea. Bill just took hold of his chin and turned Tom back towards him. Tom's lips tingled, Bill was so close. "Something that makes me feel that good can't be wrong," Bill said, sounding certain, and Tom yelped. "What? Bill!" he whined. "It's not healthy! We just can't do it. Don't you see?" Tom was getting desperate. "We shouldn't, and we can't, and I won't." He was especially sure about the last part, but that was before Bill's voice became low and smug and sweet like honey, and he said, "But you want to," and snaked his hand between Tom's legs and cupped him. There might have been a chance of not being very affected by it, but Tom was hard and the feel of Bill's long fingers against him wasn't exactly what anyone would describe as "unwanted." Tom closed his eyes and made a strangled "Ah!" sound. He wasn't proud of himself. "You like it," Bill said breathlessly. "You like it when I spread my legs for you." "No!" Tom wrenched himself free, not needing to be polite about it anymore. He was painfully aware that his face was burning; he was blushing like mad, because, of course, Bill was right. "No," he said nonetheless, "sorry, but, no." Bill opened his mouth to say something, probably argue, but then he paused and narrowed his eyes at Tom. Tom had a strong sense of foreboding. He backed away a couple more steps, keeping Bill in his field of vision. One could never be too careful when dealing with him, but surely it was possible to get out of this mess with their morals intact? "When I said you make me feel good, I meant it," Bill said. Tom tried to say something, because that was not the way he wanted this conversation to go, but Bill intercepted him smoothly. "Tom, you make me come," he said. Tom had to breathe in and look somewhere else for a moment. It was a fact, he thought. He knew this already. But hearing Bill say it like that made it more personal, somehow. Like it wasn't just the physical sensation that made Bill come, but Tom. And it made Tom wonder if Bill had come because of Tom – thinking about Tom – at some other point, too, when Tom hadn't been there to witness it. "It's not like that," Tom said. "It could have been anyone who made you..." his bravery ran out; he couldn't say it. Bill shook his head. "No," he said, and Tom wished desperately that he had a less stubborn twin. "It's you. Your hands on me turn me on like you wouldn't believe." Tom closed his eyes. "No," he said. It seemed like a good word in general. This situation needed a whole lot of no. He opened his eyes again. "And I never had my hands on you, precisely." Bill was still looking at him. "I wish you had," he said, and then he lifted his shirt and put his hand on the bare skin of his stomach. Tom's eyes were suddenly glued to it. "I wish you'd touch me here," Bill said. Two of his fingers were under the waistband of his trousers and it was so forbidden. Tom swallowed. He could almost feel the warmth against his fingertips. "No," Tom whispered. Bill lifted an eyebrow. "No?" he echoed. "You don't want to touch me like this?" Tom shook his head. He felt the sincerity of his claim was ruined by the way he couldn't look away from Bill's hand, though. "What about... here?" Bill said, sliding his hand further up and touching his side. "I want to feel you here," he said in a low voice, not giving Tom a chance to say anything. "I want to feel you inside me." "Bill!" Tom burst out, scandalised. Now he could tear his eyes away from the tantalising skin of Bill's stomach and look him in the eye. Bill was looking right back, completely unfazed by his shocking declaration, and Tom found that he couldn't hold Bill's gaze. "That's incest," Tom said. He had a sinking feeling that Bill knew, though, and didn't care. True enough, Bill said, "Yeah," and continued, "but do you want it?" Tom didn't know where to look. He did, he wanted it so much. His response to Bill's words had been shock, true, but that was secondary – his most immediate reaction had been something far more carnal. "Of course not," he said weakly. "Are you sure?" Bill asked. "So you don't want to touch me... here?" His hand moved further up and Tom's eyes followed, enchanted. Bill moaned, closing his eyes, and Tom guessed he was touching his nipple, invisible under the shirt. Tom whimpered. He knew Bill was an exhibitionist and the idea that Bill was getting off on him watching was blowing his mind. Bill looked so turned on – flushed and dewy, breathing heavily. Tom had never thought of Bill in a sexual sense but now he couldn't stop seeing him like that, and it had a devastating effect on him. He could feel his defences crumbling. "All right, yes," he said, and Bill's eyes flew open. "I want to, but I won't because it's wrong," Tom hastened to say. The way Bill's whole face was glowing with pleased surprise was not a good sign. "Let's do it," Bill all but purred, hurrying closer. "Absolutely not," Tom said and lifted his hands to keep Bill at bay. Bill slipped his hand out of his shirt and put it on Tom's arm, his fingers still warm from fondling his nipple. Tom gasped involuntarily. "Let's just do it once," Bill suggested. He crowded closer. Tom tried to remove his hands so he wouldn't touch Bill but they were trapped between their bodies. Tom could feel Bill's body heat through the old shirt. He thought he might never be able to breathe normally again. "That doesn't even make sense," he wheezed. "Just this once. It won't be so bad," Bill murmured. He slipped his hands around Tom, resting his palms on Tom's waist. Tom's mind was suddenly filled with new images – not just him touching Bill, but Bill stroking him. While they were naked. His body ached for it. He could feel his brain shutting down important thinking centres like moral-based decision making. "It's not logical," Tom tried to point out. "Why would once be okay if..." His voice faded. Bill was rubbing against him. His hot body was trying to press against Tom's and he'd said he wanted Tom inside him. Tom's cock had high hopes about that phrase. Was incest so bad if you did it just this once? "Fine," Tom said. Bill gasped, his face lit with wonder. "Really?" Tom felt dazed. "Yeah, sure," he said. He didn't even really know what he was saying anymore. All he could think of was touching Bill's ass and that this time, he would get in on the fun. Bill let out a squeal and squeezed Tom's sides. Tom was pretty sure he would have clapped his hands if Tom hadn't been between them. And then he showed Tom that after all that, the conversation, the inappropriate touching, he could still shock Tom – by surging forward and kissing him. Tom had never expected Bill to kiss him, to feel Bill's soft lips against his, not even now. It was absolutely sinful and his body reacted to it immediately, with startling heat and blood roaring in his ears like he was going to pass out. At the same time, it made his whole body cringe with the knowledge that it wasn't, couldn't be, right. He pulled back. "No!" he said, for what it felt like the millionth time that night, turning his head away. "It's wrong." He batted at Bill's shoulder in a vain attempt to shoo him away. Of course, Bill didn't even budge. "It's not wrong, it's just a kiss," Bill murmured. His logic was laughably unsound, and Tom would have pointed that out, but Bill kissed him again. Tom moaned helplessly into his mouth. It was so forbidden, and yet so sweetly addictive. And it wasn't just a kiss – if there is such a thing as "just a kiss" between brothers – but when Bill's soft tongue licked its way into his mouth, the whole thing was something more intimate and personal and more incestuous than Tom had even imagined. Bill felt amazing in his arms, lithe and hot. He slid a hand to the back of Tom's neck and it felt like the hairs everywhere on Tom's body raised. Bill cradled the back of his neck, making the skin there unnaturally sensitive and sending shivers down his spine. He was so hard, he was getting desperate. He was so ready and hungry for it. It was as if his body had been born and raised only for the purpose of having sex with Bill. "Oh god," Tom said, when they stopped to pant and stare at each other. "This is so wrong." "Yes, you said that," Bill said. "Come on-" Bill moved to make his way to the bed, but Tom's arms, entirely without asking him, brought him up short and tugged him close again. Bill let out a quiet "Oh" that was barely more than a breath, and then Tom kissed him. Tom, not Bill, even though Tom should have known it wasn't right. He was licking and sucking Bill's mouth so urgently, he thought Bill would come to his senses any minute and shove him away. He could see in his mind's eye how Bill would look at him, indignant and disapproving, and straighten his clothes before stalking off. But Bill didn't shove him away. They reached the bed by shuffling slowly towards it, and didn't stop kissing even for a moment. Tom's whole body was on fire. He slipped a hand under Bill's shirt, stroking hot, bare skin, and Bill made a choked sound against his mouth. He shouldn't have been touching his brother like this, and knowing it sent little electric shocks to Tom's system as if in punishment, but the twinges of guilt weren't enough to make him stop. He fell on the bed haphazardly, not even looking where he was going, and pulled Bill down with him. Tom was increasingly worried, no, horrified by his reactions. He shouldn't have felt intense pleasure when he felt the length of Bill's body against his, or clutched Bill greedily to press him even closer, or – especially – humped Bill's leg the best he could while lying on his back. But he did. Bill's body felt absolutely tantalising under Tom's hands. "Oh, ah," Tom said, unable to stop the incoherent sounds from tumbling from his lips, and then he clasped Bill's sides, gripping like a vice, and threw him on his back on the bed, so that he could crawl over Bill. It was an unspeakable, disrespectful thing to do, and Tom fully expected Bill to smack him and, again, glare and leave. What Bill did was moan and yank Tom closer to kiss him, arching against Tom, rubbing their hips together. Tom would have been surprised, but frankly, he was too busy losing himself in the delicious pressure against his cock. "Let's lose some clothes," Bill suggested against his mouth. "Yeah," Tom managed, panting. "Yeah?" Bill repeated, brightening and looking pleased. "About time you cheer up about this," he said. Tom groaned. "Don't talk about it like that," he said. Bill pushed him away and started to wriggle his way out of his t-shirt. "How can you be so upbeat, anyway?" Tom questioned. He wasn't about to stop, though, and he stripped off his outer shirt to make it clear. "About what?" Bill said. "It's not like this is going to harm anyone." He popped open the button of his jeans and shimmied out of them. Tom couldn't look away from his crotch. He couldn't believe he'd get to touch Bill there and not have to pretend that it didn't turn him on. He squeezed his cock through his pants. "It's still wrong," he said. His voice sounded flat. He didn't know who he was talking to, anyway – to Bill or to himself. "Do you have to keep saying that?" Bill said. "And take your clothes off." Bill got rid of his own black briefs, dragging them down in a smooth move and kicking them on the floor. He sighed, apparently content to be completely naked, and cradled his cock, pulling the foreskin back with his thumb. The tip was glistening. "Maybe I should keep my shirt on," Tom said, dubious when facing all that bare skin. He was torn between maintaining some semblance of propriety and just shucking his pants and doing it... whatever 'it' was. "What?" Bill shot him an exasperated look. "Get those off and get on me," he commanded. "Now." Tom swallowed. His fingers were already struggling to get his belt buckle open; they seemed to have more sense than him. "I'm just saying," he said feebly, but stopped when Bill's eyes glinted in warning. Tom pushed his pants down. Bill sat up and came to hover over him. "You shouldn't keep your shirt on," Bill informed him, and grasped the hem of Tom's shirt as if to underline his statement. His fingers tickled and Tom gasped. "Because I don't want you to," Bill continued. He tugged at Tom's shirt, and Tom scrambled up, fearing that Bill would rip it. Bill hauled the shirt over Tom's head so eagerly that Tom couldn't keep up with him, and hummed happily, sliding his palms up and down Tom's sides when Tom sorted his arms out of the sleeves. "Do you have hand lotion or something?" Bill asked, voice husky. He looked amazing, his eyes dark and his whole face lit up with anticipation. "Do you really want to..." Tom gulped. He couldn't say it. "I want to," Bill said. "I want to know what it feels like." He put his hand on Tom's cock, the sudden touch making Tom jump, and fisted it loosely, as if to assess how it felt. "Ahhh," Tom moaned. He was embarrassingly loud. He could feel his face going crimson. Bill squeezed his cock and pulled at it a couple of times, looking at him the whole time. Bill was so pretty with make up, Tom thought deliriously. "Don't," Tom rasped. "I'm gonna come if you keep doing that." "All right," Bill said, and stopped. He took his hand away and Tom's hips shifted, as if trying to futilely follow. "So where's that lotion?" "I'll get it," Tom said weakly. He pushed off the bed and went for his bag, holding his cock in consolation. He found the tube quickly, thankfully, and after a moment of hesitation, he took a condom out of a side pocket. When he turned back, Bill was on all fours on the bed. Tom stared at him, his long pale back and his spread buttocks, and for a while he felt so light-headed he was afraid he'd fall. "Is this okay?" Bill asked, looking at him over his shoulder. "Y-yeah," Tom said, almost running as he hurried to the bed. He was breathing harshly. Bill's legs were splayed and Tom would get to do it. He pushed his cock against Bill's buttock, his supple flesh, and moaned. He was so embarrassing; so pathetic. "I've wanted to do this since the first time," he blurted, cringing as soon as the words were out. So pathetic. His cock felt like it had wanted to do this for years. Bill made a breathy, throaty sound, Tom didn't know if it was a moan or a laugh, and said, "So do it." Tom tried to get himself under control. He opened the condom wrapper to focus on something else. "What are you doing?" Bill said, trying to peer at him. "It just, it feels more sanitary," Tom explained. He rolled the condom on himself. Bill blew hair out of his eye and hesitated. "Look, don't just stick it in," he started. "Yeah, I know," Tom said. He squirted some lotion on his fingers and warmed it, rubbing his thumb against his fingertips. Bill was right in front of him, on display for him. He sat down on his heels for a better angle and put his middle finger right against Bill's hole. Tom realised he wanted to do it right away, just stick it in, like Bill had said. He bit his lip and rubbed his cock lightly. It was going to take a while, and there was nothing to it. "How does it feel?" he asked to distract himself. Besides, it was important that Bill felt good. It was what was most important. "Is it cold?" "Not too bad," Bill said. "Good," Tom said, trying to not sound too wistful. He stroked Bill's skin, making circles around his opening. Every time his finger slid over it and dipped slightly in the middle, his cock throbbed painfully. If only there was a way to do this more quickly, Tom thought. He licked his lips. "You can put it in now," Bill said. "Not your dick," he warned. Tom laughed, but the sound was short and choked. He stroked a few more times, insistent, and then he pushed his finger inside. "Ohh," Bill moaned. "How are you so good at this? Did you practice?" "I've practiced with you," Tom muttered. It sounded so wrong to say that out loud. "Yes, but before that," Bill said. Tom slid his finger in and then pulled it almost all the way out. Bill felt looser, this time, probably because Tom had already done it that day. "Of course not," Tom said. "No? I'm your first?" Bill said. Tom cursed and he laughed, breathlessly. "You were so careful during the first time, really skilful," Bill said, and then he laughed again. "Fuck you," Tom said. He wasn't entirely serious; he knew that Bill was trying to annoy him deliberately, and that always annoyed him, but when Bill was in a good mood, he loosened up quicker, too. Tom moved his finger steadily, gently, stroking Bill. Bill hummed. "That's the idea," he said. Tom squeezed his eyes shut. He wondered if he could ever say that to Bill without thinking about this again. "Stop it," he pleaded. "You're so mean, I don't know why I'm doing this for you." Bill laughed again. "Because you're so nice," he said. "You're so nice that you'll put your dick in me out of the goodness of your heart." Tom moaned. "Yeah," he agreed. "I'm a good guy." He put his forehead on the top of Bill's buttock, because that was the closest thing to slamming his head on something hard that he could do. And his head would have deserved that – he wasn't a good guy, not at all, not when he was doing this with his twin, whom he'd shared a womb with. He also realised that Bill, on the other hand, was being really, really nice to him, and he petted Bill's thigh. "Can you take another one?" he asked. Bill's thigh tensed under his hand. "Yeah." Bill's voice was breathless. "Oh, that's good," he said even before Tom had had time to do anything. "Keep doing that." "Keep doing what?" Tom turned his head to see what he was doing and slipped another finger in. It stretched Bill a little but apparently Bill liked it; he moaned and pushed against Tom. "Everything," Bill said. "Ah, kiss me!" Tom drew back a little, giving Bill a disbelieving look he couldn't see. "Where?" he said incredulously. "Kiss your ass, you mean?" He thrust his fingers in more forcefully, as if unconsciously punishing Bill. "Yes," Bill moaned. "Or bite it, whatever. That's so good!" "You are such a perv," Tom muttered. No way was he going to do that. He slid his hand up Bill's thigh, though, in case Bill liked it, in addition to stroking his fingers in and out of Bill. He wanted Bill to feel good, but he had his limits. Even if Bill's buttock did look kind of... biteable. "Come on," Bill said, panting. "Where's the harm? You've got your fingers up my ass already." "Fuck-" Tom started, then bit it back. "Whatever," he said. He searched for Bill's prostate in retaliation. Bill had better watch his mouth; Tom had considerable power over him. "You're the weirdo here," Bill taunted, but then Tom found his spot and he keened, lurching forward as his arms gave out. Tom smirked. "Be nice; you're at my mercy," he said. He wasn't sure if Bill heard him, though. Tom hadn't stopped teasing his prostate and Bill was writhing and making incoherent noises. Tom glanced at his cock for measure and added a third finger. Bill made an interesting squealing sound, spreading his legs and pushing back against Tom's fingers. The third one didn't go very far inside at first, but Tom slid his fingers in and out, patiently, pushing a little further each time. Bill gasped and made nonsensical noises. "Ah! Ah!" Bill said. Then he squirmed powerfully, almost dislodging Tom's hand. "Hey," Tom said and steadied him. "What are you doing?" "I want you inside me," Bill said. "Please, just..." Tom sucked in a breath. He'd almost forgotten that he was allowed to do that, now, having concentrated on feeding Bill his fingers. "You want it? Now? Are you sure?" "Nggh, yes," Bill said. He squirmed again and squeezed around Tom's fingers, and Tom got up on his knees so fast he almost fell right down on the mattress. He was grateful Bill couldn't see his flailing. "Okay," he said, nervous now that it was time. He knew what to do, technically, but suddenly he felt unsure. Fingers, he knew, but this was different. "Can I just-" "Yeah, be quick," Bill said, not even letting him finish. Be quick, that was good, solid advice, Tom thought. He touched his neglected cock while his fingers were in Bill's tight heat and his hips bucked forward. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't wait for it. He almost climbed on top of Bill and pushed in right away, but then he remembered his lotion. "Wait," he said, took the tube one-handed and squirted lotion all over the bedding. He couldn't bring himself to mind, though, he just got some on his fingers and slicked up his cock. He pushed his fingers in and out of Bill a couple of times more, then he pulled them completely out. Bill's hole stayed open for him and he almost bit his tongue. Or maybe he did, he couldn't tell. He shuffled forward on his knees and guided the tip of his cock against Bill's entrance, and pushed it in. For a moment, the world shrank into nothing but sweet pressure around his cock. Tom whimpered. "Oh, fuck, that's good," he said, breathing ragged. Then he realised that Bill was very still. "Stop for a second, okay?" Bill said, even though Tom wasn't moving. Tom put his hand on Bill's lower back and petted him. "Are you all right?" Bill breathed. "You're bigger than I thought." "Thanks," Tom said, dry. "How does it feel?" Bill asked. There was lingering tension in his voice. Tom wished with his whole being that it would feel as good for Bill as it did for him; he was in heaven. "Unbelievable," he said, "so amazing." He clutched Bill's hip, panting. "Yeah?" Bill sounded curious, maybe a little pleased. "Yeah, it's so fucking good," Tom said. He couldn't say anything but the truth. He didn't have enough brains left to think about what was coming out of his mouth. He looked down at Bill's lean back, the back of his neck, and suddenly he wanted to kiss it. He thought about how warm and soft and untouched Bill's skin was there. "I'll kiss it," he promised out loud. He realised now how Bill had felt when he'd talked about Tom kissing his butt. "I'll kiss whatever you want," Tom said. "That good?" Bill said. He laughed a little, and Tom's cock slipped further inside. He breathed in, sharply, and closed his eyes. "Whatever you want," he repeated, sincere. He petted Bill's hip, his buttock. "What do you want?" "Maybe... touch my dick?" It was clearly a question, like Bill didn't think he'd do it. It did gave Tom a pause, but he'd promised anything, and it couldn't be that bad. Tom leaned forward, supported himself with one hand against the mattress and reached down and under Bill. His knuckles brushed Bill's hardness and Bill cried out, his hips jumping. They were twins, it was almost like touching his own, Tom comforted himself and wrapped his fingers around Bill's cock. It was hot and the feel was surprisingly natural against his palm. Touching Bill actually distracted Tom from how he was buried inside Bill, which was good, because he wanted to last a little longer than a minute. Tom jacked Bill's cock gently and Bill sighed and spread his legs a little. Tom could tell Bill wasn't clamping around him anymore, just tight in a good way. So good. Tom started to move his hips a bit, almost without meaning to, and Bill swayed with him. "Okay, get up, I want more," Bill said, breathless. Tom straightened his back, supporting himself on Bill's hips, and Bill pushed himself up on his hands again. Tom held on to Bill's hips and pushed inside him, watching it this time. His cock went inside, disappearing in Bill, and seeing it in addition to feeling the slick tightness blew Tom's mind. Bill was clearly getting into it, too. His appreciative noises were louder, and he thrust back against Tom harder than Tom himself was moving. He moved his back, bending it low and then arching up like a cat, and then he yodelled like a cat, too. Tom guessed it was the angle to hit Bill's prostate and he shoved forward, trying enthusiastically to meet Bill's need. "Mmm," Bill said, "ah! Do you like it?" It took Tom a moment to find his tongue and remember how to use it. "I love it," he said, dazed. He tensed against the barbed tangle of guilt and wrongness that had prickled him all evening, but this time, it didn't. Maybe it had melted away when he felt Bill against his cock. Bill was certainly hot enough to melt things. His cock slid so easily into Bill, now, it was so slippery and tight, and staring at it, Tom realised he was going to come soon. His toes curled. "I'm gonna come," he warned Bill, and Bill's head jerked up. "No! Not yet," Bill said, fumbling back with his hand and slapping Tom on the arm. "Hey," Tom said, surprised. Bill reached up with his hand, awkwardly since he couldn't see and the angle was bad, and slapped him again, trying to hit his shoulder. It was so absurd that Tom laughed. But he didn't stop pushing into Bill; he didn't think there was anything that could have stopped him doing that, right now. "I'm not into that, you know," he said. "And you can stop, I'm not on the edge anymore." Then he glanced down and the edge was right there, again. He moaned. "I can't look at you," he said, "I'm gonna come." "Don't come!" "Oh," Tom moaned and closed his eyes. He tried to think about something else, but the image of his cock sliding in and disappearing between Bill's pale ass cheeks was impossible to forget. He slid his hands down, grabbing Bill's buttocks and squeezing them. Bill rocked against him. "You look so hot," he said. Bill made a choked sound. "You're watching me?" "It's the hottest," Tom said, pausing for breath, "you're the hottest thing I've ever seen." It was like a confession, the way the words left his tongue. Bill's hips made a series of movements so quick Tom didn't know if he was shuddering or doing it himself, and then Bill yelled and crashed down, and Tom realised he'd come just as the rhythmical squeezing he recognised started around his cock. It was too much – Tom couldn't handle even the pulsing sensations of Bill's ass, and for some reason thinking that he'd made Bill come, again, and this time with his cock, was unbearably hot too. And so he came, shooting his jizz in deep, satisfying waves, clutching Bill's hips and making an embarrassing squawking noise that he hoped Bill didn't hear through his afterglow. "Ngh," Tom said when he was done, so thoroughly spent that anything besides breathing was too much of an effort. He tugged his cock out of Bill and flopped down beside him. Bill grinned down at him. He practically sparkled. "Well? Wasn't it amazing?" Tom was feeling feeble like a kitten, but he was never too weak to answer back to Bill. "I never thought it wouldn't be amazing." "We must do it again," Bill said, decisively. Tom groaned and covered his face with his arm. It seemed like he'd have to admit defeat, but he was going to be nothing but reluctant. It was the principle of the thing. "What? Seriously, lighten up!" Bill said. There was rustling, and then an appalled cry. "This bed is a mess!" Tom realised that Bill had probably rolled over the lotion. He grinned.

Brian Johnson is a nerd. Always has been. Probably always will be. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Some people are just born that way. And it's not like he seemed to have a problem with that back at Shermer High. It was like he'd accepted his fate. Which is cool. Brian had smarts. Like he could go anywhere he wanted to if he wanted it bad enough, and Andy could tell he'd wanted something bad enough. Even then. Man, that day he broke down? That Saturday when he, and Brian, Allison, Claire and John had detention together? He hasn't had a day like that since. Where he got someone and someone got him. Although they didn't become, you know, friends. They all would nod slightly at each other in the hallways between classes but everyone kinda knew that day was it. Well, everyone except Brian and Allison. Rumor had it they even dated for a little while. Andy can't see it. But the longer he thinks about it the more he kinda can. Because Brian, despite his astronomical stress-levels and overwhelming anxiety, was a nice kid. Not what he'd call handsome but once he grew into his face and body, well, he'd be good-looking. It's a strange thing to consider but he still finds himself wondering what Brian would look like now. Taller maybe. With a deeper voice... He shakes his head. Brian's fifteen year old face really has no business popping up in his mind. Yet it does sometimes. And now, it seems, is one of them. No doubt from seeing his father earlier. God knows he brings out the rebellious teenage self in him more often than not. Why wouldn't he want to think about a happier day? Jesus! More and more he wonders what happened to them. To Brian most of all. If any of them were to to run into each other now would they still recognize each other? Would John take one look at him and say, 'Hey, Jock Boy! How's it hanging these days?', smirking all the while? Would Allison run up and steal something from him for old time's sake? Would Claire glide up to him on the street with a rock on her finger the size of Texas and ask how married life was treating him, even though she'd know through her parents and his parents and their old classmates that he's twice divorced and still childless? Does a mid-life crisis start at 40? Stupid question. Of course it does. Who else can afford to buy sports cars and trophy wives? Not that he can. He can barely afford his condo... Andy's berating himself as usual about his apparent lack of intelligence when he spots an oddly familiar blond head heading his way at the Cup O Joe he frequents when he's in town. He stares, impolitely so, waiting for the man to look up so he can see if it's him. One in a million chance but what if it is? His heart races a little bit faster in anticipation. Just when the man's about to pass his table he catches a good glimpse of his face and, yeah, it's Brian in older, well-worn flesh. At first he hadn't been sure but the light blue eyes he'd know anywhere. "Brian? Brian Johnson?" he asks right as the man takes a step right past his chair. The man hesitates, turns, and, recognizing him, grins. "Andy? Jesus, man, almost didn't recognize you there!" He back-tracks quickly, holding out his hand to shake. Andy does so eagerly. He notes that the voice has dropped to a pleasant baritone but the face is what gives him pause. Not only has he grown into his features, he's blossomed. Not like Andy should be aware of this fact, because he shouldn't. He most definitely shouldn't be noticing how Brian is wearing, and pleasantly filling out, black khaki carpenter pants and a white thermal tank top with what appear to be paint splatters on them. And his handshake, once his brain stops wandering off, is strong. Huh. Whatever he expected, it wasn't this... "How are you?" Brian asks. "Not too bad. You? You look good, man!" Yeah, gotta tone it down, he tells himself. And let go of his hand! "Yeah. You too. God, Andy Clark, as I live and breathe..." His grin is friendly as he extracts himself. "I heard you lived in California someplace." "No, I, uh," he bites back the sudden sense of shame for not having left Illinois, "I'm still here. Chicago actually. Aren't you in New York?" "Oh. No." He seems pleased that Andy has asked, that he's heard and retained any news about him. "I was. For a few years. Then L.A. I just moved back here about a year ago to be closer to my dad since my mom died." For a second Andy doesn't know what to say. A year ago...Then his manners kick in. "I'm so sorry to hear that." He hopes he doesn't look at distracted as he feels. Chicago's not even an hour away. "How's your dad doing?" The smile that Brian graces him with is so bright he can't even think of a word to describe it. He can't tell if it's because he's happy that he's asked or if he's glad to see him or what. All he knows is there's a spot right under his rib cage where warmth is spreading, and it scares him. The last time he felt that warmth was when he married his ex-wives and look how those situations turned out! He misses Brian's answer, not tuning in until he hears, "...your dad? Allison said he was sick last time I talked to her." Another blast from the past if there ever was one. He'd lasted about 2 months with her. Before she went psycho on him and threatened to slit his throat with his own Swiss Army knife that she'd stolen off him..."He's hanging in there," he says, hoping Brian won't inquire further. "How is Allison anyway? You ever see John or Claire?" He laughs the same. No sound for a full 15 seconds, then that high-pitched guffaw that automatically makes Andy laugh. "Sorry, man. Just, God, walking down memory lane, aren't we?" Brian smiles again, making him dizzy. He concentrates on breathing for a moment to will away the sudden fragility in his legs. Luckily he's already sitting down. “Allison's good. Living in Seattle now. A photographer. She's had a few showings in pretty big galleries there.” “Yeah? Good for her.” And it is. As crazy as she was back then Andy had seen something special in her, had known if she let herself she would do some amazing things. “John's a private eye if you can believe it.” Brian keeps grinning. God. Andy finds himself wanting to take that pale, angular face in his hands and dive into his mouth. He should be listening, but Brian's lips are still rosy and soft-looking, and he understands now why he has never been able to forget him. “Wild, huh? But he's supposed to be pretty damn good at it and he keeps getting business so...” “You keep in touch with him still?” Something flickers past Brian's expression, something undefinable that hits Andy wrong. He wonders why John would be talking to Brian at all. They didn't have much in common as far as he knew. Did they? “Yeah. Me and John...” He doesn't elaborate unfortunately. Leaving Andy to guess what the end of that sentence could be. He finally remembers to invite Brian to join him at the table where they continue to catch up for another half hour. Brian never does explain what he'd meant with the whole 'me and John' thing and he doesn't ask. It's none of his business. At least that's what he tells himself. He can't help imagining them together though. John hovering over Brian, underneath him sweating and undulating, his fair skin flushed with arousal, John's voice whispering naughty things in his ear to crank him up more and more. Brian keeps talking about his life then and now, everything that has happened in between. Andy can hear the words. He just keeps getting distracted. By how wiry Brian looks, slender and muscular. By his forearms and the thick veins running through them, like thin, corded ropes. He has the craziest urge to reach out and slide a fingertip along them. He just barely restrains himself from doing it just to see what they feel like. After they've caught up, after Brian says he has to get back to his dad and Andy murmurs something vague about returning to his own, he follows Brian out of the cafe, watching his hips as he walks. Brian walks with a straight back now, confident and able. The shoulder blades peeking out of the tank top armholes shift easily, sensually rolling with each step. He thinks about how they might fit into his palms and blushes guiltily when Brian turns back and sees him staring. “We should get together again, you know? It's nice to see old friends again.” As if they had ever been friends to begin with. “And it's not like Chicago's too far away. We could make a day of it.” Andy nods without even knowing he's doing so, grinning like an idiot. He takes a pen and pad of paper out of a jeans pocket and begins to write. “My numbers where you can reach me. Call any of them, okay? Any time. I go by weird hours.” He rips off the sheet and hands it over. He doesn't flinch when their fingers brush against each other's for a second but Andy does. Especially when he feels an electric shock. He pulls his hand back quickly, making sure to grab the paper while he does it. The last thing he wants is to lose it, even if it means it scares him to hell and back. “It was good seeing you again, Brian,” he says huskily before clearing his throat. “And I'll definitely call. The Breakfast Club's gotta stick together, right?” He's aware of the smile he throws at the younger man being slightly off but he banks on them not knowing each other well enough for him to notice. “Yeah, you too! God, I just can't believe this.” He chuckles. “Andy Clark.” Andy gulps down the rush of desire he feels at the sound of his name, at the way it sounds so...He likes the way Brian says it. As much as he doesn't want to. There's a certain intimacy in the shape his mouth takes as the three syllables slip out, a gentle promise. It's been too long since someone has said his name like that. He doesn't care that it's a man making him feel this way. He only knows he can't wait to feel it again. “You call.” Brian's face has lost the grin, has become intensely focused on his own. He wonders if it looks like that when he's having sex. Would he look at him like that if they were in bed together? “Yeah,” he vows, trying to find where his lost breath went to, to calm himself. Brian smiles then, the same way he had when Andy had asked about his dad and waves, walking away. Andy's eyes follow him until he turns a corner. Life on the street carries on as normal but Andy's heart has sped up involuntarily as his vision has reduced to the spot he last saw the man. Instantly he becomes aware that he never had that happen with his exes. That the warmth he experienced earlier has spread to his whole body, burning him from the inside out. “I'm so screwed,” he murmurs to himself, turning toward his car in the parking lot. “So very, very screwed...” Andy doesn't go back to hospital like he said he would. Instead he heads to his hotel, tired and feeling every one of his 40 years. Once in his room he silently grabs a miniature bottle of Jack Daniels and unscrews the cap. He drinks it quickly, letting the heat blossom in his chest, hoping against hope that it'll roast the desperate arousal he'd felt at seeing Brian. If anything the alcohol makes the feeling worse. His other hand still holds the paper with the man's numbers. He glances at it, torn between picking up the phone and laying down to get some rest. Rest is a good idea. He's been up all day for the last two weeks, taking care of things for his father, listening to the old man tell him how worthless he is, how stupid and weak, unlike his brothers. Yet his brothers have all been busy. Too busy to take him to his doctor's visits, to make sure he's taking care of himself. Andy has been the only one to actually come and do for the old man what he won't do for himself. Resenting it the whole way, but still here. Think the old man cares? No. He sits up on the bed, clenching the paper in his hands, closing his eyes as he pictures Brian in that tank, those jeans. Pictures what he might look like under them. How his hips might be a little sharp and somehow easier to hold onto. His tall, skinny legs like sticks holding onto his waist with a strength Andy could never question. Andy wants to feel that power, wonders how it would control him. Would he hold him down on a bed like this one? Would Brian kiss him into submission or hold his hands above his head with a tight grip, not letting go no matter how many times he asked him to? Would he...would he take him...grab Andy's own hips...open his thighs with a slick caress...slide his body over him, into him, until he'd forget his own name? Andy's breathing turns ragged at the images flooding his brain, his free hand slipping down to cup himself through his pants. He wishes it was Brian's hand touching him, wishes Brian would kiss him. Wishes Brian would just...Anything. He wishes Brian would do anything. To him, with him, for him. When he falls alseep it's with Brian's smile in mind, Brian's hands. Six hours later he's conscious and alert due to the front desk wake up call. The sheets are tangled around his legs, glued to them. It doesn't take a genius to know what he'd dreamed about, but it still pisses him off that of all the men he has to have a sexual identity crisis about it's Brian Johnson, Shermer High nerd. It was bound to happen. He gets that. It's just, it's Brian freaking Johnson! He doesn't call Brian for another week. Not until his father is back in Shermer and he's back in the Chicago. He'd picked up the hotel phone a million times, his cell phone a million more, and he couldn't. He just couldn't dial the numbers and hear his voice and want so much it flayed him like knives cutting into his flesh. So he'd waited until he was safely away from his father, from his obligations, for a while. He'd waited until he the only voice he heard in his head was Brian's. And then, on the billionth time he picked up his cell, he let himself dial all 11 numbers of Brian's work phone, blanking out on what exactly it was that Brian did for a living. “Hello?” he hears tentatively. He can't blame him. The guy probably isn't even expecting him to call anymore, probably figures he's lost interest in...whatever they were trying at in Cup O Joe's. Acquaintances? Friends? More? God, what if Brian isn't gay? Not that Andy's gay or anything. Far from it. But Brian? Brian is...What if...? Shit..... “...Uh, hello?...” He's a dumb ass! “Who is this?” Brian asks suspiciously. “It's, uh, it's me...I mean it's Andy. Clark? Andy Clark? From high school?” Total dumb ass. Can't even sound halfway smart when saying a simple greeting. He drops his head into his hand, groaning. “Sorry. Let me start over, okay? Hi. This is Andy Clark, Breakfast Club member and former jock. Saying hi. Again.” Brian chuckles. It goes straight to Andy's groin. “Hi. Again. Brian Johnson. Brain.” Andy smiles slowly as the tension in his neck releases, better since he's on more solid ground. “How are you? Your dad?” “Ah. The old man'll live longer than me probably. I'm okay.” He's not, though. Not now. The low, smooth cadence of Brian's voice is doing something to his insides that definitely reminds him of his exes. Twisting him up the way the women did during their courtships when he couldn't get enough and they'd been willing to do anything for him. Maybe what he's feeling now is what they felt for him? “Where are you?” “Home,” he replies, then clarifies, “in Chicago.” “Well. What are you doing now?” “Nothing. It's Sunday.” It's on the tip of his tongue to ask why. “Good. You up for a day trip?” He throws down the challenge like it's nothing. Like it shouldn't mean anything to Andy except a drive. Like he shouldn't have been wanting, waiting, for the suggestion, the chance to see him again. “I...Okay...Where am I going?” “My house.” Andy almost drops the phone when his hand abruptly surrenders to nervous sweat. He clears his throat and closes his eyes. “Your house?” He fights to make sure the words come out steady. “Yeah. Why not? It's a nice house and my dad and I put a lot of work into it,” he states defensively. “No, I didn't mean...I mean I'm sure it's a real nice place, Brian. I just...” He sighs inwardly. If they're alone, in an enclosed space, he won't be responsible for his actions. All week long he's been fantasizing about the man. To see him in the flesh just might break whatever stranglehold he's got on his emotions and his libido. “How do I get there?” he asks. “Look, if you don't wanna come you don't have to. I just thought it'd be a nice getaway for you, you know? I could even cook a decent lunch. Maybe dinner if you stay long enough. That's all. It's not a big deal if you want to stay home.” “Directions?” At this moment he'd run through the streets of Shermer naked to get that happy sound in his voice again, to make him glad that he's asked for his company. “You sure, Andy?” “Sure I'm sure!” Brian gives in and gives him directions and Andy tells him after a quick shower and a cup of coffee he'll be on his way. It's already 10 am so his morning wood has been gone awhile. That, however, does not stop him from jerking off in the shower to the thought of Brian on his knees before him. He dries off with a spring in his step, gaining a perverse pleasure in wondering how his dad would react at seeing him like this. Getting excited over going to see a former male classmate. So excited he had to touch himself. His dad would keel over dead. After a few choice words, of course. His father always has been a bastard to him. He drinks the coffee in nothing but his white briefs while pondering what clothes to wear. His closet light is on and he's looking at everything closely, trying to figure out what image he wants to project. Khakis and a button down? No. Too preppy and boring. It's what he wore to high school and college, what he wears every day now to the styrofoam peanut packing manufacturing plant where he works as an office manager. All that's left is jeans and tank tops. Still his favorite comfort clothes. He drains the coffee and puts the mug down on the nightstand. He pulls on a pair of light blue jeans and a dark blue tank top, slipping into a pair of scuffed up tennis shoes to complete the look. It may not be sexy, he thinks, but it'll help him relax. Within ten minutes he's in his car and on the road. An hour later he's pulling into Brian's driveway, wondering what the hell he's getting himself into. “Hey,” Brian calls from the screened-in porch. “You made it in one piece. I'm impressed. I thought a wormhole might've sucked you into an alternate universe where you'd be stuck as a senior at Shermer forever.” The smile says he's joking but it's obvious he'd doubted if Andy was coming at all. “Uh, no. No wormhole.” Luckily for him Brian chooses not explain what a wormhole is. “Pretty.” He's talking about the flowers in a small garden to the left. Tulips and buttercups and other things he doesn't recognize. “Thanks. Mom got into growing flowers so Dad keeps the garden up in her memory.” Brian comes out to stand near him, holding out a hand to shake. It doesn't occur to him to check the hand first. Then he feels something ooze between their fingers. They both look down, he in disgust. Brian guffaws. “Shit! Sorry. It's paint. I was painting. Sorry!” He grabs a small towel from his back pocket, giving it to Andy to wipe off the paint. “Right. You said you were a housepainter.” He's not looking at Brian as he cleans himself off so he misses the quirk of his eyebrow. “Not painter as in houses. Painter as in artist. Galleries. Allison bought my first canvas back in the day. I told you this when we were at that cafe.” Andy blushes. “Sorry, I...” He'd been thinking too much about how great Brian looked to remember much of the conversation. “I forgot.” It was a save, but a bad one. “No problem, man. It's okay. Nobody expected me to turn out an artist. Least of all me. But I gotta tell you, it's a lot better than being an astrophysicist like my folks and I originally planned.” The way the career title rolls off Brian's tongue boggles him. He can't say it without stuttering and he has no idea what those people do but the fact that he's smart enough to be one kinda makes him seem stupid in comparison. It's alright though. Brian doesn't rub it in his face that he's a nerd as he heads into his house. He just rambles on about his dad and the kitchen they fixed up and the livingroom that used to have gaping holes in the drywall before he bought it. Andy likes hearing him talk about the house so lovingly, likes hearing him talk about the time spent with his father as if he cherishes it. He envies how close the two sound. He can't imagine having a decent relationship with his own father, let alone one strong enough to withstand losing a wife and mother, and having the ability to grow closer over that grief. His mom's still alive and kicking, and if it wasn't for her he and his dad wouldn't talk at all. “So, you hungry?” Brian asks. “I made sandwiches and got some fruit and juice. You look like you've kept in shape since your old wrestling days so I assumed junk food was out.” He follows him into the kitchen, watching as Brian lays the food on the counter. “Not yet if that's okay.” He takes a breath. “Can I see your stuff?” Oh wow! His eyes widen as he realizes what he said. “I didn't mean...” He blushes in embarrassment. “That came out wrong. What I meant to ask was-.” “It's okay,” Brian tells him, grinning. “I know what you meant, man. Come on.” He leads Andy into a room off the back of the bathroom. The door's closed so he thinks it's a bedroom. And, of course, that makes him extremely nervous. To see the bed where Brian Johnson sleeps, where he has sex, where he dreams...Yeah, he's got it bad if he's thinking like this. He can't stop it from happening, though. He never can. When he falls he falls, whether he wants to or not. Whether the object of his affection wants him to or not. And apparently gender has nothing to do with this habit. All he can do is pray that Brian will treat him better than his ex-wives did. When Brian opens the door he's blinded at first by the sunlight shining through the windows on two sides of the room. How can a person work in such brightness? It reminds him of the smile Brian had graced him with when they ran into each other last week. Once his eyes adjust he sees the paintings. At least 20 canvases of different sizes and shapes leaning against the walls. An easel sits in the northern corner and there is a paint-splattered tarp covering the floor. “This is where the magic happens!” he gestures with a flourish. Andy reaches for the closest painting to him and turns it over. It's Allison's portrait. She's looking away from him, in profile, and her features are softened, romanticized. She looks so damn pretty Andy finds himself touching her cheek gently. It never would've lasted between them but he was happy it happened at all. She'd added a little zaniness to his rigid high school existence. Opened up his eyes to what his life could be if he lived it for himself instead of his father. “She asked about you.” “What?” he queries, coming out of his revelry. “Allison. We talk at least once a week. And when she called a couple days ago I told her I'd run into you. She asked how you were, what you'd been doing with your life. You know.” Brian was staring at his hand. He hadn't noticed but he's pressing his palm against her painted cheek. “Oh, God, sorry! Did I ruin it?” He pulls his hand away quickly, giving the canvas to Brian before he can mess it up any more. “It's okay. It's an old one. One of the first I ever painted.” But he doesn't sound like himself. Like he's shutting down or something. Andy can't put his finger on why this change is stealing over the man. A minute ago he was fine. Now he's, well, he's just not. Andy is silent, afraid to say anything, to even move. Brian walks over to a canvas closer to the easel. He won't look at Andy and Andy has no idea what he did wrong. Ony that he doesn't know how to fix it, to make the real Brian come back to him. He's blown it. He looks around the room, out the windows, anywhere but at the man he wants to look at. He crosses his arms, attempting to hide his vulnerability and fear. “Did you love her?” “Allison?” He finally takes a chance and gazes into Brian's eyes. It hits him then what he did. He'd touched the painting. Her cheek in the painting. Like a lover might. He hadn't meant anything by it, was just thinking about the old days, but to Brian it probably seemed like he'd been wishing for a second opportunity with her. He cocked his head. Why would Brian even care? Unless he had feelings for her? Maybe he was the one who'd never gotten over her? “God, no! Bri, I...We went out, what, two, three months? It wasn't like that. She was just different, you know?” “Different. Yeah.” For whatever reason he's not able to make the situation any better. Not yet. “I mean, hell, I'm not sure I've ever loved any of the women I've been with. And I've got two ex-wives who can vouch for that.” He smiles at Brian, needing the man to smile back, for things to be okay again. Brian nods. Out of irony or jealousy he's not sure. Or it could be for another reason entirely. But the nod helps to restore the balance between them. “I know what you mean,” he agrees. “You know, those sandwiches are sounding good right about now.” He won't ask why Brian seems grateful for the change of subject or the chance to leave the room. It's not necessary since he'd needed the break himself. They walk back into the kitchen and sit at the breakfast bar, eating silently. The sandwiches have a thin slice of chicken breast on them, ham and provolone and, oddly, an avocado spread that looks a little gross but tastes really good. Andy likes it so much he eats another, enjoying the companionable ease that has returned. As he chews and swallows he pretends sitting so close to the other man, feeling his body heat, drowning in his light, chemical smell, is of no consequence. They are just two guys sitting together, sharing a meal. It doesn't have to mean more than that. Until Brian says out of the blue, “You can have that painting of Allison if you want.” He immediately stops chewing so he won't choke and puts his sandwich down on his plate. He gulps visibly. “Nah. That's in the past, you know? I mean, it'd be nice to see her again, to get the Breakfast Club together again. But me and her are good.” He's scared to face him but he does anyway. Swings around on his stool and stares him right in the eyes. In those beautiful clear blue eyes that he may have been secretly in love with since high school. “Really?” Brian sounds hopeful. “Really. I mean-.” “That's...I'm glad to hear that,” Brian interrupts, “because otherwise I wouldn't do what I'm about to do.” “What's that?” Brian lays a hand on his thigh above his knee like it's the most natural thing in the world. “Usually the men I go after are obviously gay. We've already cruised each other and made sure it was mutual. But the signals you're giving off are pretty confusing so I thought, hey, no harm, no foul. If you're not interested I'll remove my hand and we'll pretend this never happened. If you are...” His eyebrows raise as he smiles. God help him for thinking the smile is sexy as hell... “If I am?” Neither mention how his voice cracks. “If you are then I can do this,” his hand slides higher up on Andy's thigh, closing in on his crotch, “and we'll go from here.” Andy freezes. For the first time in his life he has no idea what to do. As a kid he had a script to follow. Do what the old man said. When he dated it was keep his head down and keep the girl out of trouble. Same with college. Then when he got married it was make the wife happy. And that particular script stayed the same with wife #2. This? This is a completely different thing. Something he's never experienced before. And he is scared shitless! He doesn't move Brian's hand. He also doesn't get up and drive like a speed demon back home. He sits there, trapped, so stiff his spine could snap in two at any moment. “Should I stop, Andy? Say the word and I will. If I'm reading this wrong...” He exhales loudly through his lips. “No, I...” He forces his next words out through clenched teeth. “Don't stop.” His head drops as the counter starts shaking. No, wait, it's him that's shaking. Like a little virgin, for Christ's sake! “Please!” he pleads softly. Brian squeezes once, then rubs up even higher until his hand is curling around the unexpectedly immediate bulge in Andy's jeans. He's moving slowly, giving him time to decline what he's offering. Andy doesn't. Just trembles more, his dick on fire under Brian's hand. Andy swears he can feel the lines of his palm through the rough material, swears his clothes have melted away by this point. He knows they haven't. But with the heat he's putting out they could. “You're hard for me already...” Brian remarks, his tone tender. “I...Can I see you, Andy? All of you? We'll go as slow as you want but I need...” His breath blows against Andy's naked shoulder. Like he wasn't already a loose leaf floating around on the wind... Andy's eyes must say everything because before he can blink Brian is pulling him up and into his bedroom. Once inside he stands there watching Andy breathe shallowly. His own hands are calm as he begins undressing him. Andy stands there, locking his joints so he won't fall down, his eyelids fluttering, slipping closed as Brian's presence, and his own fierce longing, overwhelms him. The first brush of his lips causes Andy to whimper uncontrollably. His tongue comes out, lightly licking around his mouth. He shudders, trying to back up but hitting the wall next to the door. “...Bri, I...I never.....!” “Shh, it's okay. Just let me kiss you, okay? Let me in.” 'Let me in.....' Andy obeys, opening his mouth when Brian resumes the kiss, groaning at the feel of his tongue. He sweeps the inside of his mouth, his lips relaxed as his tongue plunges in and out. And Andy takes it enthusiastically, raising his hands to find secure purchase on Brian's hips. He grips hard when Brian's hands run along the smooth path of his outer flanks to his backside and grab handfuls of his ass. The aggressive act makes something inside Andy break wide open. He throws his head back, baring his neck for Brian to kiss and lick. “God...” Andy sighs. At last. Brian's mouth feels even better there than he'd imagined. Soon Andy's tank top is off and Brian is working on his jeans. He still hasn't stopped kissing him, which is good because Andy thinks he might just die here and now and with his hands on his ass it's somehow the only thing holding him up. He's getting weak in the knees and Brian must notice because he pushes him until he hits the edge of the bed. Andy immediately helps him shuck his shoes, jeans and briefs. He stares up at Brian who slowly, teasingly, takes off his own t-shirt, wearing a private smile. Of their own volition Andy's palms run up his chest, catching at his nipples. Brian moans deep in his chest, encouraging. He lets his hands trail down, hanging onto the small waist of his jeans. He hesitates for only a minute before unfastening the button fly of Brian's jeans. “Andy, you don't have to...We can still stop now.” Brian's hard. Beautifully so. Andy can tell. And he wants to see. Which is exactly why he mumbles, “No we can't.” He pulls Brian's jeans all the way off with little assistance, giving in to the urge to kiss along his pelvis now that it's been revealed. He licks at the skin, murmuring, “Mmm, you taste really good...” “Fuck!” Brian whispers hoarsely. “You keep doing that and I won't last very long!” Andy grins and rubs his face against his lower belly as his fingers seek and find his underwear band. He smells the crook between thigh and pelvis, his eyes closing when the musky scent fills his nostrils. He makes short work of the offending clothing and stares in wonder at the other man's dick. It could poke him in the eye it's so close and yet he can't help licking his lips as he memorizes the long, thin shape of it, the throbbing, veined redness. He finally brings his lips to the head, acknowledging to himself that this was where he'd been heading all along. His brain tells him he shouldn't do it, shouldn't let his tongue taste the slit pre-come's leaking out of. But he does. And it makes his head swim with an intoxicating violence. He hadn't know. Hadn't known anything. This is clear. Brian bucks into the intimate touch, pushing past his teeth in one swift thrust. He relaxes and breathes through his nose and allows inch after inch to breach him, loving the way Brian's hands are clenching at his shoulders rhythmically as if he's already climaxing. He can hear something, soft, sweet nothings Brian is murmuring to him, but he's so busy enjoying giving him pleasure that he doesn't know what he's actually saying. He's thinking it probably doesn't matter anyway. In his wildest dreams he hadn't let himself imagine how good he would feel inside his mouth, down his throat. And he'd imagined a lot. Brian is whimpering, losing control, trying to pull him off. He won't let him. The idea of sucking him dry...Jesus, he wants more than anything to make him fuck his mouth and come down his throat. Andy wants to wake up the next morning never being able to doubt this happened. He wants to have sore, swollen lips and bite marks and hickey after hickey as proof that he'd done this. Then he wants to do it again. “Andy, gonna...Gonna cooommme.....Please!” Andy continues sucking, his head moving back and forth as he milks Brian. He wants it so fucking bad! He gets his wish finally. After a few minutes Brian's dick begins to pulse and harden even more, then he shouts Andy's name and shoots out thick jets that he swallows like delicious nectar. Still Andy keeps sucking until Brian pulls back in regret. Before he can blink Brian has his face in his hands, kissing him, grunting at the taste of himself. He pushes at Andy again until he can climb onto the bed over him, swinging a leg over to straddle Andy's hips. “Never done that before?” Andy blushes, shaking his head. “You'd never know it.” He grins, dazzling him. He swoops down to whisper, “Wanna fuck me, Andy?” into his ear. “You can if you want. You can do anything to me and I'll let you...Anything you want, man...” Such an invitation. Andy shudders at the possibilities going through his mind. What to do? So many things to try, to experience with this gorgeous man. Such a fair complexion, with those cloudy, sky-colored eyes seeing all of him, that wiry body so damn sexy and lean. Andy doesn't know why he wants this flat, slightly hairy chest when a big rack used to be such a turn on. He can't explain it in any way that would make sense. But Brian is waiting and he has every intention of obliging him. “I want everything, Bri-. Every bit of you you're willing to give me.” To prove it he reaches down between them and wraps a palm around his dick. An indecipherable sound rattles his chest when Andy's hand moves up and down. Brian tries to protest but it's feeble, nothing more than a faint poke against his wrist. Andy brings his free hand to his mouth to lick his fingers and palm. He then switches hands, dragging out a raw, gravelly groan, before letting go again to rub their dicks together. The friction is enough to make him come all over both of their bellies. He curses and buries his face in Brian's neck until he's finished, crying out Brian's name when the last jet pumps out of him. “Jesus, that was so worth the wait,” Brian remarks, chuckling as he rolls off him to his side. “I mean I always knew it'd be good between us but that was...That was incredible!” A lazy hand caresses his stomach, rubbing his come into the skin on his stomach. Andy smiles drunkenly, satisfied beyond compare. He'd say the same thing but there's no need. “Yeah. It really was.” “Give me an hour or two and I'll be up for a repeat performance.” “That long?” Andy teases. “Gettin' old, huh?” “Hey, I'm younger than you!” “Old man...” Andy grins, then laughs out loud. For once he's happy. Honest-to-God happy. And it feels good. He should be freaking out right about now, should be running far, far away from Brian and his mega-watt smile and his oceanic gaze. But he's staying where he is. He's good here. Just like this. Naked and sweaty and content. Maybe he would've been good here back then too. If he'd had the guts to find out why a teenage Brian spoke to him in a way Allison and his other girlfriends hadn't. Maybe then he wouldn't have wasted time getting married, twice, only to get divorced, both times, because the relationships lost their spark. Of course, he'd been too deep under his father's, and society's, thumb to do anything else. He hadn't been ready until now. He can see that. And he's proud that he finally is. “...So?...” Brian begins. “What now?” His words are nonchalant. His tone isn't. Andy knows what he's asking. “What now?” he repeats. Just because he knows where this conversation is going doesn't mean he'll voluntarily put himself out there without knowing where Brian stands. “I guess you'd rather I say it first. Alright, what happens between us now? Because I don't know about you but-.” Andy rolls over on top of him, sticky and damp and grinning so wide his mouth hurts a little. “But?...” Brian eyes are wide and hungry. Andy stops playing around and tells him how he feels. “When I said everything, I meant everything, Bri. Cause that's what I'll be giving to you.” The man's eyes get suspiciously dewy-looking as he stares up at him. Andy's grin dims into a tender smile as he leans down to kiss him. He sighs when Brian kisses him back gustily. An hour easily becomes minutes as Andy presses down, grinding into him, hardening again. The ache returns in him so he slides down Brian's body, nibbling at his flesh along the way, filing certain sounds and flavors away for future recall. When Brian calls his name and slides his fingers through his hair he doesn't even pretend to fight the feeling of home that settles over him. Just keeps moving, hoping this time the spark will stick around a long time.

Yuuri released the latch to Greta's room and stepped into the hallway. She had just dropped off to sleep and he was alone for the first time since this extraordinary day began. A breeze from an open window ruffled his hair, reminding him that the evening was warm and pleasant outside. Feeling an urge to stretch his legs, he headed for the colonnade surrounding the courtyard. Nervous energy carried him the full length of the walkway and back before Yuuri's gathering thoughts slowed his steps to a halt. Pausing by the banister he was finally free to reflect on his surroundings and the day's events. The balmy air carried a hint of the namesake flowers blooming in the garden. Candles, spaced at intervals along the wall, lit the corridor with a soft glow. Farther away, Yuuri could clearly make out the shapes of trees outlined in moonlight. Placing his hands on the railing to brace himself, he took a deep breath and looked up. The sky was high, clear and filled with stars. Not for the first time, he marveled at the familiar constellations. He never noticed anything unusual about the stars being the same until Conrad pointed out the obvious one evening. It was a curious parallel between their worlds. Recently he'd found himself staring at the night sky from home, thinking of his loved ones in Shin Makoku and wondering if any of them might be looking up at the same moment. Until today, Yuuri was convinced he could never return to this world. He wasn't supposed to be able to do this anymore. Crossing between worlds had always caused something akin to jet-lag, but this trip left him stunned. Even after the initial joy of finding himself back among friends, he was still reeling from the fact that he was here again. Yuuri had said his goodbyes when the door slammed shut on this part of his life. The trouble was, no physical barrier could separate him from his memories. Once he returned home, his dreams, even his waking hours, were filled with thoughts of people and events that felt more real than his actual surroundings. Conrad's voice encouraged and guided him, and he strove to be worthy of that confidence. He remembered his many friends, both Mazoku and human, and felt satisfaction in knowing he had helped them. But memories of one person gave him little comfort. Many a night he awoke thinking that Wolfram was next to him, only to find his bed empty. To help him drift off to sleep, Yuuri started keeping his clothes from Shin Makoku folded under his pillow. The fabric still carried a faint scent of herbal soap from the castle laundry, reminding him of the bed sheets he shared with Wolfram. Besides his blue pendant, these were the only tangible souvenirs he had from his other life. He wasn't happy that he had to resort to such things, but alone, late at night, he couldn't lie to himself. In spite of Yuuri's ambivalence toward Wolfram, he missed him – craved him – in a way that was different from all the others. He had grown used to sleeping with him and having him close by, but hadn't realized it until it was too late. So many things had been left unsaid and Wolfram would never again be there to hear them. Now the door had been abruptly re-opened and Yuuri was thrust back into the middle of everything he thought he had lost. As he looked back over the long day, it was really only a matter of hours since Murata pushed him into the water at their neighborhood park, yet it seemed like another time altogether. Everyone descended upon Yuuri and Murata when they appeared, sweeping them up in their excitement with a flurry of questions. Dinner became a celebration with news and stories flowing non-stop. Wolfram sat at Yuuri's side and was especially attentive, even filling his glass from time to time; a generous gesture from someone more used to being served than serving. Yuuri remembered catching his eye occasionally, only to notice Wolfram already staring at him. Wolfram's scrutiny was familiar, but this was intense even for him and Yuuri's cheeks burned under his gaze. Still, he found it comforting to be near Wolfram and sometimes Yuuri deliberately brushed against his arm or leg while conversing, just to remind himself that he was really there. Wolfram was talkative too, and to a casual observer he appeared to be participating in the conversation, but Yuuri noticed he never once volunteered anything about himself. He was used to seeing through Wolfram's layers of posturing and aristocratic manners; this was different. The young prince had managed to sidestep any direct questions about what he had been doing. It almost seemed as if Wolfram was hiding something. As dinner was ending, Yuuri was about to lean over and ask if something was wrong, when a military aide arrived to call Wolfram away. He was needed in the stables to calm his horse, who responded to his voice alone during difficult spells. Yuuri had not seen him since. Whatever was going on, Yuuri thought, he couldn't solve it at the moment. Knowing Wolfram, he'd see him soon enough. Feeling a little stiff, Yuuri raised his arms overhead and leaned from left to right, stretching until his muscles began to release. His body always felt kinked when he traveled between worlds, especially when he got pushed unexpectedly. Yuuri continued his walk. Just as he rounded a corner he heard the even rhythm of heels on the pavement behind him. He turned to find Conrad and Günter approaching. "Heika!" Günter called, waving his arm. "Taking a stroll?" "Just out for some fresh air, Günter." "Excellent idea. I hope you enjoyed dinner. The staff threw themselves into preparing your favorites. Everyone is delighted to have you back!" Günter gushed and, for the fourth time that day, squeezed Yuuri so hard he knocked the wind out of him. Conrad laughed at them amiably. "Let the poor boy go, Günter." "But His Majesty understands my devotion and how much he's been missed." "Well yes, Günter, but I still have to breathe!" Yuuri gasped. Günter reluctantly let go and smoothed his cape, settling himself with dignity. Thinking it best to change the subject, Günter asked, "Have you given any thought to what your first official action might be now that you've returned, Your Majesty?" "Not yet. I think everyone's been through so much we just need to finish rebuilding and get used to daily life again. Besides, the whole region is at peace now." "I see, yes. We have some plans you may find interesting…" Günter began. "Let's let Yuuri have the evening off, Günter," Conrad suggested patiently. "He just arrived after all and there will be plenty of time for documents and decisions later." "True enough," Günter conceded. He studied Yuuri adoringly for a moment. "Perhaps we've all had enough excitement for one day. I have a bit of reading I want to finish before going to bed so I will bid you both good night." "Good night, Günter," Yuuri replied warmly. "And thanks for all your help." Günter beamed and almost reached for Yuuri again, but restraining himself, he bowed elegantly, turned away and swept down the corridor. Yuuri turned to Conrad who was leaning against a nearby pillar. "So, how have you been, Conrad?" "I've been well. Busy dismantling troops and overseeing building restoration. We've been worried about who would succeed you," Conrad continued. "No one seemed to be an adequate replacement. Luckily, that decision has been taken care of with your return." "I'm ready to be the Maou for good now." Yuuri said determinedly. "I told Günter that we need to get back to normal, but I know that will take a lot of work. My place is here, with the people of Shin Makoku. It's not like I wanted to leave, but I thought I had to." "After you were gone, we all thought about you and wondered how you were doing. Of course, I've always known you would do well no matter where life takes you." Yuuri smiled at Conrad's words. "Sometimes I imagined you advising me when things were difficult. It helped, even though you weren't there." "I'm just sorry I couldn't be there for you. I was worried that you were having a hard time adjusting." "It was hard, even though I tried to pretend it wasn't." Yuuri could admit this to himself now that he was safely back. As long he didn't examine things too closely he could hold his deepest feelings in check and keep from breaking apart. "Mainly I just missed everyone. I tried to tell myself I finished what I came for, that it was time to go home, but I missed everyone and everything here." Soft evening sounds caught Yuuri's ear and they both paused to listen as the breeze rustled the leaves. He glanced up at nearby branches bowing in the wind and his mind began to drift again. "You know, it still feels like a dream to be here," he said, shaking his head in wonder. "Are you happy to be back, Yuuri?" Conrad asked, noticing his tone. "Mm hmm, very," he said with a preoccupied smile. He was thinking about Wolfram and without hesitating said, "Wolf seemed lively tonight, don't you think?" Where did that come from? Yuuri caught himself and suddenly felt embarrassed. Oh well, it doesn't matter, he reasoned. Conrad had known him since he was a baby. He could talk about whatever he wanted. "Sometimes he was demanding and then he'd be really tight-lipped," Yuuri continued, "but I got him to laugh a few times." "He is thrilled to see you." Conrad smiled as he took in the shifting moods of his distracted king. "You really think so?" Yuuri asked. "I don't understand why he hasn't said anything about himself. Wolfram is usually anything but shy." A shadow crossed Conrad's face and he stepped forward to touch Yuuri's arm. "Eh?" Yuuri shook his head to clear his thoughts when he saw Conrad's concern. "You need to understand something, Yuuri. It was very hard on Wolfram when you left. I don't know all the details, but it's no secret that he locked himself in your bed chamber for nearly a week. We couldn't reason with him so we just had to let him work it out. When he finally emerged he never went back in again. After that he became unusually serious – very determined and focused on his work – like I've never seen him before." Uh oh. I worried about something like this, Yuuri thought. Conrad had his full attention. "You would have been proud of him, though," Weller continued. "He still treated Greta as his own and was always gentle and patient with her, something you know doesn't come easily to him in other parts of his life. He immersed himself in his military routine. He kept up his other activities, and I'd even see him smile sometimes, but the light was gone from his eyes. He just wasn't the same after that." Yuuri struggled to maintain his composure as he began piecing together a fair idea of Wolfram's state. "He never once complained about you being gone," Conrad continued. "He didn't say so, but I think he was trying to be worthy of your memory." "My… my memory?" Yuuri sputtered. "You make it sound like I was dead." "You were, to us, Yuuri Heika," Conrad reminded him quietly. Yuuri's eyes widened with understanding. "I'm sorry," he said. "Of course, on some level I knew that when I left, but there was no time!" "No one's blaming you, Yuuri. It couldn't be helped." "I know, I guess. I just… damn it!" Yuuri swallowed hard. His fists clenched and shook. He was anguished to know how Wolfram had suffered. What was he supposed to do with this information when he still wasn't sure how he felt about Wolfram? It just confused him all the more. "I thought you needed to know," Conrad offered carefully. "It was common knowledge and I hope it helps you understand why Wolfram might be reserved around you." "I see," Yuuri said softly as he met Conrad's gaze evenly. "Now I think I have a better idea how it's been for Wolfram." "Yuuri, I know he's glad to see you, even though it must be difficult for him," Conrad reassured. "He's extremely excited today, but under that surface… well, he's never really talked about it." "He must have felt like I took him for granted all the time I was here. In a way I did, but I wasn't ready!" Yuuri started to rant. "I didn't ask to be brought here. I didn't understand your customs. I thought it was crazy to hold an outsider to something they didn't understand. Of course I resisted his advances. I thought it was crazy, but…" Yuuri's voice trailed off. Conrad was genuinely curious. "But what?" Yuuri's shoulders slumped in defeat. "But, we went through so much together he got under my skin. I got used to him being by my side. It was all so new to me. Then the shock of losing him… and now the shock of being back…" "You should consider talking it out with him, Yuuri. He was, and I dare say still is, deeply committed to you." Yuuri nodded. "I'll try to do what I can, but I'm not even sure myself how…" "Yuuuuri! So here you are." Wolfram's voice split the air as he came striding up the steps from the courtyard. "What's this? Conrad, didn't you say this morning that you had some letters you had to write?" Wolfram folded his arms and tapped his toe impatiently on the granite walkway, slipping easily into old habits. Yuuri blinked in surprise, taken aback by the sheer energy of Wolfram's entrance. "Okay, okay, Wolfram! You win." Conrad said, laughing indulgently and holding his hands up in surrender. "Günter and I were just keeping His Majesty company until you returned from the stables." "Well, it looks like Günter's gone now," he said pointedly. "I don't know why I had to check on my horse anyway," he grumbled. "You'd think the pages would be able to handle him on their own by now. He's not that high spirited." Yuuri knew better. Wolfram never liked to trust his horse to staff if it was anything serious. Wolfram sized up the two companions for a moment, pinning Yuuri with a suspicious glare. Firelight from the candles glittered in his green eyes. "Wha… what?" Yuuri asked, transfixed by Wolfram's stare. "Nothing," he sniffed in apparent dismissal. Conrad clapped his hand on Wolfram's shoulder. "Ah, it's good to see you acting like yourself again, little brother. I've missed you," he said with a fond smile. "I actually do have some things to attend to, so I'll say goodnight to you both." Conrad put his right hand to his heart and bowed gracefully to the two young men before leaving. "What did he mean by that?" Wolfram wondered as he watched Conrad walk away. "I dunno. Maybe you haven't been yourself lately?" Yuuri ventured cautiously. Wolfram looked at him curiously. "I've been fine. As you can see, everything is in order and Greta is healthy and well taken care of." "But that's Greta, Wolfram," Yuuri probed. "What about you?" "Like I said, I'm fine." Wolfram gave a haughty flick of his head. Ah, Yuuri knew that gesture so well. "Okay. You've been fine," Yuuri sighed. Perhaps it was best to leave it for now, Yuuri thought. He didn't want to spar with Wolfram. Not now. It didn't feel right. They eyed each other warily. "What about you, Yuuri?" Wolfram asked a bit stiffly. "Were you seeing other people in your world? It's not like there was any hold on you." "Are you kidding? I was mainly trying to rebuild my life. I played a lot of baseball and I've been busy with school." It hadn't really been so very long, had it? Many long weeks for sure, but then he remembered the extent of the time difference. "It's been months for you, hasn't it, Wolfram?" Wolfram didn't answer at first. Finally, he replied in a small voice. "Yes, it's been a long time." As if to deflect the focus from his next words, he looked away from Yuuri and reached over the railing to finger a delicate leaf on a nearby branch. "Did you ever… did you ever think about me?" "Wolfram!" Yuuri exclaimed. "Of course I did. I thought about all of you every day." Wolfram still studied his leaf. "So you thought about all of us, hmm?" He sounded strangely withdrawn to Yuuri. Did he feel left out? "I missed you, Wolfram," Yuuri said. "That's the honest truth." Wolfram glanced up, but his eyes were unreadable. "Hmph. Well, that's something at least. I'm sure you were busy with your other life." Geez, what's with him? Yuuri wondered. "Hey! It was hard for me too, Wolfram!" he snapped. Why was it like this? Why did they set off sparks when they obviously needed to talk? Wolfram froze, verbally and physically. He stood with his hands on his hips and his head turned away from Yuuri, offering no response and blocking any further discussion. "Wolfram, please…" Yuuri pleaded for some kind of acknowledgement. Finally, Wolfram relented and turned to Yuuri. "Please, Wolfram. Let's not fight. Not tonight." Wolfram's manner relaxed a little and he seemed to open up. "Come on wimp. It's getting late," he said, gently but firmly taking Yuuri's arm and steering him toward the inner hallway. "We should get to bed." The sudden shift in behavior caught Yuuri off guard. "Wait a min… " Yuuri blurted out and jumped reflexively, but Wolfram's piercing gaze, challenging him to pull away, stopped him in his tracks. Traces of loss and agony were now plainly visible on Wolfram's face. Yuuri realized this was no longer a game. Too much was at stake. They were both deeply invested in one another and it wasn't so easy to pretend it meant nothing, even if he was a guy. When Yuuri turned his back on Shin Makoku and stepped into the passage between worlds for the last time, it felt like the most irrevocable thing he had ever done. He knew he was leaving his Mazoku life behind and he thought he was prepared to live with the consequences, but leaving Wolfram turned out to be more painful than he could have imagined, and he was still confused about why. He only knew at the time that part of him would be empty for the rest of his life. Now, he was back and he had a second chance. What was he going to do with it? "You're daydreaming, Yuuri." Wolfram's voice shook him out of his thoughts. "Are you coming? I'll wash your back," Wolfram said determinedly as he tugged on Yuuri's arm again. Again reflex kicked in and he pulled his arm back. "Um, I washed up when I changed clothes this afternoon, after we climbed out of the fountain. I thought …" Yuuri began weakly. Yet again, the words faded on his lips. Why am I so jumpy? He cursed himself. Wolfram sighed impatiently and cut his eyes at him with a stubborn yet searching look. "You're right, Wolfram," Yuuri replied gently. "It will help us relax after a long day." "Of course it will." Wolfram closed the subject and started walking. Yuuri followed alongside as they headed toward the Maou's suite of rooms. Neither had come close to admitting how conflicted they really felt, but as they approached the bedroom, Yuuri knew it was time to face some things squarely. He had no idea what needed to be said, he only knew there was no turning back. * * * * * * * The wood felt smooth under Yuuri's hand as he pushed the heavy door closed. Inside, the candles had been lit and the bed covers were pulled back just as always. A heavy nostalgia settled on him as he scanned the room. This was a place he thought he'd never see again. There was a pleasant light scent of candle wax in the air and the flames cast a warm glow over all the surfaces. Everything was where he remembered it. He lingered near the door, drinking in the details of his surroundings, while Wolfram headed purposefully to the wardrobe and started unbuttoning his dress uniform. That simple action – so familiar, so domestic – moved Yuuri unexpectedly and his throat constricted as he tried to suppress the intense feelings of relief and longing that washed over him; relief at being back, longing for Wolfram. Why does it hurt so much? What's wrong with me? he thought. Freed of his jacket, Wolfram turned from the wardrobe and placed his hand on the bedpost for balance while kicking off his boots. As the last boot tumbled to the floor, he looked up and saw Yuuri standing alone, staring at him as if lost; his eyes brimming with tears. "Yuuri!" He dashed across the room to take the Maou in his arms. Yuuri was overwhelmed by emotions and sank to the floor on his knees. Wolfram slid down with him as Yuuri clutched at the front of his loose white shirt and turned his face away, eyes clenched shut against his tears. "What's all this about?" Wolfram chided gently with concern. "Honestly, you really are acting like a wimp." Wolfram's voice had a calming effect on Yuuri. "Heh," he said with a shaky voice as he looked up at Wolfram sheepishly. "I kind of lost it for a minute, didn't I?" They both regarded each other awkwardly, wondering what to do next. Yuuri finally broke the silence. "It's just… I'm so relieved to be back. I thought I would never see any of this again. I… I thought I would never see you again." Wolfram cupped Yuuri's cheek in his hand. "It's alright, Yuuri," his voice was low and rough with emotion. "You're home now. You can come and go whenever you want from now on." The warmth of Wolfram's touch snapped Yuuri's last thread of composure and he sobbed as the words spilled forth. "I didn't know! I didn't know until I said goodbye to you. I never knew how I really felt about you. It was like having my heart ripped out to leave you!" Wolfram clutched at his own chest in response to Yuuri's words and blinked in surprise. "Finally…" he murmured softly. His lips were pursed and trembling as he warred with his inner feelings. Tears stung his eyes. He tightened his grip on Yuuri's arm. "I've waited a long time for you to figure that out, Yuuri. Before you left I'd almost given up hope that you would ever acknowledge me. And then you were gone – forever. "When I saw you today I was afraid it wasn't true. Even when I realized you were really back, I thought it might be too late. But it's alright now," he said wiping at his eyes. "I'm here. I've always been here for you." Wolfram had always been there. Yuuri knew Wolfram supported him as the Maou, but as a fiancé he was never sure what to do with the beautiful blonde's attentions. The sleeping arrangements were confusing, being kicked to the edge of the mattress by sprawling limbs was annoying, but even though Wolfram's presence in his bed disconcerted him, the truth was it also excited him. He hadn't been able to deal with his reactions. When he thought about it, he saw that Wolfram had steadily changed since they met until most of his waking hours were spent trying to help and support Yuuri. He was not a self-centered brat anymore. He had grown and even matured. Fiery temperament or not, Wolfram was completely devoted to Yuuri, and not just as his subject. He owed him a response. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he began. "I kept you waiting so long because of my own uncertainty and then I left you behind." As Yuuri spoke, he became calmer and his thoughts started to focus. He placed his hands on Wolfram's shoulders. "I'm sorry, Wolfram. That must have been hard for you." "I told you to go home to your parents!" Wolfram's voice flared with defiant pride. "It was the right thing to do." "I know, ...I know," Yuuri tried to calm him. We did the best we could out of a sense of duty, but there was no time to consider any alternatives. I've got a real choice now and I want to stay with you." Wolfram's breath hitched and his eyes widened. His face was a mixture of hope and disbelief. It hurt Yuuri to think that Wolfram might not believe him. I can't let him wonder anymore, Yuuri decided. I've got to show him clearly how I feel. "Come here, Wolfram." he whispered, lacing his fingers in Wolfram's silky hair and pulling him close until their breath caressed each other's lips. Yuuri could feel him tremble at his touch. "If you'll still have me?" he asked. Wolfram nodded as if under a spell, his breath shallow with anticipation. Yuuri felt his need and responded. Yuuri brushed his mouth against Wolfram's parted lips, Ah, softer than I imagined, and sucked gently, experimentally, on his lower lip. His head spun. Wolfram invited Yuuri into his open mouth with a swirl of his tongue. Yuuri deepened the kiss and slid his hand under Wolfram's shirt. A familiar wave of confused panic rose when he explored the smooth, firm plane of Wolfram's chest, so much like his own; a reminder that he hadn't even kissed a girl! He had often glimpsed Wolfram's petal-like nipples when his gown gapped open in bed and wondered what they would feel like. His fingers sought a tender bud, gently stroking and kneading it. Wolfram moaned into Yuuri's mouth and straddled the Maou's thigh, pressing himself into his leg. Yuuri felt them both becoming hard. It felt amazing. Wolfram's familiar scent calmed him and the panic receded as he focused on the present. Thoughts rushed through Yuuri's mind, almost unconsciously. It's ok. It's Wolfram. Just feel him. He's warm, he's here. Don't worry about anything else. I almost lost him. I've got him back now. It doesn't matter whether he's a guy or not. He's beautiful. I… love him. Wolfram ground his hips against him and Yuuri felt a laser-like pang shoot through his groin. Pulling back from the kiss, Wolfram said impatiently, "Yuuri, please. I want to touch you. I waited so long… Off with this coat!" Wolfram almost ripped the fabric while unfastening buttons. He pushed Yuuri's shirt off his shoulders and leaned forward to lick his nipple. One hand reached down to cup Yuuri through his pants. "Ahh!" Yuuri yelped in surprise, but it felt so good he relaxed under Wolfram's mouth and hand and leaned back on the thick rug. So this is sex with another person… he vaguely thought. Yuuri was writhing, lost in sensation when Wolfram stopped suddenly. "Yuuri, take my hand so I can pull you up. Let's move to the bed." Yuuri got up in a daze and stumbled to the bed. They pulled their clothes off quickly, tossing them on the floor, and tumbled onto the bed. Wolfram settled on a pile of pillows at the head of the bed. His head tilted to one side lazily; cheeks delicately flushed and yellow hair tousled loosely around his face. He regarded Yuuri with half-lidded emerald eyes. His knees were splayed open and Yuuri marveled at his rosy penis straining tautly against his pale stomach. Wolfram's flawless skin glowed in the half-light, setting off his striking coloring. Of all the stunning people he'd encountered, Yuuri thought he'd never seen anyone so beautiful. "You can touch me anywhere you want," Wolfram announced rather formally, "but I can't let you take me completely because we're not married yet." Yuuri's brain simply could not process that much information, so he filtered out just enough to handle the situation at hand. He didn't care what they did as long as it was something and as long as it was soon. The only problem was he didn't know where to begin. Wolfram couldn't help smiling with amusement as he watched. Yuuri was on his knees at the edge of the mattress, fully aroused, yet hanging back and gripping the bed curtain hesitantly. "Oh, you really need help with this, don't you, Yuuri?" "Hey, it's not my fault!" Yuuri said defensively. His cheeks stung as he flushed hotly. "It's not my fault that this kind of thing is unusual in my world. It's not covered in standard sex talks for young people." "Well, it is here. Come over and let me show you." Yuuri crawled closer and was pushed down onto the pillows for his trouble. Wolfram reached into the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed and pulled out a small bottle of oil. Yuuri's eyes grew wide with comprehension as Wolfram uncorked the bottle and poured a small pool in the palm of his hand. "Don't tell me you don't use this either in your world." Wolfram teased. "You'd be pretty raw without it." "Uh, no. Um, I mean yeah… Ungh!" Yuuri wasn't sure what he meant when he felt Wolfram take hold of his achingly sensitive erection with his slick warm hand. Of course he masturbated – sometimes Yuuri had even slipped out of bed, putting distance between himself and Wolfram, to deal with his involuntary arousal – but his temperament was such that he hadn't indulged in it often. That switch inside him had not yet been turned on. Now, his body was awakening on a much deeper level for the first time. Wolfram gripped and slid, over and over, from tip to base with one hand, while he rubbed Yuuri's thigh soothingly with the other. No longer able to resist the temptation, he bent over and delicately licked the tiny droplets forming at Yuuri's slit, eliciting a sharp gasp. He looked up, eyes wide, to make sure Yuuri was watching, and then he slid him as far into his mouth as he could, suckling him gently as the last traces of the light oil mingled with Yuuri's unique taste. "Wolfram!" he moaned, his hands reflexively grasping at Wolfram's thick hair. "You don't have to do that!" Releasing him, Wolfram sat up and gazed intently into Yuuri's dark eyes as he continued to stroke him. "This is an expression of our love, Yuuri. Don't ever forget that. I've got you back now and I don't expect to lose you again. I don't want you to do this with anyone else but me. Understand?" Wolfram's eyes shone with fierce and unabashed love, revealing his true resolve. Yuuri was captivated, quickly associating his feelings for Wolfram with intense physical pleasure. He never really allowed himself to consider such a connection before, even when he was clearly aroused by Wolfram's presence, yet here they were together. Wolfram is becoming my lover… Understanding dawned slowly in the back of Yuuri's mind. The memory of their separation washed over him and the idea of losing Wolfram became unbearable. He couldn't imagine anyone else loving him this intensely. He was finally ready. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, I understand." Responding in the most direct way he could think of, Yuuri rolled off the pillows and found the glistening tip of Wolfram's cock with his mouth. Ah, salty! It felt different, a little strange, but so warm and silky; he wanted him. Yuuri was excited and his heart was still aching for Wolfram. He wanted to show him beyond a doubt that he was ready for him. He trailed his wet tongue along the full length and took him gently in his mouth, sucking determinedly until Wolfram groaned and stretched out next to his side. Wolfram's cheek rested conveniently on Yuuri's thigh so he nuzzled the patch of dark curly hair within reach. A little push forward and he was taking Yuuri in his mouth again. They both were inexperienced, but they knew their own bodies so nature took over easily. Yuuri felt Wolfram's hand sliding along with his lips. Ah, he's too good at this – I can't last much longer. Yuuri gripped Wolfram's rocking hips and concentrated on not coming too soon. "It's okay to come when you want," Wolfram said through swollen lips, "don't worry about me." Hearing Wolfram's suggestion was almost enough to make him lose it on the spot, but Yuuri was determined not to embarrass himself. Wolfram lightly grazed Yuuri's sac with his fingertips, then worked his way up the underside of his length with his tongue until he latched onto Yuuri's head with his warm mouth. He kept up a constant moist suction while his tongue stroked back and forth. Yuuri was quickly losing control. I can do this – can't let go, his mind was chanting when Wolfram quickly pulled out of his mouth, momentarily disorienting him. Then Wolfram picked up the rhythm with his lips and tongue. Yuuri felt the familiar throbbing buildup that meant no turning back. Suddenly, he was pulsing with spasms stronger then anything he'd ever experienced by his own hand. Wolfram never let him go. Through it all, two things stood out clearly in his mind, the surprising sensation of Wolfram's warm semen on his chest and their free hands entwining tightly. For a few minutes, they both lay gasping as they regained their breath. Yuuri lifted his arm and gazed at the strong yet delicate hand clasped in his own. Wolfram was still on his back, panting with his eyes closed. Yuuri felt surprisingly relaxed. It felt natural to be in bed with Wolfram. "Yuuri, there's a towel in the drawer," Wolfram said between breaths. "Can you reach it?" "Huh? Oh yeah. Just a minute." Yuuri shifted to his knees and reached over Wolfram to open the drawer. He handed the towel to Wolfram, expecting him to use it for himself, but was surprised and touched when he reached up to tenderly wipe off Yuuri's chest. "You didn't have to pull out," Yuuri said gently. "I would've stuck with you." "I didn't want you to panic," Wolfram explained. "I know you too well. You're still not used to the idea of this. The last thing I needed was for you to get turned off your first time." Yuuri was surprised at his insight and realized he was probably right. Taking the towel from his hand, Yuuri climbed on top of Wolfram. He felt a sharp twinge as he settled his hips and their lengths nestled against one another. He wondered at his own responsiveness, but he needed the contact. "And you, Wolfram? What about you?" Face to face, Yuuri could see Wolfram's eyes shining with a hint of tears, yet his gaze was clear and completely unguarded. Even though his emotions could erupt quickly and intensely, he wasn't always forthcoming with his inner heart. The few times he'd seen Wolfram really open up were dear to him, but they paled in comparison to this. "Wolfram…" Yuuri whispered in awe. He took Wolfram in his arms and sought his lips with his own. They were still swollen and Yuuri's scent and taste lingered on them. His reaction was primal; Wolfram was marked and belonged to him now. He kissed him tenderly and possessively. Each kiss said, I'm sorry, I'll heal you, I promise never to leave again. Wolfram was a strong young man, stronger than Yuuri in many ways, but Yuuri wanted to protect him in all the ways he could. Yuuri rolled on his back and Wolfram curled against his side, resting his head on his chest. Hoping he could draw Wolfram out, Yuuri smoothed his fingers through the blonde locks and spoke softly, not wanting to startle him. "Wolfram, I'm not completely sure what you've been through, but I know you were hurt when I left." Wolfram clenched his fists and hid his face against Yuuri's side. Warm tears trickled onto Yuuri's bare skin. Thinking he was only re-opening a deep wound, Yuuri quickly backtracked. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want!" "No. It's okay." Wolfram's muffled voice was surprisingly calm. He sounded to Yuuri as if he was bracing himself to face something difficult. "I need to tell you," he said, moving his head to rest on Yuuri's arm and straightening out alongside him. "Alright. I'm listening." Yuuri continued to stroke his hair softly and hold him close. Somehow he knew Wolfram wouldn't want to look at him while he was talking. Wolfram covered his eyes with his hand and took a shaky breath. "Yuuri… after you left I laid in this bed for days, touching myself and dreaming of you until I thought I'd lose my mind. I lost track of time. I wouldn't let anyone in. They threatened to break down the door, but I told them I'd set the place on fire if they did." "Wolfram!" "I just couldn't get you out of my head. Eventually I exhausted myself and my mind came back to the present. Then I remembered Greta and our commitment to her. Somehow that gave me the strength to walk away and shut the door. Leaving this room was how I managed to lock you away and get on with life, but I only felt half alive after that." Yuuri took Wolfram's wrist and gently drew his hand away from his eyes. Wolfram turned his head just enough to look at Yuuri uncertainly for his reaction. Yuuri had no idea if he was equal to this or not. He thought of his own feelings of grief and loss. It had hit Wolfram much harder, but he could still understand. All he could do was plunge in and hope for the best. "Wolfram, I never imagined it was this bad." He never wanted Wolfram to suffer like this and it pained him to think of what he had gone through. "I… I didn't know. Honestly, if I thought there was any chance I could return I would have tried. I'm still pissed at Murata for not saying something sooner. I wish there was something I could say." "Well," he sighed, "there's not much we can say at this point. It happened and there's no changing that. I can't make the memory go away, so I just want to put it behind me now." It occurred to Yuuri that it might make Wolfram feel better to know he wasn't completely alone in this. "Wolfram, I have a confession to make," he began. "I… um, I couldn't sleep without you." "Really?" Wolfram shifted onto his elbow and looked at Yuuri. "So you really missed me?" "I even jerked myself off thinking about you a few times." Yuuri could hardly admit this to himself, so saying it out loud was almost like speaking another language. "Yuuri…" Even Wolfram was caught off guard by his revelation. Yuuri squirmed at such a direct admission and looked away uncomfortably, but part of him, the part that knew better, wanted Wolfram to know the truth. "It's ok, Yuuri. It's only natural, even though you've been taught that it isn't and you fight it. You should just go with what your body tells you." "Ahh, maybe you're right, Wolfram." Yuuri had never considered it in quite this way before. "We've spent so much time together; you think I never noticed you looking at me?" Wolfram's words burned as if he'd been licked by flames. "Well… I really didn't think about it at the time." "Liar," Wolfram said with a knowing smile. Yuuri could only smile in return and let him get away with that one. Wolfram had him fair and square, and they both knew it. Wolfram leaned closer and whispered, "What's important now is that you're back. I still can't believe you're here. I had given up on you." "I guess I'll just have to make you believe it," Yuuri said before pulling him into a deep kiss. It calmed Wolfram and he responded with his whole body. They took their time exploring one another; slowly, with less urgency, until they eventually stroked each other to climax a second time. Yuuri sprawled on the bed catching his breath once again. He was still in a haze of after-sex bliss when Wolfram surprised him with another unexpected declaration. "You're doing better, Yuuri. You're learning to be more confident," Wolfram announced thoughtfully. "I can't always be the one to carry us, you know. You are the Maou, after all, so you'll have to be the seme in this relationship. Isn't that what they call it where you come from?" "Whaaa!" he yelped. "Wolfram, you're always so direct! And where did you hear that word?" "When we visited your manga shops. I also picked up some really good ideas from those drawings. I still don't understand what the big deal is about men being together when it's in all your books." Yuuri really didn't have an answer for that. Wolfram had a point. "I'm just trying to be practical, Yuuri, but for now you're doing fine." Wolfram swooped in for a breath-stealing kiss. Pinned to the bed with his arms flailing, Yuuri wondered if maybe he'd bitten off more than he could chew, but tried not to think too hard about it. "Wolfram," Yuuri gasped for air and placed his hand on Wolfram's chest to hold him away for a moment. "Can we have that bath now?" "Sure, Yuuri. I'll wash your back." This time there was no resistance.

Danny knew Rachel Harris very well. She was a cousin of his, a few years older and pretty in a crisp, sophisticated kind of way. An accountant and a marathoner, she was smart and in shape and no one was surprised when she and Nicholas started dating. In fact, it could be said that Danny set them up. He certainly did not mean to, but it is hard to ignore family when they walk into the pub and sit down next to you and start complaining about their shared Aunt Margaret’s impending, and universally dreaded, holiday party. Danny was begging Nicholas to be assigned to work late, very late, as late as humanly possible the night of the party, and Rachel began lecturing Danny on family responsibilities and duty. Anyone watching could see the light go on in Nicholas’ eyes. It was serious from the start. There was no possible way it could not be, with those two committed, dedicated individuals who approached everything in their lives with thoughtfulness and precision. Nicholas forgave her strict Anglicanism, and she forgave Nicholas’ being from London, and in every other aspect appeared perfectly matched. Everyone who knew Nicholas thought he was damn lucky to land her, and everyone who knew Rachel also thought he was damn lucky to land her. Some people, such as Danny, even thought that she was damn lucky to land him. “She’s like Janine, only with a sense of humor. And being here, in Sandford…Danny, I just can’t tell you how pleased I am.” Nicholas sat on Danny’s couch talking blissfully over the movie and annoying the piss out of Danny. “Especially with you here. You know you are going to be our best man.” Danny foundered. “You asked her already?” “What? No. No, I don’t think I have. Need to do that…we’ve been talking about it of course but women like those romantic moments they can write about in their diaries.” Nicholas nodded thoughtfully. “Probably at dinner. Chez Francois, you think?” It was the only French restaurant within a 20 kilometers. “If you like that kind of food.” Danny sniffed. Nicholas laughed. “Can you see me down on my knees, Danny?” Danny most certainly could, and looked carefully as his beer, trying to think of something else entirely. “Wait, I think it is down on one knee. Perhaps I should ask Doris…” Nicholas’ thoughts trailed off, oblivious to Danny’s blush. He kept on nattering about the wedding and Danny kept drinking, hoping that this night would end soon. His life too, for that matter. It was not that Danny thought he was gay. Daniel Butterman was not a bender, despite what the Andes always said. No, he just happened to like blokes every now and again. No harm there, even the bulls in the herds sometimes got on each other. His feelings for Nicholas ran deeper than a quick grope in the back of a barn, though, and if he ever decided he was actually a bender, it was going to be because of Nicholas Angel. Not that there was a hope in hell of that now he was helping Nicholas plan his wedding. The wedding itself, of course, went off without a hitch. The bride planned everything to the last detail and never broke a sweat while the groom stayed the hell out the way. Danny went to the Andes in a panic about the bachelor party, who took it over to everlasting infamy. Doris was not invited but showed up anyway, proving to have some untapped talent at pole dancing, and Tony ended up in the village square fountain without his trousers. The Andes, it was rumored, were planning a Mediterranean vacation based on the take they got blackmailing various attendees with the photos from the party. The honeymoon was in France for two weeks. When they got back, Rachel moved into the cottage with Nicholas, and promptly redecorated it top to bottom. Nicholas shrugged, telling Danny that it was nice not to have to worry about it himself. As the months went on, Nicholas seemed less happy about his life, as far as Danny could tell, but it was just a feeling and Nicholas always chirped, when asked, that the marriage was outstanding and the best thing ever to happen to him. They agreed to one movie night a week. Rachel did not mind, as any good village wife would not, and when Nicholas was sitting there next to him Danny could almost pretend that everything was exactly the same as it used to be. Nicholas never talked about Rachel on movie night which suited Danny just fine. One night, though, Nicholas was definitely ‘in a mood’ and Danny was beginning to feel more like his wife than anything. Finally he stopped the movie. “Wot the matter with you?” Nicholas looked startled. “Nothing.” “You’re lyin’. Don’t expect me not to know.” Danny smiled, laughing at the absurdity of Nicholas trying to pull one over on him. Nicholas shook his head. “Small stuff, Danny. Just things that bother me…” “Can’t stop thinkin’?” Danny grinned at the old joke, but Nicholas did not. “No.” Danny cocked his head. “Ey, Nicholas, what’s the matter, then?” “I’m not sure...” “If you don’t know, no one will. Korrr, Nick, you got to know what is making yourself upset.” Danny shrugged, confused, took a swig of his beer and then stopped dead at the look on Nicholas face. It was absolutely unreadable; Danny had never seen anything like it before. Nicholas was staring at him, silent. His entire body language was odd, and everything about him looked cold. Danny stared back in horror. “Nicholas…?” At the sound of his name, something clicked, and his body collapsed out of the tense pose, as Nicholas lowered his face into his hands. He was not crying, and in fact looked more like he was hiding. Danny could not, would not accept that from his best friend, and grabbed his shirt, pulling him over into a trademark Butterman bear hug, much as his own father once did for him when he was a confused young man. There was nothing sexual in it for Danny, as much as he might have expected there to have been, and he just calmly and quietly held on to Nicholas, rubbing his back. Nicholas pushed his face into Danny’s chest, rubbing his skin over Danny’s shirt, and Danny really had no damn idea what was going on, but he did not release him or question him or push him, and he was very surprised to discover that Nicholas fell asleep that way, buried in his arms, looking for all the world like a blissful child in the hold of someone they love and trust. ------ In that instant, when Danny asked him what was bothering him, Nicholas at long last knew what was bothering him: Danny. The self realization shocked him to his core and he thought he was going to die of asphyxiation there on the couch. He always understood that his love for Rachel, whatever love there was, did not compare to the companionability and the dedication he felt towards Danny. What he did not expect to discover was his desire for her to paled next to Danny as well. He collapsed into Danny’s arms, completely at a loss as to what the hell he was supposed to do next with his life. --------- Several weeks later they were out doing a follow up call at a small homestead in a very rural part of the area. It was officially their day off, but Danny promised Tony to do it as a favor in return for covering over his being late to work twice in one week. He did not explain it quite that way to Nicholas, stating only that he just wanted some company on the trip. Nicholas pointed out that they should technically sign in, but Danny shrugged and won that argument. They rolled out and found the family much recovered from the domestic disturbance of the week before and plying the ‘fine off’sirs’ with tea and homemade pie. “This is a pretty area.” Nicholas commented as they drove off. “Yeah. ‘Ey, we’re not on the clock, yeah?” “No. Just doing a favor for Tony for no particular reason, according to you.” Danny nodded, straining to look ahead. “Turn ‘ere.” He pointed, and Nicholas did. After ten minutes of rough road, they came up to a harvest barn, used once or twice a year only, and right now lying as fallow as the fields around it. Danny knew it well; most boys in the area did. He was actually surprised and relieved that they did not drive up into some teenaged rutting session, as it would be hard to explain to Nicholas about the ways of country boys who were not much allowed to get on with girls without supervision. No one felt that boys needed chaperones when they went off into the fields together, and just as well. Danny had many fond memories of this particular barn loft. It was a very old barn and picturesque, though, which was why he brought Nicholas to it. He knew Nicholas appreciated the older buildings and would value the inherent beauty and charm of this spot. It was something worth sharing, and Danny felt pleased with himself when Nicholas jumped out of the car to go exploring. “How old is this barn, Danny?” He asked, hands on hips, staring up at it. “Old, s’pose. A few hundred years, I dunno. This is Charlie Lewis’ farm, here, been in the family for generations.” “It’s exceptional.” Nicholas took off and ran inside, leaving Danny standing outside with his hands deep in his warm jacket. He knew the inside well enough not to feel pressured to follow and figured he would just wait for Nicholas to come back out. “Danny!” Danny looked up, surprised. Nicholas was sitting up at the barn loft door frame, legs hanging out, perched like a teenager. “This is wonderful, Danny!” “Nicholas, get down. It’s a barn.” “Yes but the view! You really need to come up here.” “Nicholas, I been up there. Plenty.” He felt himself blush and he coughed. “Er, you get used to barns growin’ up around here.” “Are you okay?” Nicholas looked down on him, worried. “…Just a bit warm from all the running around….er, get down, Nicholas.” “You won’t come up here and sit with me?” Nicholas sounded ridiculously hurt and Danny was left speechless at the childishness of the exchange. Nicholas looked up at the view again. “I suppose not. I just…am not in a hurry to go home.” Nicholas voice dropped by degrees. Danny took off his heavy jacket and marched into the barn. The climb up the ladder was familiar and he was soon sitting a little ways back from the ledge. “Not a big fan of heights, Nick.” He said, peering out. “I never knew that.” “We didn’t get to climbing up much walking the beat, did we?” “No, we didn’t. Here, I’ll move back.” Nicholas drew his legs up and scooted back to sit next to Danny. “Why you don’t want to go home, Nicholas?” Nicholas shook his head. “Problems. Married problems, I suppose. Rather private, Danny, I don’t feel we should talk about it.” Danny shrugged. “We can if you want to.” They sat in silence, watching the scenery, and as the time passed Nicholas gently leaned over and rested against Danny’s shoulder. It was not too different than the way they sat on the couch, but the manner of Nicholas’ mood and the darkening atmosphere around them as the sun set changed everything. “Nick, what’s wrong?” Danny nearly whispered, and remained still. Nicholas turned to rest his forehead on Danny’s arm. “We just…it’s hard to talk about, Danny. It is very personal.” Danny did not know what to say. Nicholas did not sound emotionally wound up or anything that Danny would know how to deal with; he was quiet and confusing and closed. “It’s so…odd. You are closer to me than Rachel is in so many ways, and yet I cannot even talk to you about this.” “S’okay, Nicholas. Whatever you need.” Nicholas sat up, surprised. “What? “Whatever you need, Nicholas. I’m your partner, remember? You can count on me.” Nicholas nodded absently but the look on his face was so pained, so grief stricken, that Danny instinctively just wrapped his arm around his shoulders. Nicholas leaned in again and pressed his face into Danny’s chest, quietly. He was not crying and Danny was sure that he was thinking too much but they sat there together for what felt like hours as the sun went down. Danny did not really think about what he did next, and it was probably due to the many assignations that he had in that very spot as a teenager that it seemed so natural to him. He turned into Nicholas, forcing him to look up, and then leaned them slowly backwards together as he rest a gentle and loving kiss on Nicholas’ lips, settling himself just over his friend. He brought his other hand over and ran it up and down Nick’s neck and chest, and he felt Nicholas responding to the kiss, drawing him in, opening his mouth and gasping at Danny’s touches. This was familiar to Danny. The only way he ever seduced anyone was by surprise, and he was good at keeping the momentum going, to keep his conquest from thinking twice about what was going on. He kissed passionately, teasingly, and it drew Nicholas into the experience and they made out as if they always did this, it was just that natural. Slowly Danny moved his hand down and he felt Nicholas’ stomach flutter at the touch, but he kept going, and at the crucial point where the top of Nicholas’ pants began, he shoved Nicholas’ face to the side with his chin and kissed his ear deeply as he slid his hand down underneath the fabric. It was an old trick for him, but it always worked. Nicholas gasped for air at the dual attack and was unable to determine how to resist and so, simply, did not. Danny rubbed Nicholas’ erection slowly at first. They were still kissing and Nicholas’ hands were running over and around his shoulders and arms. Danny traced his kiss back along Nicholas’ jaw and to his lips, hearing Nicholas saying something. “Oh god, oh god, it’s been so long…” Nicholas sighed and rolled his hips, pushing his hard-on into Danny’s hand. Danny picked up the pace of his strokes, waiting for what he wanted as Nicholas kept talking through the arousal. “I can’t do this with her, Danny…I can’t…” “Shhh, Nick. Don’t talk about that right now.” Danny tried to quiet him, but as always, even now, it was nearly impossible to get Nicholas to shut down. “Why? Here? I can do this…” Nicholas was sounding desperate and scared, and his hands grabbed at Danny’s shirt. Danny purposefully started jacking him off harder, just to get him to shut up, and it worked. He kissed Nicholas’ neck as he felt his friend start to roll into something larger, and his motions became natural and fluid and his cries more urgent. Finally Nicholas threw his arms out to his side to try and push himself up but Danny leaned harder into him and watched as Nicholas grimaced and growled and came into Danny’s hand. Nicholas collapsed and shook in relief, sweating, and laughing. Danny milked his cock and caused him to suck in a searing breath of surprise, then carefully drew his hand out of Nicholas’ pants. He saw Nicholas watching him with glazed and contented eyes, and Danny knew what was next. He knew what he wanted and he was going to do it, so he forced his free arm under Nicholas and drew him close to him in a tight, unforgiving embrace. He brought up his hand covered in Nicholas cum and smelled it, the scent of Nicholas on him. “Danny!” Nicholas nearly giggled in surprise, but Danny ignored him. It was always like this, when it happened. No one understood and he simply had to take what he wanted, every time. He brought the hand to his mouth and delicately licked the fluid that was congealing on his skin. He felt Nicholas recoil in his clutch, but Danny did not let him go. “Danny, stop!” The disgust was clear in Nicholas’ voice, and Danny looked at him. He was still flushed from his orgasm, still soft and beautiful and open, even as he tried to react to what he saw Danny doing. Danny would never do what he did next to anyone but Nicholas, and he knew it, and it turned him on. He dropped the hand to Nicholas’ face and smeared his mouth with his own semen. “Jesus Christ!” Nicholas lurched forward but Danny could not stop. He rolled right onto Nicholas and plastered his mouth on his skin, sucking the taste of Nicholas off his own face, and it was explosive for Danny. He was practically eating Nicholas’ face, searching for every last taste of him, as he straddled him. He reached his other hand down into his own pants and started on himself as he continued to move between Nicholas’ face and the hand he used on him, trying to capture every flavor that Nicholas had. Nicholas stopped squirming at some point, but Danny was past that as he gasped and panted and desperately licked and sucked. He came with his own fingers in his mouth as his face slid against Nicholas’ cheek, both covered in the wet slime of Danny’s saliva. He finally looked at Nicholas with lucid eyes again a moment later. He would not apologize. Long ago he learned that no one appreciated or understood what turned him on and he simply accepted that rejection as part of the whole process. But Nicholas was not angry or disgusted or pushing him off. He simply looked back at him in surprise. “I never…thought that.” Nicholas said simply. Danny dropped his head onto Nicholas’ shoulder. “Don’ mean to upset you with it. Jus’ the way I am, Nicholas.” “It was surprising.” Danny snorted and rolled off of Nicholas, sitting up. Both of his hands were officially ‘dirty’ but there was not much to be done about it. He smiled; it had been a long time since he carried it anywhere near that far. “You feel better now?” Nicholas sat up, and blinked into the dark, inky night outside the barn. “Yes.” “Good. Let’s get back into town.” Nicholas looked at him in surprise. “You act like this is normal.” Danny laughed. “I know this barn real well, Nick. A lot of boys do, ‘round here.” Nicholas’ jaw dropped as he finally understood that he was simply parked at lover’s lane. Danny laughed. “Ehyyy, Nick. What ‘appens here stays here, yeah?” Danny got up and carefully climbed down the ladder. He washed his hands in a nearby water pump while Nicholas trailed silently after him. As they settled into the car, Nicholas put his hands on the steering wheel but did not start the motor. “Danny?” “Yeah, Nick?” Danny reached up without thinking and brushed a hand over Nicholas’ cheek. Nicholas closed his eyes. “I can’t do that with Rachel. I…I’ve been impotent almost since we got back from the honeymoon. It’s driving us both mad. I’ve been to doctors and…pills…nothing really works for long.” “Don’t seem like you got much of a problem to me.” Danny trailed fingers over Nicholas’ mouth. If he had his way, they would go back to his flat right now and do everything all over, only without clothes or stale hay. “God you’re turning me on again.” “Okay, then.” Danny smiled. “No, Danny. This can’t be right for me. I do love Rachel, I really do…” Danny pulled his hand back. “I dunno, Nick. Everything works, yeah? And you taste great.” Nicholas snorted and started laughing so hard he shed tears. Danny punched him in the shoulder and they finally drove back into town. -------- That night Rachel greeted him as he walked in the door to go over the mail. As she dropped pieces onto the foyer table, explaining each in turn, Nicholas reached out and grabbed her skirt and pulled her into him. Surprised, she smiled, and he remembered why he married her. It was the first sex they had shared in over ten months, and it was fantastic. ------- Nicholas shied off that week’s movie night, and Danny let him, understanding something of the discomfort he might be feeling. The second week, as they walked out of the station, Danny was not about to back down. “It’s a movie, Nicholas. We done this lots.” “I just have some things I need to do around the house…Rachel, you know…” Danny tapped his arm so that he stopped and looked at him. “The barn’s the barn, Nick. It ain’t my flat. Nothin’ goin’ to happen.” Nicholas looked unreasonably relieved. “Okay, then.” They watched Bad Boys II again and had a few beers and relaxed. When the movie ended Nicholas sighed. “This is good, Danny. Thanks.” “How’s…things?” Danny asked, figuring he needed to approach that topic at some point. “What? Oh…great, actually.” “Really?” “You…erm…worked.” Nicholas smiled sheepishly and then laughed. Danny smiled and tried not to think too much of the lean, relaxed body stretched out next to him or the man who inhabited that body. He promised sanctuary and he never wanted Nicholas to feel uncomfortable here. “Danny…” “Yeah, Nick?” Danny tried to sound relaxed and leaned back too. When he looked over his heart started beating so hard he thought he was going to faint. There was no mistaking that look, in any man: desire, need, pressure. Danny reached out and placed his hand on Nicholas’ leg, and as Nicholas rolled his head back and sighed at the touch, he ran his fingers up his inner thigh. He stopped there for a second, and then pulled away. Nicholas looked over at him, surprised, and hurt. “You got Rachel, Nick. It’s not right for us to do any more than we done.” Danny was breaking his own heart, but he was in many ways an old-fashioned country boy, and he knew what he said was true. Nicholas looked utterly ashamed at the rebuke, and made to get up and leave quickly. Danny jumped up and stopped him. “No, no, that’s not it, Nicholas. Just…we’re friends, yeah? Sit down.” Danny did not wait for Nicholas to do it himself and pushed him back into the couch. As Nicholas bounced a bit on landing, he looked up at Danny, surprised again, and confused. “Serpico.” Danny smiled and pulled the DVD case off the coffee table, where he stashed it earlier. “Rachel won’t mind you getting’ ‘ome a bit late every once in a while.” Nicholas’ shoulders relaxed and he gave Danny a sheepish grin. They stayed up late, as they had always done before, and fell asleep resting against each other’s shoulders before the credits ran. ------ It was a run over to Northwest Wapping for supplies. They could buy most everything in Sandford or just order what they wanted online and have it shipped, except that Nicholas took some kind of pleasure in driving all the way over to the small city and shopping for exactly the kind of file folders he wanted. He loved office supply stores and could spend half the day in one, comparing pens or tabbed separators or printer labels, and most everyone in the department learned very quickly to let him go by himself or risk slow death by office supply torture. This time, Nicholas was not about to let that happen and stopped by Danny’s flat early that morning to pick him up. “Ugh, Nick, I’m on schedule today!” Danny glared at him through the half-opened door. “I switched you out with Doris. She did not mind, apparently she had not, er, quite been to bed yet so decided to take the early shift and go home after lunch.” Nicholas chirped happily, oblivious to Danny falling asleep in the doorway. Danny was bustled into his clothes and a cup of coffee and soon they were on the road. They talked about work and few other things, and the day went by quickly except for the three hours Danny spent sitting in a display office chair while Nicholas bounced around the store, trying to debate with the clerks about the performance value of gel ink roller ball pens. Nonetheless, despite a good show, Nicholas wanted Danny along for a reason. Danny noticed over the past week or two that there was a tension building in Nicholas, and he expected that ‘things’ were not working with Rachel again – he overheard a few heated discussions Nicholas had with her on the phone at work. He both dreaded and hoped that Nicholas would need Danny to ‘work’ on him; it was wrong, morally, to do anything with someone who was married and Danny toed that line. Up to a point. But since their afternoon in the barn a few months ago, Danny’s fantasy life had ratcheted up to the point that the taste of Nicholas was his obsession. As they headed back towards Sandford in the afternoon, Nicholas took a slight detour and Danny knew where they were going, and he figured out why. Nicholas parked beside a small, picturesque pond and in the early afternoon light the water glistened beautifully. “Nice. Always liked Kelly’s Pond.” Danny sighed, leaning the seat back and folding his hands on his chest. “I should have known that you knew this place.” “Sure. Mr. Dyer’s farm is just that’away.” Danny pointed, and the look on Nicholas’ face told him that he did not know what he was talking about. As usual. It seemed to Danny that Nicholas had some kind of mental block about getting the map of the district properly in his head. “So things with Rachel bad again?” Nicholas looked surprised at the question. “That? No. No, we’ve been…well, it’s been satisfactory for both parties, I believe.” Danny was surprised, and in one small, shameful way, disappointed, but he rallied himself. “Then what, Nicholas? You seem distracted.” “I am.” “You an’ Rachel been fightin’, though.” “That…yes. But that has to do with her job.” “Her job?” Danny squinted, wondering what Nicholas could object to about accounting. “She’s been offered a position with a prominent accounting firm in London. Very lucrative, and quite a step up. I told her that I’m not leaving Sanford.” Nicholas spoke as he looked out over the pond. “Cousin Rachel? Move to London? Aunt Peggie ‘ould have a fit.” Danny whistled, and Nicholas laughed. “My marriage is cracking up on the shoreline of London and you’re worried about your Aunt Peggie?” “Oh, yeahhhh,” said Danny, meaning it very sincerely. “Who is Aunt Peggie, Danny?” “You ain’t never met my Aunt Peggie? Oooo…lucky.” Danny whistled again. “Is she really an aunt or just another relative you call an aunt?” Danny squinted. “Not sure, actually.” Nicholas laughed again. “Aunt Peggie and I agree on this matter, at least.” They sat in silence again for a while. Danny was not worried about Rachel and London; Nicholas said he was not going, and so he was not going. Danny trusted him in that. But even so, something was still wrapped up in Nicholas’ mind, bothering him. Danny exhausted his options of what the problem could be, so he finally reached out and tapped Nicholas’ temple. “What you got goin’ on in that melon of yours?” Nicholas turned in the seat so he was sitting almost sideways and looked at Danny, worried, and tired. He reached out and placed his hand on Danny’s shoulder, but it was not the touch of a friend or a partner; his thumb moved in languid circles and soon he was rubbing the upper part of Danny’s arm, feeling him, exploring. Danny was too conflicted to say anything, because what he should say was the opposite of what he wanted to do. “I think about it. Us. Sometimes when I’m with her, I think of you. I know somehow that is wrong but I cannot stop. I know this is wrong but I don’t want to stop. I’m not confused, just…conflicted? But I need this.” “This?” “You.” Nicholas pulled himself into Danny’s lap and began kissing him. It was nearly a replay of their time in the barn, although in these cramped quarters they managed to pull open and down their pants to the point of easy access. Danny played his game on Nicholas, more confidently this time without fear of rejection, and held on tight as Nicholas gasped and groaned on top of him. “Oh fuck…yes…fuck! Danny!” Nicholas came, nearly wrenching himself out of Danny’s grip before falling against him, panting. Danny cupped his hand over the top of Nicholas’ cock in order to catch every drop of him. He brought up his hand again with a quick worried glance at Nicholas, who was just resting on him, glowing, watching. Danny smelled and reached out his tongue to taste when he felt Nicholas move. “Aren’t you going…like last time?” Nicholas raised his head, genuinely confused, and Danny nearly died on the spot. No one ever asked him, no one ever allowed him, it was always something he had to take and never twice. He reached his hand out and smeared Nicholas’ jaw, chin, and lips, and as he moved in to kiss that face, that beautiful face, he felt Nicholas hand drop down to his own cock and start stroking. Danny was overcome by the turn on, the hard-core passion he had for this act, and for Nicholas, and he nearly attacked him with his mouth. At some point he felt Nicholas wipe his hand over the top of his cock and pinch the head. Danny gasped and pulled away as Nicholas pulled back himself. Nicholas drew his hand up and inspected his fingers, and Danny realized they were coated in a small amount of pre-come…his own. Nicholas brought the fingers closer to his face and smelled, and Danny groaned, moving his free hand to start stroking himself, incapable of holding anything back. Nicholas glanced a look at Danny then back to his fingers, and then hesitantly, delicately like a cat, licked. Danny felt his body explode from every direction. ------ Their hook-ups were irregular, and timed to what Nicholas wanted. Danny wanted him every day and twice at night, which was obviously not possible, but he at least got him every few weeks. It was always hand jobs, although Danny indirectly offered to go down on him. Nicholas shook his head and said that he liked things as they were. Nicholas also insisted that his sex life with Rachel was great, never better, and there the conversation ended. That Nicholas was cheating on her with another man, and that Danny was playing fuck buddy to a someone who was married, they did not discuss at all. ----- Nicholas did not feel particularly guilty. His life with Rachel was nearly two years old now and he was simply not happy. She was a fine woman and not cold or mean. They argued about her standing offer to go to London but he knew that she was not going without him. She was old-fashioned in many ways, very devoted to her marriage and to her role as wife and would simply not take any action that might lead to a divorce. But to him, she was like nice furniture. A part of his life that was obviously important but not something he felt a great emotional attachment too. He realized that he never was actually in love with her – at least he could say that much about Janine, in retrospect – but rather in love with the idea of what she represented: a good life, in Sandford, with a family, near Danny. Now, though, he had no way to fix it. He could not think of any truly suitable reason to divorce her, and go through all that trauma, to lose what, from an objective point of view, was working out just fine. There was always what he was doing with Danny, but he managed to simply dismiss that as some kind of ‘uncommon’ stress release. That it was sex instead of a game of tennis was a point he refused to think about, as well as the fact that his feelings for Danny were ten times more intense than any emotion he ever shared with Rachel. His married sex life continued alright now but mostly due to Nicholas’ intense fantasies about Danny. When he felt his erection lagging at inopportune moments he imagined the look on Danny’s face as he tasted Nicholas, and the charge from that simple idea would send him directly down the path to an orgasm. It was the same way that night, and they were far enough along into it that he felt comfortable coming. He was inside of her, on top, her legs wrapped around his waist as he methodically pushed into her. Her eyes were closed and she had come earlier once already so he picked up his pace and began an earnest pounding with his hips. Still, he felt his brain slip and he knew what was going to happen if he did not think of something, anything, to make himself come. So he did. He rounded his back to force himself further into her, gasping, imagining, and soon he tipped over that edge. “Yes…ohgod…yes! Danny!” ------ Nicholas called out from work. Everyone sat in the office, stunned, and looked at Danny, expecting him to at least know what was going on. He shrugged, just as confused as they were. Later he called Nicholas on his cell phone but did not get an answer. Everyone was worried, no one more so than Danny, but he did not want to intrude on Nicholas. So they waited. Nicholas never tried to reach Danny at all. The next day Nicholas walked into the office looking destroyed. His expression and his manner brooked no interference or prying and everyone stayed tied to their desks in near-terror. Later in the morning Danny finally walked into Nicholas’ office and closed the door. “What is going on?” He stood in front of Nicholas’ desk with his hands on his hips. That this was about Rachel, he did not doubt, but what could elicit this kind of reaction from Nicholas stumped him. “I cannot talk to you about it.” Nicholas sat formally in his chair, looking at the paperwork on his desk which he obviously had not been working on. “I’m your best mate. Your partner. Who else you going to talk to?” “Not you.” Nicholas was starting to get angry, which only confused Danny more. “Nicholas! What is wrong?” Danny leaned forward and put his hands on the desk. Nicholas sprang backwards and stood up, furious, and red with rage. “GET OUT!” Stunned, Danny nearly fell backwards. Nicholas did not back down or apologize, just stood there blazing with his finger pointed at the door. Danny turned and walked out. It was clear from the fact that no one looked at him that everyone heard Nicholas yelling. This turned the mood to a deep melancholy and no work got done at all. Late in the afternoon, Doris and Danny huddled with Walker, reading the paper, just trying to find any excuse not to talk about Nicholas, when Rachel walked in. She marched through the room and into Nicholas’ office without knocking and slammed the door behind her. “We know wot the problem is,” Doris said, wrinkling her nose. “Wife.” Walker nodded wisely. In less than thirty minutes Rachel walked out. By now the Andes were lurking outside their office and Tony was conspicuously doing nothing at his desk, trying to find an excuse not to go to lunch on his lunch hour. They all stared, unashamed, at Rachel as she passed through them. When she got to the door, she paused, then turned and walked back to where Danny was leaning against Doris’ desk. The look on her face was pure, unfettered hatred, but Danny did not have time to prepare before she hauled off and slapped him in the face so hard he stumbled to the side. He held his cheek in shock and no one moved. She raised her hand to do it again, and Danny was not going to stop her – she was his cousin and a woman and he would not do anything to stop her – when Andrew’s hand wrapped around her wrist like a vice. The Andes stood next to her, towering over her, reeking of menace and displeasure. “I think it’s time you moved on, Mrs. Angel.” Andrew said calmly as he lowered her arm and began pushing her towards the door. She fought him off and tried staring him down as the Andes formed a solid wall between her and Danny. “Fuck off. All of you.” She spat and walked out. They all looked at each other and then, slowly, turned around. Nicholas was standing in the doorway, frozen, his face an expression of despair. Danny realized that he had watched the whole thing, and not done anything to stop Rachel’s attack. Nicholas looked at him briefly then stepped back into his office and closed the door. That was when Danny understood exactly what was wrong. “Wot the fuck that bitch on about?” Andrew looked at Danny. Danny rubbed his cheek but did not answer for a while. “Andrew, you mind watchin’ the door?” Danny asked. The Andes shrugged and went to guard the front door. “No. Not that door. That one.” Danny pointed at Nicholas’ office. “Oooohhhh….” They said it as one and marched over. Andy pulled up a chair and set himself right in front of the door as Andrew leaned against the door frame. Thus established, they nodded at Danny. Nicholas was not getting a chance to leave unattended. ------ Nicholas sat at his desk, his head lowered into his arms, the divorce papers sitting in front of him. Rachel pulled no punches and wrote out in those papers that her reason for requesting a divorce was because her husband was having an affair with a man. She did not name Danny but Nicholas knew that anyone who read those papers would figure out exactly who she was referring to. He destroyed his life by playing with fire, and destroyed Rachel’s with one name called out in one brief moment of passion. The basis for this divorce could get him investigated on his job, and treated as an outcast pariah in the village, and destroy his friendship with Danny. And whatever else he had with Danny, he could not fool himself about it anymore: he was in love with him. He did not blame Danny, and he was not mad at Danny, but right now Danny represented every mistake Nicholas made, from marrying Rachel to sex in the barn to just saying the wrong damn name. He heard the Andes talking right outside his door, and looked up, wondering what was going on. ------ The door opened and Nicholas tried to walk out but ran into Andy’s head. He stopped and looked down at Andy, who spun the chair he was on around to look up at Nicholas. Andrew stood up and stepped in and between the two of them blocked the door completely. Nicholas just stared at them in surprise. “Going somewhere, Angle?” Andrew asked. “Yes, I am leaving. I think that is obvious.” “No, it isn’t obvious, is it, Andrew? Because I don’t think Angle is goin’ anywherrrrrre.” Andy smirked. Nicholas just stared at them and Danny watched the exchange from his own desk. Nicholas saw him staring and looked back at him, then turned around and walked to his desk. “Thanks, guys.” Danny got up and walked through the Andes into the office. They stayed for a second until Danny glared at them, and then retreated all of three feet. Danny knew they would not really listen in, but he decided to remember to keep his voice down anyway. He did not trust Doris anywhere near as much. Nicholas was leaning against the edge of his desk. Danny walked up and sniffed as he folded his arms. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.” Nicholas said it mechanically, looking at the floor. “S’okay.” They stood, not looking at each other, for a at least a minute or more. “Rachel knows, does she?” Danny asked quietly, and Nicholas nodded. “You tell ‘er?” Danny lowered his hands to his hips and finally looked at Nicholas. He kept his tone from being accusing or loud. “No. Not…I did not tell her in so many words.” Nicholas grimaced and kept his gaze lowered. Danny stepped in so they could speak in whispers. “Nicholas, what ‘appened? You aren’t acting right. And Rachel slapped me!” Danny shook his head in amazement. “Danny…I’ve been lying to you.” Danny jerked his head back, confused. Lying to Rachel, yes, he knew Nicholas was doing that. Lying to him? Nicholas shook his head and Danny recognized that he was pulling himself together, somehow. Organizing his thoughts as if he were getting ready to talk about a case. When he finally started talking, his voice was just as low and quiet as Danny’s, but sounded detached and clinical. “Our sex life has not been optimal. Adequate, maybe. I still have problems; I cannot make love to Rachel just as she is. It is unfair to her but that’s how I am.” “So you can’t do it with her? Or you can?” Danny squinted, utterly confused by Nicholas’ less-than-clear description of the problem. “I do. But not really with her…I can only, erm, ‘perform’ when…when I think of you.” Nicholas finally looked up, straight into Danny’s eyes. “We were having sex when I called out your name.” Danny gasped unintentionally, and then tried not to laugh. It was funny, in a horrible way, and while he could tell that it rattled Nicholas and certainly destroyed his marriage, it was still very damn funny. Nicholas watched him try not to laugh and almost smiled himself. “I’m so damn stupid, Danny.” Danny could not answer that. He shook his head, warding off the giggles, then looked up and spoke in a normal voice. “You just need a few lagers and good movie. Come on.” ------ Danny took him to his flat and set him down on the couch with a lager while he went into the kitchen to pull enough snacks out of the cabinets to call a meal. Part of Nicholas’ mind was relieved to be in a safe place, away from Rachel’s rage and hurt; the other part of him was getting horny. He slugged the beer. When Danny sat down Nicholas told him about Rachel’s reaction to the whole situation, which was to accuse him of having an affair with Danny and lying to her about it. Which, of course, was exactly what was going on. He admitted it, she had a massive melt down, and they spent the next day ripping each other apart piece by piece emotionally. Rachel won: she demanded a divorce and he agreed. Now the very thing he was desperately trying to avoid for the last year crashed down on him and he did not see any way out of it other than transferring back the Met in London or, possibly, throwing himself off the top of the church tower. Danny clucked. “She’s always been strong headed.” “Danny, I was cheating on her. With you. One does not need to be a strong-headed person to object to your spouse having an affair. I would think it is the reasonable, and common, reaction.” “Just a bit of fun. Boys do it all the time.” Nicholas just looked at him, thinking that there were a lot more differences between country boys and city boys then he ever realized before. “And calling out your name when I climaxed?” Danny giggled at the word. “Well, Nick, that was just stupid.” “I agree with you there.” “Is it true? That you couldn’t do it with her without thinkin’ of me?” Danny asked, leaning over, his curiosity simple and genuine. “…Yes.” Danny whistled. “So is that bad, then?” Nicholas looked at him in surprise. “I would think that you might be happy about it.” “I dunno.” Danny sat back on the couch, pondering the idea. Nicholas played with the edge of the beer can, embarrassed to ask the next question, but desperate to know. “Do you…do you ever think of me?” “When I get off?” Nicholas coughed. “Yes.” “Sure, all the time. Thought you’d know that.” “Should I?” “Nicholas. Don’t be daft. I love you.” Danny stopped after he said it, as if it were self evident. “I love you to, Danny.” Nicholas said it quietly and calmly, looking at his beer. “Glad we understand that now. So why is Rachel so upset?” Nicholas looked up at him in shock. “Danny!” “What!” “We’re sitting in your house declaring our love for each other after having carried on an affair for nearly six months! What on earth could Rachel NOT be upset about?” “I don’t know! Because you lied to her?” “Among other things! Danny, how absurd can you be? I’m cheating on my wife! Of course she wants a divorce!” Nicholas grimaced and leaned back, closing his eyes. Danny was silent for a while, letting Nicholas collect his thoughts. “She said that if I was ‘like that’ then I should not have married her.” “Well you ain’t ‘like that’, are you?” Danny sat with his hands on his knees, looking confused. “Danny, we are two men who share intense sexual experiences and just admitted that we love each other. I cannot imagine a better definition of ‘like that’ than that.” “Oh sure, that. But it’s not as if we’re getting married, you know.” Danny looked over at him and read something in Nicholas’ expression that stopped him. He put down his beer. “Nicholas, when you said you love me, did you mean…just love, as in we’re blokes who love each other? Or do you mean for real?” He stared at Danny in confusion. “I don’t think I understand the difference.” “Well, you know, blokes can be partners and love each other and, you know, get on each other every now and again without being ‘in love.’ Right?” Danny shrugged. Nicholas put down his beer and moved off the couch to sit on his knees between Danny’s legs, resting his hands on the outer thighs. “I fucking love you, Danny. I want you, I want to be with you, and I’ve completely ruined my life for you. What more in the name of god do you want from me?” As he spoke he felt as if a large weight was being lifted from his heart, as if these were the perfect words to say and the words he should have said a long time ago. Danny just stared at him, dumbfounded. Nicholas growled in frustration and stood up. He undid his belt and his pants and let them drop and pulled down his underwear, revealing a quickly-growing erection. He climbed up over Danny, propping his feet on the couch and pushing his knees into Danny’s shoulders, and as Danny instinctively leaned back Nicholas reached down with one hand to grab the back of the couch and with the other started getting himself off, right in front of Danny’s face. He felt Danny’s hands wrap around his thighs but Danny did not move otherwise. He just watched as Nicholas twitched and moaned under his own touch and as Nicholas felt his orgasm taking over his nerves and muscles he looked down at Danny. “Danny?...” Danny just nodded. “I’m coming…for you….” He spoke fast, breathing even faster, as he pumped his cock and his hips fucked the air in front of Danny’s eyes. Danny watched and did not blink when Nicholas finally pushed himself and came, calling out Danny’s name and exploding his cum all over him. Nicholas gasped and fell to his knees on Danny’s lap, then ran a finger over Danny’s wet cheek and into his willing mouth. “That’s me, Danny. That’s us.” ------ Rachel eventually agreed to rewrite the divorce papers to make the cause more ambiguous. She did not ask for money or anything much more than what she took going into the marriage, and left for the job in London before the divorce was even finalized. Everyone in Sandford knew the truth of it, though, which caused a few permanent rifts with family members close to Rachel. Nicholas kept trying to mend those despite Danny’s advice to the contrary, but he eventually realized that the animosity was not going away for another generation at least, so gave up. One year later, after much discussion and late night planning, they moved in together. They called each other ‘roommates’ but again, everyone in Sandford knew the truth of it, and those who disapproved simply sniffed and spread rumors about how ‘queer’ those two were. Late one night, long after they had finished the move and unpacked boxes and set up their own house, they were making love in a familiar and comfortable fashion. It was a simple grinding session, with Nicholas on top, and experience taught them that it was a good way for them to both come roughly at the same time, something Nicholas enjoyed a lot. Nicholas was tolerant of Danny’s ‘special needs’ and so Danny paid back in kind, participating in something like this that was very, very far from what Danny always, passionately desired. Danny came first, squeezing Nicholas’ arms and crying out softly, more like a groan, as his cum seeped out between them and served as lubricant to Nicholas’ earnest and incomplete efforts. He followed quickly though, calling out Danny’s name as his hips bucked into Danny, smearing his own cum into the mix of Danny and sweat. After a couple of seconds of composure, Nicholas sat back on his heels and looked down at their glossy, wet spent cocks in confusion. “You alright, Nicholas?” Danny asked, folding his hands behind his head and raising his eyebrows. He was used to Nicholas’ perplexed reaction to his own orgasms, and he thought it was rather adorable, in truth. “Yes…I…but Danny...” “Yeah, Nick?” “We aren’t done.” Danny barely had time to react before Nicholas was laying on top of him again, but turned around, his head in Danny’s lap, lips and tongue roaming over skin covered in their mingled sweat and cum. Danny groaned, turned on so hard and so fast that he was dizzy, and he pulled in air as he adjusted Nicholas over his face, licking and sucking at his cock, his balls, and his inner thighs, learning for the first time just how perfect they tasted together. Danny realized then that yes, he had to start calling himself a bender now, because he was madly ‘in love’ with Nicholas Angel, the man who was in love with him. #######

It was really all Sir Wynston's fault. * "What sort of name is Wynston anyway?" Arthur looked at Merlin consideringly. "He isn't from your village, is he?" "No," said Merlin, plucking fitfully at the seams of the shirt in his hands. "There's no one of noble blood in my village." Arthur sighed, quietly but with as much of his body as he could manage. It was one thing to have the worst manservant in the history of Camelot, it was quite another when that servant failed to appreciate a finely-crafted jest. If he didn't know better, Arthur would suspect that the people of Merlin's village had asked him to leave on account of being rubbish at absolutely everything — but Arthur had been to Ealdor of late and Merlin's mother, at least, seemed to like Merlin quite a bit. "I should like you to attend Sir Wynston," Arthur said, watching Merlin's pale hands. He was going to ruin that shirt, and it was Arthur's fourth-favourite red one. That made Merlin raise his head at last. "Wynston?" "Sir," reproved Arthur. "Sir?" Merlin repeated doubtfully. "Wynston." Merlin gazed at Arthur with stupidly large eyes. "What?" "Merlin. Do you remember the part where you are my manservant and must do my bidding?" "I think so," Merlin said. There was a curve to his mouth which suggested insolence. "Well," continued Arthur, "my bidding is that you attend Sir Wynston, preferably today, preferably at once." "Why should you want me to do that?" Arthur rolled on to his back and stared at the canopy in consternation. "You should not question the crown prince." He rolled off the bed and pulled the shirt from Merlin. The stitching along one seam had come loose and it gaped like an old wound. There were darker patches on the material where the sun had not been able to reach. "Mend this," Arthur ordered, passing it back. "And go and see if Wynston wants you for anything." "Sir Wynston," Merlin corrected, and ducked out of the room when Arthur launched a bread crust in his general direction. * On the morning of Wynston's final challenge, Arthur had found him talking to Merlin. They looked a pair, standing over by the pavilion; Wynston was tall and dark, his skin almost as fair as Morgana's. And although he had claimed he wished to emulate the most noble crown prince, there were no similarities that Arthur could see. In fact, Wynston was nothing like Arthur at all. "Merlin," Arthur said later. "Please tell me he isn't another commoner in disguise." "How should I know?" Merlin said. "You were talking to him," Arthur pointed out, adjusting one of his vambraces. Wynston had knocked it, a happy accident. "He came over to talk to me," Merlin said. "I don't know anything about him." "Hmm," said Arthur. After that business with Lancelot, Arthur made sure the court archivist checked the veracity of anyone putting themselves forward to be a Knight of Camelot. Wynston apparently really was a third son of Sir Harald of East Anglia, although at the time Arthur had thought his fine birth would come to naught — the man had looked too delicate to withstand proper combat. Wynston's shoulders were broad but they were thin, like his arms and legs and neck. Perhaps he had been a fighter of note in East Anglia, but Camelot had different standards. Camelot had Arthur. And Arthur, who had learned his lesson when it came to trusting aspiring knights, had Merlin, who would observe Wynston closely and report back. Granted it was like setting a chicken to watch a fox, but at least Merlin wouldn't lie to Arthur if he found anything of interest. ("What am I looking for?" Merlin had asked when he brought back the shirt, perfectly mended. He must have taken it to Guinevere. "You are not looking for anything. But if something should happen to catch your eye, say, an enchanted shield or a box of beetles —" "You think he might be a sorcerer?" "No," Arthur said with what he felt was great patience, especially when Merlin was staring at him like that. "I think he is a son of a noble house and deserves your every courtesy. And careful attention.") It wasn't that he had any particular reason to distrust Wynston. He had passed Arthur's challenges and been accepted as a knight. He seemed honourable and skilled with a blade, and certainly he was eager. And yet there it was, clear as day and just as undeniable: Arthur did not trust him. * The day was tending towards dusk when Merlin finally returned, hurrying up to him in the hallway outside Arthur's chambers. Arthur peered at Merlin closely as they went inside — he was looking strangely untidy. His hair was even more disordered than usual, his cheeks were flushed pink, and his clothes — Dropping his sword on the table, Arthur folded his arms and stared. "Merlin." "Yes?" "What have you been doing?" "Uh, tending to Sir Wynston?" Merlin said. His kerchief was askew and he hadn't bothered to fix it. Arthur continued to stare; he felt as though he could do nothing else. "I don't think he's a sorcerer," Merlin added helpfully. "Just ordinary then, was he?" Arthur snapped. He was — there were things that were just not done, Arthur thought, and he was the prince, his manservant needed to be above reproach. And he had always disliked servants getting above their station, it only led to trouble in the court and — he was very, very angry. "Same as everyone else, probably," Merlin said, seeming pleased with himself. "Well, same as other nobles of course. Not servants." Arthur's jaw was beginning to hurt where his teeth were clenching together. "I thought you'd be pleased," Merlin said warily. It seemed too much, suddenly, to say he was not pleased. "I want a bath," Arthur said instead. "Arrange it." By the time Merlin came back, dragging the tub near to the fire and dismissing the servants who had brought up the water, Arthur's surge of temper had fractured into something less certain. He stood quietly as Merlin undressed him; as Merlin's nimble fingers unbuckled the clasps of his vest, Arthur reached out and tugged the skewed kerchief back into place. Merlin smiled at him sheepishly. "Fell asleep in the field," he said. "The field?" "When I was spying — watching Wynston practice." Merlin slipped around behind him to tug Arthur's vest free. "Sorry," he said. "I kept an eye on him most of the time." Arthur remembered, then, how he had walked down to the town earlier that afternoon: how nice the weather had been, the hazy scent of early summer spreading into every corner of the castle. He pictured Merlin dozing in the balmy air and the new grass, waking up rumpled and warm. "It was a pleasant afternoon," he replied at last. "I should have liked a nap myself." The rest of his clothing came off efficiently, and Arthur lowered himself into the water feeling as though he were washing clean a long day. * It soon became clear to Arthur that he needn't have worried about Wynston putting his hands on Merlin. Wynston's tastes apparently ran in a far more elite direction, and Arthur, who recognised at once the gleam of interest in Wynston's eye, could not really blame him. This sort of thing happened a lot. Wynston was very proper about it: he said nothing untoward and showed Arthur every respect. Arthur was prepared to keep on ignoring the silent offers being sent his way until one morning by the stables, when Wynston touched him. Arthur looked at the hand on his forearm in some shock: this was not proper. This was, in fact, bordering on insult. Heat flared abruptly, and he pulled his arm away. He jerked his head to indicate Wynston should follow as he stalked to the back of the building, a little away from the thoroughfare where they would not be disturbed by anything other than passing rats. Then he backed Wynston against the wall and shoved a hand down Wynston's trousers. Arthur got it over with quickly; it was only a mutually satisfying arrangement and nothing that needed any thought. Afterwards, when they were both still dazed and breathing heavily, he allowed himself to take what he really wanted, leaning into Wynston's body until his field of vision narrowed and all he could see was a high, flushed cheek and dark hair, cropped short over the curve of a pale ear. * Near midday Arthur stopped at the rooms held by Gaius. Merlin let Arthur in and then he and Gaius stood back and looked at him with matching expressions, oddly innocent. Arthur suspected that they practiced it when he wasn't around. "Gaius," Arthur said, by way of greeting. "Sire," Gaius replied. "Merlin," Arthur added. "What are you doing here?" Merlin said curiously, and Arthur exchanged an exasperated look with Gaius. Really, the worst manservant the kingdom had ever produced. "I had a strange thought I might eat luncheon," Arther replied. "If that accords with your schedule, your highness." Merlin sighed in a long-suffering manner—which was clearly ridiculous — but he followed Arthur back to his chambers and then went to fetch food from the kitchens. "What's that on your jaw?" Merlin asked just as Arthur forked a large piece of pork into his mouth. "What's on my jaw?" Arthur asked, though perhaps the pork got in the way because it sounded more like "Whosomuhaw?" Merlin seemed a little revolted. "It's red," he replied. "Like a bite. Or a bruise." Arthur scraped some pieces of meat around the dish. "Does it hurt?" "Yes, Merlin," Arthur said. "I am in terrible pain. Perhaps you should go away so I might expire in peace." "I don't think I can; the king would banish me," Merlin said, and started haphazardly folding some of the clothes lying on the floor. "And you'd rather stay in Camelot than give me a moment's peace," Arthur returned, pushing away his empty plate with an approaching sense of contentment. "Definitely," Merlin said. * "Merlin," Arthur began as they trod carefully through the wood. He had been preparing this little speech for the best part of the day and as a result, it had been a poor hunt: they had caught nothing at all. It would have been shameful if Arthur had not been too busy to think about it. "You do know that if a noble, if someone, wants you to do something you do not wish to do, you may refuse." Aloud, in the cool air of the wood, that sentence did not sound as clear and commanding as it had in Arthur's head. "Does that mean I can refuse to wash your disgusting socks?" Merlin said over his shoulder. Arthur glared. "Your disgusting socks, sire." Sometimes when they went hunting, just the two of them, it almost seemed as though Merlin were listening to the trees more than Arthur. He kept tilting his head slightly and gazing into the deep green shadows, like an oddly elusive bird. "What I mean is," Arthur continued, hoisting his crossbow out of the way of a persistent fern, "if, suppose, someone of a higher rank than you wanted you to do something of, say, a personal nature, and you did not wish to —" Merlin had turned around to face him now and was looking at him with an unusual patience. "I'm not talking about following orders, of course. But should you find yourself in a position which, that is, was personal, you see —" Arthur cleared his throat. This was dreadful. It was all falling to pieces. He wished abruptly for a stag to jump out at them, or a deadly beast of some kind, but there was only Merlin, who was still listening and for once not smirking, not saying anything at all. He tried again. "If someone wanted you — something from you — you would not have to give it to them, even if you thought it would make them grateful or — or happy." "Is this about Sir Wynston?" Merlin said after a moment. "I speak of general matters," Arthur said. Merlin adjusted the pack on his shoulders. "Because I thought you and he —" "No," Arthur said swiftly. Merlin quirked an eyebrow at him. There was always the faintest strangeness in his face, something in the line of his bones and the curve of his eyes; there were times where Arthur couldn't tell what he was thinking or feeling in the smallest part. "Though even a crown prince of Camelot may make an impatient decision," Arthur allowed. "Once. He would not make it twice." "I'll keep that in mind, sire," Merlin said. * Several days after the latest terrible escapade involving magic and threats to the kingdom, Uther proposed a feast to celebrate. The court reacted to this with the fervour only fear could produce, and so spirits were high, if somewhat uncomfortable. Arthur was dealing with it by enjoying the most excellent wine which Guinevere — dear Guinevere — kept pouring into his goblet at his request. The noblewoman on his left ("Lady Something" he had decided to call her), was laughing into his shoulder at anything he said, even when he told her apologetically that she rather smelt like goats. Morgana, sober and sharp-eyed on his right, delivered withering looks every time Arthur opened his mouth. Uther had already gone to bed. And somewhere down the long side table Sir Wynston was ensconced in a passel of knights and was staring at — Arthur slowly followed his line of sight — Arthur's very own manservant. He had been right after all: Wynston wanted Merlin. "Oh ho! That is just the outside of enough," he declared. Lady Something snorted and Morgana stood up. "If you've not got anything coherent to say, my lord," she said lightly, "perhaps you should be in your bed. I am certainly retiring to mine." Arthur had several cutting things to say to this, but Wynston was still watching — nay, leering — at Merlin and that took precedence. Presumptuous knights were not permitted to go laying hands on any of Arthur's things. He was the crown prince! Heir to the throne! And a righteously noble protector of the weak and insolent, which clearly described Merlin. Arthur knew his duty. "If I had a gauntlet," he confided to Gwen, who was placing a jug of wine alarmingly far down the table, "I should issue a challenge here and now." "Perhaps there is one in your chambers, my lord," Gwen suggested. "You could look for it." Arthur pointed a finger at her in agreement and got gracefully to his feet. The table wobbled unexpectedly. He made his way down from the head of the room. Gwen watched him go with what was obviously reverence; how Morgana had managed to find such a nice maidservant was a very great mystery. And they seemed to so like one another, as if like had any place in a relationship of service. "Merlin," Arthur said, reaching out to grasp a lean elbow. It felt good and familiar in his hand; inside he felt the warm glow of success. He paused to give a very speaking look to Sir Wynston — there was no need to make a scene before he very properly taught him a lesson — and said, "My bedchambers." "Erm," said Merlin. "What about them? Sire." "I need something from them. You shall help me find it." It was extremely loud within the hall, with many of the court still carousing. Arthur was pleased to leave it for the cool, dark corridors beyond. Merlin's fingers were dry where they rested on Arthur's hand, still curled around Merlin's elbow. "This way," Merlin kept saying, as though Arthur were a recalcitrant hound. "I thought you said royalty did not drink themselves into their cups." "Sir Wynston is a very poor bedmate," Arthur responded. "And this made you drink far too much wine?" Merlin was using that voice of his, the one that meant he was laughing without showing it. "I am just warning you." Arthur jabbed at Merlin's ribs. "Poor. Abysmal." They'd reached his chambers very quickly, and Arthur sank down onto his lovely, lovely bed. "Well, that will teach you to go trysting with one of your knights, I expect," Merlin was saying, as though he knew anything about trysting or having knights or, indeed, anything at all. He was tugging on Arthur's boots, and Arthur suddenly remembered his mission. "Merlin," he enunciated carefully, for Princes did not mumble. "Fetch me my gauntlet. I shall teach that lecherous cur a lesson." "Don't you think it's best you do that in the morning? I think he's already gone to his rooms." Arthur thought this over; it did seem to make sense. How rare for Merlin to make sense! But then Arthur had discovered Merlin could be very surprising. "Don't go," he said then. It did not quite sound like an order. "I'm not sleeping on the floor," Merlin's voice drifted back to him. "Wynston's rooms," Arthur clarified. "Prefer my own bed," said Merlin, and then he closed the door, and the quiet drew Arthur down to sleep. * The following morning Arthur was so appalled at himself — at his hazy recollections of the evening — that he got up and dressed for training without lingering in his bed or calling for breakfast. Fortunately, it still being dim outside, the rest of the castle's inhabitants were blessedly sparse. He had no audience save for a few servants and a sleepy guard as he dragged his feet through the basic stances of sword combat. Later, when he was waiting for his horse to be saddled so that he might ride out across the isolated fields to the east, Morgana arrived, dismounting from her horse and surveying him critically. "I hardly expected to see you before nightfall," she said, drawing a gloved hand softly over the horse's nose. "How happy I am to surprise you," Arthur replied. "I do feel sorry for Merlin." This, Arthur felt, was both preposterous and confusing. "Feel sorry for your own servant," he said. "Or rather, don't. If you had any sense of discipline —" "Discipline!" Morgana exclaimed. "Discipline," Arthur continued, "you would take Guinevere in hand." He was about to go on with his explanation of why, with a few side remarks on the proper maintenance of the master-servant relationship, but Morgana only smiled at him sharply and swept away on a river of green velvet. Her remark, however, lingered on, nibbling away at his concentration as he made his way across the fields and all the way back to the battlements, where he stood, at last, to take in the sight of Camelot below, busy and sprawling, gilded by sunlight. Granted, he thought, a servant's life was perhaps not always an easy one. But then no life was easy, even when it was strengthened by wealth and position, by power. Responsibility carried a heavy weight. And Merlin had food, lodgings, a highly-desirable position in the court and certainly enough clothes to make a mess with, going by the state of his room. To look at Merlin, to be around him, was not to see dissatisfaction or unhappiness. Arthur thought he would know, if that were true. "S'cold up here," said Merlin, appearing at his shoulder. Arthur sighed. "Let's go inside," he said. "And I hope you made a fire in my chambers." * "So does this mean Wynston is safe from your wrath?" Merlin asked him, his eyes bright. "Shut up," said Arthur. * "Jousting," Uther declared as midsummer approached, wet and warm, the orchards ripening. "Followed by a feast to celebrate the tournament and honour the victor." He looked over at Arthur as he spoke. It so happened that jousting was not a skill beloved by Arthur, who preferred the honest quarters of sword and shield, but he did not let that stop him from being the best in the kingdom. It was not a matter of pride, but necessity. A weak king took his first steps as a baby, Uther would say. * Arthur watched the initial rounds of the tilting with a keen eye. Wood splintered with a crack as Sir Edgar landed a heavy blow against Sir Dougal, forcing Dougal to heave sideways and drop to the ground. The crowd cheered loudly. Edgar pulled up and made a small bow to the throne, looking pleased with himself and pleased, too, with the weight of Morgana's eyes upon him — Arthur raised a sardonic eyebrow in her direction. Every second knight fancied himself to be under the special gaze of the Lady Morgana at these events. They never guessed that she wanted to be out there with them, with a lance and a horse, the churned mud. Some people, he mused, simply did not know when they were making fools of themselves, all for the sake of a bit of pointless romance. He left the field as the squires ran in to help their masters, almost at once spotting the thing he was searching for. Merlin was holding the bridle of a very nervous stallion, seemingly trying to calm it as it threw its head and skittered sideways. "It's alright," Arthur could just hear him saying as he approached. But the horse jerked fitfully and Merlin was knocked back into the mud with a loud squelch. Arthur strode over as the onlookers laughed; he gripped Merlin's thin arms tightly. "You are the most clumsy manservant I have ever had the misfortune to know," he declared once Merlin was standing upright. Merlin shook out his hands and sleeves. "It's because I try so hard to please you, sire," he said piously, bits of mud falling off his tunic. "There, now," came a voice from somewhere on the right. Arthur recognised it as Sir Wynston. "You cannot fault the boy for striving to win your favour, my lord," he continued, his voice full of good humour. Clearly, Wynston was afflicted in some way and could not see the wicked expression on Merlin's face. "I could have you flogged," Arthur murmured, low enough for only Merlin to catch. "Flog a lowly servant for trying to win your favour?" Merlin mused. "That seems harsh." "As if you have ever had an interest in my favour," Arthur scoffed. Merlin's eyebrows lifted a little. Arthur glanced away, felt immediately foolish and looked back again. "Clean yourself and prepare my horse," he ordered. "And mind you do a better job than that." "Forgive me, sire," Wynston said as Merlin disappeared into the bright swathe of pavilions, muddy and unbowed. "My steed can be unpredictable, and I asked your servant to assist me. He is very good, very careful at his work." "Hmm," said Arthur and inclined his head, a non-committal response he had learned from his father. "And where did you find him?" Wynston asked, resting a lazy hand upon his belt. "He travelled here from afar," Arthur said after a moment's consideration, remembering that grinding his teeth would only cause an ache in his head. * It was a near thing, in the end. Arthur took a glancing blow to the shoulder even as he knocked his final opponent to the ground. It throbbed harshly as he threw down his broken lance and raised one hand, victorious, to the roaring crowd. His father nodded at him in satisfaction, a small smile passing over his lips, and Arthur felt it had been a good day. Not so bad as he had feared. This time the feast was wreathed in warmth and good cheer. Arthur folded an arm in with Morgana's and escorted her to the Great Table. The food was rich, the buffets laden with summer fruits and fresh-cooked meats, pies and sweet pastries and cheese, and after the last course had been cleared and more wine brought in, the courtiers and guests turned their attention to talking and squabbling with one another, the knights telling tall stories to anyone who would listen. Arthur argued lazily with Morgana and jested with some of his men, idly passing the time until he could leave and find some rest. Now and then Merlin would catch his eye and Arthur would have to fight down the urge to make a stupid face; Merlin had that way about him, he made people feel as though they were sharing some private amusement, just the two of them. At last he fell into an interesting conversation with Sir Wynston about the defensive tactics used in East Anglia. "I had wondered, my lord," Wynston added, "if I might beg your servant's assistance with my armour. The smith in the town is new, I hear, and I am not sure the problem is so drastic as that. It would take only an hour or two." "I am not in the habit of sharing my servants," Arthur replied. "Indeed not, sire," Wynston agreed. "And in the ordinary way I should not ask, yet I have had difficulties finding one to take the appropriate care and your man does his work well." Wynston smiled at him, dark-eyed, honest and handsome. "I should consider it an honour, my lord." "I'm afraid that will be impossible," Arthur said, in a tone of voice he hoped conveyed regal aloofness as well as the swift journey to the dungeons he could deliver to Wynston, should he choose it. "I require Merlin's services this evening." He took a drink from his cup; the wine was sweet and heavy on his tongue. "All evening," he added. A certain understanding swept over Wynston's face and Arthur raised his cup again, attempting to block out the sight. * The light through the windows was grey and speaking of rain when Arthur woke. He lay still for a time, testing the soreness in his shoulder and going over the previous day: Wynston, he thought darkly. He remained there indulging vague thoughts of violence until Merlin arrived, not bothering to knock and carrying a tray of food. Arthur rose and stripped off his nightshirt, dipping his hands into the cool water of his basin. He drew wet hands across his face, his tired eyes and neck and then swiped away the drops as they ran to his chest. Merlin was looking a little pink when Arthur turned and reached for the clothes that had been laid out on his bed. "How many times do I have to tell you not to stand so close to the fire?" Arthur said. "I've never heard you say that," Merlin replied, but he shifted away to tap his fingertips on the table and follow the whorls of the wood grain with quiet concentration. "What news from the castle?" Arthur asked after he had pulled up his breeches. Merlin's expression grew mischievous. "Someone spent four hours in the stocks yesterday and it wasn't me." "That is news." Arthur looked up and a fleeting smile passed between them. "And I heard from Mairwen —" "Who is Mairwen?" Arthur interrupted. "She cleans your father's chambers," Merlin said censoriously, as though this were obvious. Arthur shrugged and fastened his laces. "Well, Gaius says it's true, anyway: Lady Ardith is with child, although I don't know that I'm supposed to tell you." Arthur snorted. "I'm sure the lady and her husband's squire are very happy to have the good news." "Her husband's squire?" Arthur raised a brow at him and Merlin looked faintly scandalised. "What's the matter, Merlin," Arthur said bracingly, "don't you know how it is with the nobility? Some of them keep their squires very close." "Yes," said Merlin immediately. "Well, no. You don't even have a squire." "No, I have a manservant." Merlin stared. "Not like that," Arthur returned. "Obviously." He coughed and sat down to pull on his boots. "I didn't mean to shock you." "You didn't," Merlin said. "I know all about country matters." Arthur fumbled his boot and had to begin again. "And I thought you so innocent," he said. "When you live in a village with animals right outside your door —" "Ah. Yes, well, people do things a bit differently to animals, Merlin," Arthur said dryly, his heart skipping in an odd counterpoint to the conversation. "Sometimes." He glanced up to see if Merlin was embarrassed but there was no sign of anything but that familiar tint of amusement. Did nothing frighten him? "I once knew a squire who thought animals had it the right way," he went on teasing, sharply dissatisfied with amusement and wanting something else. "He had a notion that you should do one thing and do it well." Merlin reacted as though princes divulged shockingly intimate details all the time. His mouth quirked with what could have been indifference, although his cheeks were flush with colour as he turned away to set out the breakfast dishes. "There's soup for breakfast," he said amid the soft clanging of the plates. "And some bread and salted beef, ale, and fresh plums." "Good," said Arthur, feeling famished. * There were many idiots in the world, Arthur decided. One of them was Sir Dougal, who had arrived at the training fields insisting his jousting injury did not bother him and then proceeded to vomit all over Sir Edmund's boots. Arthur still felt a little ill at the memory as he looked down onto the courtyard. He rolled his shoulder carefully, pushing at his own, slight injury with his fingers; it formed a dull ache. Beyond the window flitted small birds in lean colours of grey and brown, and he watched them idly as he tried to rub heat into the muscle. He was interrupted when the door flew open and Merlin rushed in, furious or excited or simply late: it was difficult to tell. "Did you suggest to Wynston that I was — that we — I'm not your bed-warmer!" Merlin shouted. Oh. Furious, then. "Did I suggest you weren't my bed-warmer?" Arthur repeated scathingly, making a face he hoped looked more like confusion than guilt. "I hardly think —" "Arthur! Half the castle thinks you . . ." Merlin gestured something with a quick hand. "Sorry, Merlin; I don't understand idiot hand language." Merlin pressed his lips together. He really was quite disconcerted. Arthur took a moment to lament the lack of wine in his rooms quite strongly. "Half the castle seems to think you make me — do things. With you." "Then they are idiots also!" Arthur said expansively. "I wouldn't make you; what sort of man do they think I am!" He replayed the last sentence and inwardly cursed himself in as filthy a manner as he knew how. "I think you're missing my point," Merlin said. "You don't have a point. And why were you talking to Wynston anyway?" Merlin put an exasperated hand on his head and dragged it back over his face. That was probably why his hair was always so inconceivably messy. "Because I am a servant and he is a noble and you are a giant prat! You sent me to spy on him! He thinks we're — I don't know, friends! What should I say? Sorry, Sir Wynston, but Arthur's gotten bored now he's had you —" "Had!" Arthur exclaimed. "In his feeble imagination! And you really cannot speak to me like that." "Apparently I can, because you have me in your bed every night," Merlin retorted, and Arthur felt heat flood his cheeks. A powerful silence fell over the room. "Well," said Merlin after a tense moment, twining his hands together, "Not really, of course. Hah! Gossip." And that was when Arthur kissed him. * Arthur escaped from the audience with his father as soon as was practicable. The page which had summoned — had interrupted — him escorted Arthur back out of the hall and bowed him through the door, leaving him alone in the corridor with a thundering in his ears. He'd kissed Merlin. Oh, he had. Actually put his mouth right on Merlin's mouth. And he thought Merlin might have been amenable to kissing him, too, when the knock at the door had made them startle apart. Arthur turned down the corridor and forced himself to walk at his usual pace as he returned to his chambers, mindful of his position and the attention it drew. He could not be seen to hurry. He thought perhaps he should have allowed it, should have demanded that personal indulgence of himself just that once, when he opened the door to find Merlin gone. * This was all Wynston's fault. And Arthur's. It was Arthur's fault, too. * Arthur did not see Merlin all afternoon, nor did he seek him out. Instead, he organised a hunting party for the following morning, played a vicious game of checkers with Morgana, told the minstrels to cease their infernal wailing, and sharpened his swords in the armoury, where the light was dim and quiet and reminders of his station were all around him. The party set out before dawn. Merlin had apparently got word of the hunt and invited himself along, for there he was, scuffing along not ten paces from Arthur, his shoulders hunched against the cold morning air. At the edge of the woods he came closer and hesitantly reached out, looking at Arthur's crossbow and pack. Arthur handed them over and stepped away into the tall trees. The hunt went well: a brace of rabbits and then, slipping through the oaks, a stag with a fine flourish of antlers. Above them the sky flared with colour, an orange sunrise burning in the east. Despite their success the way back was unnaturally hushed, until finally Arthur decided something must be done. He opened the door to his rooms and said: "You did not attend me last night." "I was helping Gaius with something." Arthur let this sink through him, feeling very foolish and very tired. "I understand," he said, dropping his coat upon a chair. "I — made a mistake, yesterday. You may be sure I will not impose —" He broke off, quietly, feeling the sharp edge of his humiliation, and an unexpected disappointment. "I didn't think it was a mistake," said Merlin. "Well, whatever you said to Wynston, that was — but the — after that." With more attention than was necessary, Arthur peeled off his gloves and laid them atop the coat. "It was unexpected," he offered, and Merlin shifted towards him, just a little. "Bit surprising." "I've been told I can be — impulsive." "Reckless is a good word." Arthur held himself still and rigid as Merlin came nearer and then they were in front of one another, faces close and downturned and on the threshold of something, until Merlin tilted his head and pressed his mouth to Arthur's. It was careful at first, a soft hesitation; Arthur breathed in against the kiss and let Merlin pursue it. Then Merlin made a soft noise and Arthur found he could not slow for gentleness; he gripped Merlin tight, manhandling him toward the bed and down onto it, kissing him, pushing him back amongst the pillows, the dark reds and worn ivory. It was as though a fire had been lit inside Arthur's head; he wanted everything at once — the bare column of Merlin's throat, his capable fingers, his narrow hips, and things Arthur had only imagined. Merlin was kissing him still with lips barely parted, brief, keen, breathless kisses that made Arthur's head swim with how much more he could have — he wanted the taste of Merlin, wanted his mouth, his tongue, wanted the texture of every word Merlin had ever spoken to him. "Mmmh," he grunted, sucking at Merlin's bottom lip, tilting his head to move the kiss upward, trying to get Merlin to open for him. He slid a hand up Merlin's throat. "Let me," he muttered against Merlin's mouth. "Stop telling me what to do," Merlin laughed shakily. "Not like you listen," Arthur said, sliding greedy fingers under Merlin's shirt instead. The skin was warmer there. "You never listen. But you want this." "Yes," Merlin breathed out and that made it alright, that Merlin wanted this too, wanted it even though there was so much of Arthur he didn't like. Merlin touched long fingers to Arthur's face and traced them slowly down until they met Arthur's mouth, one finger curling over his lip and touching his tongue inside. "Arthur," Merlin said. There was a tremble in his voice. Arthur sucked the invading finger into his mouth slowly, drawing it up to the fine knuckle and letting it go. "Take your breeches off," Arthur said quietly. * Every time Arthur pushed down his hips would give a little jerk and pull up again, and so it was slow, the way he pressed Merlin's cock into his own body. He hadn't done it like this before. Why, he wondered, had no one ever said how it felt from this side? Beneath him Merlin watched with eyes half-lidded, his bare stomach taut and shivering between Arthur's spread thighs — why had no one said how it could hurt? The sensation was extraordinary. He sank down, bit by bit, rubbing his cock with slick fingers and watching Merlin gasp and sweat and bite his lip to keep from speaking. * If Arthur had expected this, he might have thought it would be simply satisfying to have the chance to contain Merlin, to settle him in Arthur's bed and make sense of all his limbs, of his lips, of everything that continued to confound Arthur and reorder his life. But he had not expected. As always, Merlin had caught him by surprise. Instead, something like anger began to prick at him after they had separated, a strange tension growing and seizing him between his ribs until Arthur wanted to spike himself and bleed it out. "So you've not done this before," was what came out of his mouth. Merlin looked over at him. "Not exactly." "What a little innocent you are, Merlin," Arthur said, and he could hear the mocking edge of it. "Being a prat is a full day's work for you, isn't it?" Merlin replied, though he sounded too languid to be offended. He stretched as though he'd found a warm patch of sun. "I'd forgotten," Arthur continued, "what it was like with someone who didn't know what they were doing. Even the kitchen maids —" Merlin lifted himself half-up and stared at Arthur closely. "Just waiting for the right person, were you?" Arthur said. "Waiting for someone special." "What's wrong with you?" Merlin asked. Anger was dawning upon him in that restrained way he had, a snake turning in on itself. Arthur felt, stupidly, as though he might be shaking. "I don't know," he replied, aiming for unaffected. "Perhaps I'm just remembering why I don't bed servants. A whole kingdom for me to choose from," he went on, and no, he didn't sound unaffected now, not at all, "and here I am with you. My utterly useless manservant." Merlin threw back the bedclothes and got up, unashamedly naked, standing long and lean as he grabbed up his shirt and folded it the right way out. Looking at him there in the soft daylight caused a sort of pain in Arthur's throat. That unbearable tension again, but it wasn't anger. The clothes were muddling themselves in Merlin's abrupt hands, but he was going to put them on. He was going to walk out of here, wounded by Arthur. "Wait. Wait," Arthur ordered, which naturally did not work at all. Merlin did nothing except burrow a hand into an inside-out sleeve. He was, Arthur realised, stupidly, stupidly beautiful. Arthur moved as though compelled, went over to him and clasped his slim hips, warm skin under his fingertips, and he held on as Merlin jerked into stillness. "I shouldn't have said — that." "You don't know anything about me, Arthur," Merlin said angrily. "That's not true," Arthur returned. "And I'm not one of your servants who doesn't know any better and will let you treat them like — like anything," Merlin said. "Like one of your kitchen maids." As if that wasn't clear to anyone who cared to look. And anyway, Arthur had not actually touched a kitchen maid in his life, and he said as much. He didn't even know any. "Why would you?" Merlin replied. "They're just the people who keep your whole kingdom running." "Merlin," Arthur said helplessly. "What?" "I . . ." He thought about what he could say. "I wouldn't choose any other," he said carefully. He couldn't. That was rather the whole point. Merlin said nothing, just clutched his crumpled shirt. But he didn't pull away. Arthur bent a little so that he was breathing over the curve of Merlin's neck and shoulder and in a moment he turned his head and kissed him slowly, the white neck and the point of bone. He shifted slightly, daring to move to Merlin's side and then his front, and Merlin turned his head away but he let Arthur kiss along his throat and across his jaw, over his chest and down his torso, down, down. He let Arthur's palms smooth over his trembling thighs, and then he let Arthur kneel before him and suckle at his cock, lush and wet, tasting the heavy heat of him and savouring it with eyes closed, and at last Merlin let Arthur take him back to bed. * From a young age, Arthur had come to understand the way the kingdom and its politics worked. His life belonged to the sovereignty, not to himself nor anyone else. He would be the heir until he was the king, and when he was the king he would take a wife. His betrothal would be a matter of strategy and alliance. It was all to be expected. But while he had known for some time that he would not have a choice in marriage, he had thought that perhaps in love — well, he had been foolish. Merlin was always making him see his own failings. * "You know, I don't think you can blame Sir Wynston for this," Merlin said later, his arm curled loosely over Arthur's stomach. "Of course not," Arthur said graciously.

Alan gets the page at two in the morning, and even though it's a number he doesn't recognize he rolls to the edge of his empty bed and reaches for the phone. "This better be good," he mutters the second he hears the click of someone picking up at the end of the line. There's a laugh, bright and familiar and unexpectedly loose, and then a softer, "Hi, Alan." "Sam," says Alan, brows knitting with worry. "Are you all right? Did something happen? Why are you paging me this late?" He's gotten calls in the middle of the night before. They never herald anything good. Last time it happened Alan waited past sunup in a blank, sterile hospital room wondering if Sam was going to wake up from a nasty blow to the head. Barely eighteen and the kid's almost gotten himself killed enough times that every hair on Alan's head has gone prematurely silver. Or the hair could simply be thanks to time, dragging him forward as he tries to hold his best friend's company together. As he tries to simultaneously stand on the sidelines and still raise Kevin Flynn's son. "I'm fine," Sam says. "I'm more than fine, I'm. Alan, I need a favor." Alan sighs, drops his forehead into his free hand. "What kind of favor?" "Can you come pick me up?" "Come— Where are you and why don't you have your bike?" "I'm in a phone booth on West Seventh, and I do have my bike," says Sam. "It's parked two blocks away from the party." "Party," Alan mutters. He's starting to see where this is going. "Yeah, well. You know what always happens at the best parties. Eventually the cops show up." "Are you in trouble?" Alan asks. "No way," Sam says, and Alan can hear the grin in his voice. He hears something else now, too. Something slippery and fuzzy and off-balance. And he figures it out even before Sam says, "I'm just… a little drunk. And it'd be a crime to mess up that bike." Alan sees red for a moment at the casual carelessness of the words—of course it's about the bike. Not Sam's own skull—his all too human and vulnerable body that could end up in pieces if something went wrong on the road. He breathes in slowly. Breathes out again with his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and doesn't speak until he's found a measure of calm. "Where on West Seventh?" - — - — - — - — - Sam is leaning against the phone booth when Alan pulls up to the curb. He loiters in a comfortable slouch, wearing a smirk on his face that makes Alan wonder if any other drivers have gotten the wrong impression and rolled down their windows for him. He banishes the thought as quickly as it enters his mind, but not quite quickly enough to discard the unwelcome realization that the boy makes a dangerously appealing sight. The smirk widens into a lazy grin as Sam pushes off of the booth and pulls his hands from his pockets. Alan holds himself in check until Sam has slammed the door and buckled himself into the passenger seat, and then he can't hold his tongue any longer. "You're smarter than this, Sam." "Good to see you, too, Alan," says Sam, but his smile turns needling as he drops his head back against the seat. He slumps lazily, turning to blink at Alan as the car pulls away from the curb and angles down the street. Alan briefly considers bringing Sam back to his place, where it'll be easier to keep an eye on him, but decides Sam wouldn't have paged him if he didn't plan on behaving himself for the rest of the night. He takes a right at the next intersection, aiming for the apartment Sam has lived in for all of two weeks. "Why're you so pissed?" Sam asks. His tone is teasing, but his eyes are heavy. "Aren't you always saying we should spend more time together?" Alan is always saying that. He can feel Sam slipping away from him, millimeter by millimeter, and the tighter he holds on the more it feels like the boy is determined to drift away. Alan may be a shitty surrogate father—should maybe tell the big-shots at Encom to shove it once in a while and make Sam his highest priority instead of constantly trying to juggle the two—but he's trying, and it hurts to watch the distance spreading between them. "Not like this," Alan says, barely braking for the stop sign at a four-way intersection. "Not at two in the goddamn morning, with you wasted and waiting on some street corner. There are better ways to get my attention, Sam." "I bet there are," Sam murmurs. Alan takes his eyes off the road long enough to throw him a sideways glance, and the look on Sam's face is something he can't even begin to decipher. He puts his eyes back on the road where they belong, reaching up to straighten his glasses, and wonders why his precisely buttoned collar feels suddenly too tight. "I don't like worrying about you," Alan says. He's holding the steering wheel too hard, trying not to notice the way Sam has shifted in his seat and is now staring intently at Alan's profile. "The stunts you pull, the risks you take… Do you have any idea what it's like, standing by and wondering if the next adrenaline rush you chase is going to be the one that kills you?" "Jesus, Alan, it was just a party." "Just a party this time," Alan says, and now they're merging onto the interstate, and his anger is back in such force that his hand shakes on the gear shift. "But what about last time, Sam? What about next time? And for god's sake, you're eighteen." "You're saying I shouldn't be drinking at parties?" Sam asks. He turns so that he's sitting almost sideways in his seat, seatbelt straining. "Among other things," Alan mutters. "There's an easy solution to that, you know," Sam says. He smiles again, wide and bright, and if Alan didn't know better he'd call that look flirtatious. As it is he's too angry to let it rattle him, and he takes an exit ramp too sharply, jerking them in their seats as he follows the exit to the left. "I'm not buying you alcohol, Sam," he says. It's an old argument. They've been having it since Sam turned fifteen. "Come on, Alan. You. Me. A bottle of stupidly expensive tequila. Think of it as an experiment." "I think you've done enough experimenting for one lifetime." Again Alan becomes aware of the stiffness of his collar—of the inexplicable way his face flushes warm. "Ouch," Sam smirks. "Lighten up, would you? I'm not nearly as drunk as you seem to think." "It's cute how you think the scope of your inebriation somehow mitigates the fact that you've been drinking in the first place." "That's what I like about you, Alan," says Sam, hand closing suddenly, affectionately on Alan's arm. "You use words like 'mitigate' in your sentences, and you do it completely un-ironically." The hand drops, but Alan still feels the phantom warmth through his sleeve. Sam's apartment is just ahead now—a tall, secure building with a parking garage and an underground entrance—and Alan tries to focus on the fact that their destination is in sight. "Don't change the subject when I'm trying to chew you out," Alan says. He stops at the sturdy metal door to the garage, then rolls down his window to punch Sam's code into the waiting keypad. He's had the number memorized since the day Sam moved in. The garage is barely lit, dim and oppressive despite the scattered bulbs struggling to light the chilly space. Alan maneuvers to Sam's parking space like familiar territory and, hesitating only a moment, turns off the engine. There's just enough light coming through the windshield for him to make out Sam's face when he turns, and the expression he finds waiting for him nearly knocks the air out of his chest. Gone is the teasing smirk, the eyes glinting brightly with mischief, the flash of teeth from a moment before. Sam is watching him with serious eyes, not breaking eye contact as he unlocks his seatbelt and turns to face Alan directly. "Come upstairs," Sam says. Alan knows suddenly, sharply, that accepting Sam's invitation would be a very bad idea, even as his mind shies away from too close an analysis of the reasons. "Sam, it's late," he says. It's not quite no, but he's got no intention of getting out of this car. Sam shifts closer. He reaches across the narrow gap between the seats, over the parking brake and the gear shift, and hits the button to release Alan's seatbelt. It makes a slick rasping sound as it retracts. Alan lets go of the steering wheel and feels anxious apprehension settle beneath his skin. "Come upstairs with me," Sam repeats. "I can't," Alan says. Sam heaves an audible sigh and throws himself back into his seat. He looks tired suddenly. And frustrated. And Alan wonders why, in the middle of all this, he suddenly feels like there's something he should be apologizing for. Sam swallows, throat working with the movement, and Alan's eyes are caught by the sight for a moment before he thinks to jerk his gaze ahead. The headlights are off and he can barely make out the dark pattern of bricks in front of his car, but it's still a better place to look than the most obvious alternative. "Alan," says Sam. Then, when Alan keeps staring straight ahead, "Alan. Seriously. Would you just look at me?" Alan does. Sam is watching him again. There's something brazen and dangerous in his expression, his posture, the slant of his shoulders. Something wicked with intent in his eyes. Alan briefly considers opening the car door and fleeing into the garage, but that just puts him a step closer to doing what Sam is asking—whatever the hell that is. Sam moves with unexpected speed, and in the span of a blink he goes from curled in his own seat to straddling Alan's lap, smoothly maneuvering over the gear shift and fitting himself in the narrow space between driver and steering wheel. "What—?" Alan starts to ask, but that's all the further he gets. Interrupted mid-sentence, he's got no time to close his mouth—to try and dissuade Sam's tongue from darting past his lips—and he can taste the echoes of something sweet and tart and decidedly alcoholic. Sam's kiss is smooth and filthy, a deliberate attack that leaves Alan's head spinning and squashes his glasses awkwardly back on his face. He tries to shove Sam off of him, but there's not enough room. He reaches higher, gets a hold of Sam's shoulders, and for a moment forgets why he put his hands there. Sam's tongue teases along his own, chiding and coaxing, and Alan almost moans, almost starts kissing back—maybe does a little, god help him—before getting it together and pushing Sam away. He doesn't earn himself much respite with the effort. Sam is still too close, still sharing Alan's air in ragged breaths. He lets himself be held at bay, but Alan can feel in the tension of his body that it's only a matter of time before Sam makes some other move. "What are you doing?" Alan rasps, finally finishing the question Sam cut off so abruptly. He's staring at Sam's lips—slick and just a little bit swollen—and belatedly jerks his gaze up to meet Sam's eyes. Sam looks dazed for a second, but snaps out of it quickly. The edge of his mouth twitches upwards, quirking into a pointed half-smile. His hands are on Alan's chest. His knees press into the seat on either side of Alan's hips. There's suddenly not enough air in the car. "If you really need to ask that question, then I'm pretty sure I did it wrong," says Sam. He reaches up then, movements slow, and takes gentle hold of Alan's glasses. Alan briefly considers stopping him as he draws them off of Alan's face, but doing so would require releasing his grip on Sam's shoulders—it would mean surrendering the one point of restraint he has, and he knows exactly what will happen then. Alan swallows thickly as Sam folds the glasses up and tosses them carelessly onto the empty passenger seat. "You're drunk," Alan says. As if that's the worst thing about the turn this conversation has taken. Sam laughs then, low and sleek, and says, "Maybe a little. But I don't need to be drunk to want things I'm not supposed to have, Alan. Trust me." "What are you saying?" He doesn't mean to ask the question. He's pretty sure he can't afford to hear the answer. Bad enough that he's let things go this far—that he actually wants this. God, this is Kevin's son. An eighteen-year-old boy and one of the most important responsibilities in Alan's life. But Sam is already answering, voice gone husky with intent as his fingers find Alan's collar and start slowly undoing the top buttons of his shirt. "You can't really be this blind," says Sam. His fingers are nimble and warm, and Alan is finding it difficult to breathe even as his collar loosens, opens, falls aside beneath Sam's touch. "I know you've caught me looking. And I've sure as hell caught you out once or twice." Can that be true? Alan thinks hard, tries to remember wanting this, looking at Sam this way, and realizes with a guilty start that he has. God, he's looked and wanted and shut the thoughts away so fast he never had to face them. But the images come readily enough now, clear and sharp. Sam's shirt riding up as he rummaged in a high cupboard, Sam's jeans slung sinfully low on his hips, Sam's bruised back as Alan patched him up after a careless fall. Jesus, how long has he been pretending this away? He wants to deny Sam's accusation, but his voice lodges somewhere in his throat and the words refuse to come. "Hey," Sam says, face going more serious at the effect his words are obviously having on Alan. "God, relax, I didn't mean it like that." "No," says Alan. "It's not… Sam, I'm s—" But Sam's palm presses suddenly, tightly over his mouth, and there's a stubborn look in Sam's eyes as he growls, "If you say you're sorry, I swear to god I won't speak to you until my next birthday. At the earliest." He takes his hand away, and Alan is surprised at how steady his own voice sounds when he says, "I need you to get out of my car." "Fuck that," says Sam. And then he's surging forward in a rush—he's pushing against Alan's hands and kissing him again, only this time the kiss is rough and demanding, and Alan spares a fraction of a brain cell to wonder where the boy learned to kiss this way. Then he can't spare even that much coherent thought, because Sam's teeth are grazing his lower lip, Sam's fingers are dipping beneath his collar and teasing across his skin, Sam's body is pressed against him in all the wrong places and Alan is fast losing the ability to keep his head above water. His own eyes are closed. His hands are still gripping Sam's shoulders, but with no apparent intention of pushing him away again. He tries. But the signal must get lost somewhere between his brain and his wrists, because he doesn't manage the trick. When Sam pulls back, Alan expects more cajoling. More arguments and invitations. He's not expecting Sam to dip his head and press kiss-slick lips to his jaw—or to follow up with a string of pointed kisses down the line of his throat. Alan's breath hitches and he almost doesn't notice when Sam's fingers coax another button free, then the next below it, as his mouth dips even lower along Alan's chest. "Sam, stop," Alan rasps. He shivers, thinks for a moment Sam won't, but finally Sam pulls back and regards him with wide eyes, pupils dilated in the dark. They stare each other down through an impossibly taut moment, and Alan doesn't know what to say. There must be words that would stop this here and now, but he can't find them. He's too distracted by the taste of alcohol and Sam on his tongue, the warm weight of Sam's body on top of him, the way Sam's palm is pressed along his skin beneath his shirt, and where did all those buttons go anyway? Sam looks breathless and eager, and Alan can't figure out what that look is doing leveled at him. He can't figure out much of anything like this, but he has to try. He has to screw his head on straight before this goes somewhere unforgivable—somewhere there's no coming back from. A manic little voice laughs in his head, and he has to concede the point. There's already no coming back from this. He's already hesitated long enough that forgiveness is a useless fantasy. "You want me," Sam finally says. Simply. Urgently. Alan doesn't try to deny it. "And I should just take whatever I want?" Alan says, frowning. "Damn the consequences and who cares if someone gets hurt?" Sam looks incredulous and he says, "You could never hurt me, Alan." Alan swallows, anxiety an unpleasant pit in his stomach, and wishes that were true. "Maybe I already have," he whispers. How else did they get here? "That's bullshit," says Sam. "You've never let me down. Not once. You're the only one." "I'm letting you down right now," Alan says. "God damnit, Sam, I'm a grown man and you're—" "What?" Sam cuts him off, looking suddenly exasperated. "A child? Some stupid kid who doesn't know how the world works? You know me better than that." He does. He knows. That doesn't make this right. "I can't do this with you," he says. "Then let me," says Sam, and his hand trails south. Alan needs to stop him. He needs to intercept and catch Sam's wrist before— Christ, he's already hesitated too long and Sam's nimble fingers are undoing his buckle, pulling at the leather, reaching for Alan's fly once the belt is out of the way. Sam's hand slips recklessly, shamelessly down past the open zipper, beneath the black fabric of Alan's briefs, first cupping then closing around the heated length of Alan's erection. "Ah," Alan gasps, hips bucking into the touch so sharply that he jostles Sam on his lap. Sam leers at him, smug and self-satisfied, as he tightens his hold and begins to stroke. Alan's own hands flounder, losing their relatively harmless position on Sam's arms, and then he's reaching, grasping without thought, gasping against Sam's shoulder as Sam nuzzles his throat, and when he finds his hands again they've migrated to Sam's hips. He's holding on too tightly, but hard as he tries he can't seem to loosen his grip. "I'll use my mouth next time," Sam whispers raggedly, lips brushing Alan's jaw, his cheek, the shell of his ear. "If you'll let me." Alan groans, gasps as Sam drags his thumb across the head then resumes the same, steady pace as before. He feels Sam's smile pressed to his throat just as Sam's hand stops moving—just as Sam murmurs, "Or you could fuck me." "Jesus," Alan gasps, straining to hold still. He swallows hard, drops his head back against the seat, forces his eyes to open so he can see the mischievous look on Sam's face. There's something too knowing there, too bright and sure and eager. "Do you have any idea how long I've wanted you to fuck me?" Sam asks. Alan's jaw clenches and he shakes his head. He doesn't know. He doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to be thinking about how long this has been going on, or how young Sam is, or how completely he's falling now that his defenses are down. "I think about it all the time," Sam says in a tone more goading than confessional. "About what it would feel like to have your fingers inside me. Your dick. You'd open me up slow first, wouldn't you? You'd be so fucking careful." Alan stifles a fresh groan. His cock pulses eagerly in Sam's motionless hand, and he tries to be grateful for the limited space the car offers them. Because if they had more room to maneuver—if Sam were actually asking him for this now—Alan's honestly not sure he would say no. Sam kisses him again now, the fingers of his free hand threading through Alan's hair, and Alan makes it all of three seconds before he's kissing back—desperate and needy and sick with how easily he's fallen to this. Somewhere along the line he lost track of all the no's he was supposed to be saying and it all became a jagged chorus of yes. Sam's lips part, open and inviting, and this time Alan accepts the invitation. He tastes what's offered, explores and maps and claims, and doesn't once try to pull away. Sam gasps against his lips, pulls back far enough for air. "You can touch me," he murmurs, breath ghosting over Alan's lips. "God, Alan, please touch me." And he shouldn't. He shouldn't and he can't and this is the kind of wrong he knows he's going to Hell for. But Sam's hand is still a taunting, unmoving pressure on his dick, and Sam's weight is so heavy, so perfect on his lap, and Sam's mouth is all breathy moans and filthy words, and Alan is done. He can't fight it anymore. His hands tighten briefly on Sam's hips, and then he's dragging Sam roughly closer. One hand drifts, lower, towards Sam's fly, and Alan feels a dreamlike disconnect as he snaps the button open and fumbles the zipper. Gets his hand inside, impossible heat, skin against skin, and it takes him a minute to process what that means. "You conniving little—" Sam kisses him again, and Alan can feel his grin through the brief press of lips. "Surprise," he says smugly, nuzzling at Alan's jaw. Alan is startled enough to say, "Isn't it a little uncomfortable, going commando on a motorcycle?" "Worth it," Sam purrs, completely unrepentant. Alan doesn't hesitate now that he's here. His fingers close around the firm length of Sam's cock, and he pulls heated flesh out into the barely cooler air between them, giving a single, decisive stroke that draws a stuttered moan from Sam's lips. He sets a quick pace, and Sam's own hand resumes its ministrations in time with Alan's. They're both shaking now, both taut and close and determined, and then Sam says something that almost drags Alan over the edge right there. "Would you—" Gasp, shudder, swallowed moan. "Can you—… Fuck, I want more. Please. Please." "What?" Alan asks, struggling to breathe, to hold his orgasm at bay while he figures out what Sam needs. "What do you want me to do?" Sam gives a shaky exhale that ghosts over Alan's collarbone, then reaches to set his free hand on top of the one Alan is still bracing against his hip. He presses, nudges—until Alan gets the hint and loosens his hold—then guides Alan's hand behind him to the small of his back. To the spot where the back of his jeans is gapping open just far enough for a hand to fit. "Oh," Alan realizes, momentarily so stunned he doesn't know what to do. Sam releases his hand and surges forward, pressing himself along Alan's chest, biting at the soft flesh just below his ear, and god, Alan didn't know Sam was a biter but the sensations go straight to his already spinning head. He's frozen for a moment, lost in the enormity of whatever this is that they're doing, and then—without slowing his rhythm—he takes his free hand from Sam's back, raises it between them and presses his index and middle fingers to Sam's lower lip. Sam's lips part instantly, jaw dropping on a breathy pant, and Alan slides the digits into Sam's mouth—to the first knuckle. The second. Wants to keep pressing deeper, but he's already distracted by the way Sam's lips press closed around them, tongue working between them as his cheeks hollow and he slicks Alan's fingers with saliva. Alan's brain stutters out at the sight—the sensation—and the hand he's using to stroke Sam towards climax falters. Sam's eyes are open, sharp and blue, and he's got Alan locked in the kind of look that's liable to set something on fire. When Alan moves to pull his fingers from Sam's mouth, Sam's lips part again readily. They've both gone impossibly still against each other now—stuck in a tight silence full of expectation—and Alan watches Sam's face carefully, so carefully, as his thumb grazes the small of Sam's back beneath the hem of his t-shirt. As his fingers dip beneath denim and probe further down. Sam gasps sharply when one of Alan's fingers finds its mark and presses inside. His hips stutter, his cock twitches in Alan's hand, and he breathes a sharp, quiet, "Fuck." Alan wants to ask if this is really okay—if this is what Sam wants—but instead he's pressing deeper, marveling at how tight, how hot Sam feels. "More," Sam growls—his face is buried in the crook of Alan's shoulder, breath warming Alan's chest. "Fuck. Fuck, Alan, more." Alan presses a second finger in beside the first. Sam comes apart then, suddenly, perfectly. A sound hitches low in his chest, something halfway between a moan and a sob, and then his hand is moving over Alan's cock again. Pressing, stroking, purposeful and intense. Alan resumes in kind, matches the stroking rhythm of one hand to the in-and-out of his fingers, penetrating deeper with every thrust. Sam rocks against him—desperate, wanton, messy and eager and frantic—and Alan feels the cusp of his own orgasm surging towards him. He fights it as hard as he can. He needs to get Sam there first—needs to see Sam's face as he falls apart. He speeds his pace, slides his fingers deeper still, and isn't disappointed. Sam's whole body arches when he comes, spine taut, head thrown back, face a mess of bliss and release and satisfaction. His hand stills, loses its grip entirely, but Alan doesn't mind. He doesn't let go, doesn't remove his fingers from the impossible heat of Sam's body, until he's sure Sam is spent—until his shirt is sticky with the evidence and he can feel Sam's cock softening beneath his touch. Then he takes himself in hand and finishes bringing himself over the edge. He's slow to come back down, and when he does he finds Sam lying against his chest, head on Alan's shoulder, fingers of his left hand fidgeting with the open edges of Alan's shirt. There's sated contentment in the lazy line of Sam's body. Alan can feel a similar lethargy weighing down his own limbs. But as the physical intensity fades, reality snakes back in, and Alan feels suddenly sick as fear and guilt crash and twist in his stomach. He must go stiff or give himself away somehow, because Sam pulls back then. Sam's eyes are sleepy, but his focus comes back quickly at whatever it is he sees on Alan's face. "Don't," says Sam. "Don't you dare." Alan shakes his head. He's got no idea what to say. "I need you to get off of me," he whispers into the edgy stillness of the car. But his hands aren't letting go, which means Sam couldn't obey even if he wanted to—and from the look in his eyes, Alan guesses obedience is the farthest thing from Sam's mind. "Don't you shut down on me," Sam growls as fresh intensity darkens his features. "Don't look at me like the whole fucking world is going to end just because we've jerked each other off." Alan flinches, and suddenly can't meet Sam's eyes. He can't face the words. Because Sam is drunk—even if he looks terrifyingly sober now—and Sam is too young, and Sam is Kevin Flynn's son, and the magnitude of this betrayal is enough to make Alan's vision dance unpleasantly. "Alan please," Sam says. The growl is gone from his voice, replaced with a misplaced desperation that makes it impossible not to look at him. "I wanted this. I still want this." "You're drunk," Alan whispers. It's the second time he's made the declaration, and it still slithers unpleasantly beneath his ribs, all the worse now for the lines they've crossed. "Not that drunk," says Sam. Alan shakes his head, and Sam presses, "Then come upstairs. Stay the night, I swear I'll keep my hands to myself, and in the morning when I want to do it all over again you'll see." "Oh god." Alan knows he can't go upstairs with Sam, promise or not. He knows he can't be trusted with this boy. Part of his brain already half expects to hear police sirens bearing down on them, ready to take him away. But that's not going to happen, he realizes distantly. Sam has been eighteen for exactly two weeks, and a new suspicion forms in Alan's mind. "You've been waiting for this," he realizes, shock making his voice sound numb. "You've. Jesus, Sam, did you intend all this from the start? Did you go to that party tonight planning to call me for a ride home?" "No," says Sam. But there's a quick flash of guilt in his eyes that tells Alan he was at least considering the possibility. Alan doesn't know whether to feel used or flattered. He settles for confused, shaking his head and lost for words. "Sam—" "Come upstairs." It's the same impossible request, rinse and repeat, and for a long moment all Alan can do is stare. Sam meets him head-on, unflinching. That eager glint is back in his eyes and his jaw is set stubbornly. He looks so much like his father in this moment that Alan's heart hurts. "I can't," he says. He means it. He's not getting out of this car with Sam. His repeated refusal finally seems to hit its mark, and a look of dark frustration creases Sam's features. Alan wonders if some other invitation will follow now—or an ultimatum, or maybe just an angry demand that Alan stay the hell out of Sam's life from now on. His chest pulses sorely at the thought, but considering the night so far he won't be surprised if the next words out of Sam's mouth are 'I never want to see you again.' "I really fucked this one up, didn't I," Sam finally says. Alan blinks. Stares. Blinks again. "I took it too far," Sam continues. "I should've given you more time to adjust to the idea instead of just… throwing myself at you like this." "Sam," Alan says, aghast. "It's not a question of adjustment. It's right and wrong. What I did to you—" "What you did to me felt amazing," Sam interjects. "And I've wanted you to do it since I was fifteen." "Jesus Christ, Sam." He can't think about that. He can't get his head around it, and he damn well doesn't want to. "Alan, I'm not a minor anymore. I'm legal, and there's no one but you saying we can't do this. I'm a consenting adult." Sam shifts on Alan's lap, movement deliberate and full of offered potential, and he leans closer to add, "I'm a consenting adult who wants you to fuck me." Alan's head thumps back against the seat, but he can't close his eyes or tear his gaze away from the way Sam is looking at him. "Why me?" he asks. "Why not someone your own age?" Why not someone more appropriate, he wants to say but doesn't. "Tried that," says Sam. "Plenty of times. They're not you." And for all that Alan is insisting this can't happen, he feels a jealous twinge at that—at the answer to his previous unvoiced questions about where Sam picked up all those filthy things he can do with his mouth. He tries to mask his reaction, but Sam catches it anyway, and a hopeful, mischievous smile edges cautiously across Sam's face. "Alan, come on," he says. "We both know I'm irresistible. Why not save yourself the torture and give in now?" Alan's running out of reasons, and fast forgetting the ones he already listed. Now that he knows what Sam is offering, he wants it so badly his chest aches. There was a point of no return somewhere, miles behind them, and now it just feels like fighting the inevitable. "I'm more than twice your age," Alan says. "And I'm supposed to take care of you." "I don't need taking care of," Sam insists. Alan would disagree, adamantly and noisily, but Sam is shifting his weight, sliding closer. "I just need you." When Sam kisses him this time, it's completely different from before. It's almost chaste at first, cautious and testing, as his fingers brush over Alan's throat and into his hair, as Sam's lips part just far enough to constitute an invitation. This is the deciding point. This is where Alan should walk away. If he puts a stop to this now—if he breaks this kiss, so soft and different from the others—Sam will let it drop. He'll get out of Alan's car and stop inviting him upstairs and things will go back to a tense, tainted mockery of the way they were before. Alan as surrogate father figure, Sam as rebellious teenager who doesn't want to rely on anybody, both of them soiled by the intimacy they've shared tonight. How long before he loses Sam completely, if they follow that path? How many months before Sam cuts Alan out of his life and simply walks away? The thought makes something sick and sharp and miserable curl up in Alan's gut, and he knows he can't let that happen. He's kissing back before he consciously means to, letting his hands slide over Sam's back, his hips, pulling Sam flush against him as he tilts his head to a better angle and snakes his tongue past Sam's parted lips. Sam hums relief into his mouth, lips parting wider, fingers tightening in Alan's hair, and it feels like a promise. Alan doesn't need promises from Sam. He just needs this. It will be a messy secret between them. Not to mention a press disaster of apocalyptic proportions if anyone ever finds out. And Alan knows damn well that he'll never escape the guilt. It will keep right on gnawing at him, nudging him, circling him like a predator until Sam gets Alan out of his system and moves on. And even then it will still be there, but Alan can deal with that. He'd take on worse for Sam. There's no point fighting it now. Sam is smiling when he finally pulls away, and even in the dim, shadowed light of the garage Alan has to admit the expression is warmer, more genuine than he's seen on the boy's face in a long time. Relief and lightness, and a hunger that lies banked just beneath the surface. "I'm still not coming upstairs tonight," Alan says firmly, then cuts off Sam's protest with, "But I'll stop by tomorrow after work. I'll… bring pizza. We can talk." "Talk," says Sam. Cautious and teasing and skeptical. "Yes," Alan insists. "We're going to talk this through, Sam. And we're going to do it when both of us are sober. I'm too old to be thinking with my dick, and I'm still not convinced you really know what you want." Exasperation twists across Sam's features and he says, "That's bullshit. I know exactly what I want." "Then convince me tomorrow. Without crawling in my lap. If we can't discuss this like adults then it's never going to work." He's not convinced it will work even then, but there's no point giving voice to those doubts. He's vested. He's not going to drop the ball now. Sam's face falls somber and he says, "But you'll come tomorrow? You promise?" "I'll be here," says Alan. He couldn't stay away if he tried. Sam kisses him again, one last time, then reaches for the handle of the driver's side door. Alan feels relief rattle tiredly in his chest at the fact that he doesn't need to ask Sam to leave again. He watches without touching as Sam tucks himself away and zips back up—as Sam grins and melts off Alan's lap and out into the garage. He stands there beside Alan's car for a moment, leaning on the door and wearing an indecipherable look. "Thank you," says Sam. He moves before Alan can respond, around the door and deeper into the garage, towards the elevator bank in the far corner. Alan watches him go, stunned and silent, and finally thinks to slam the car door closed. He starts backing out of the space, realizes he can't see beyond the nearest couple cars—fumbles for his glasses in the passenger seat until his fingers find the cool, folded metal frames. His hands are shaking as he puts the glasses on his face. The world comes into focus and everything is a mess. But he'll be here tomorrow, as promised, and they'll talk. At the moment, that's as far ahead as he can think.

Vin wasn’t sure when the shift had happened, when they had gone from Chris being the one who came to Vin’s room, making it work between them to give Fowler his quota, to Vin going to Chris’ room and trying to draw him into a response. Somewhere around the time that Buck had stopped calling regularly, he thought, around the time that Chris had started to fall apart. It had been the small things at first, Chris’ attention turned inward, his eyes distant. He’d been slow to talk, gradually getting to the point that he hardly answered questions, hardly spoke at all. From time to time, the anger would come, hard and fast and violent, set off by something Chris saw on the video feeds, or something someone said – sometimes something Vin said. Sometimes by Vin walking into the room. He learned to ease in slow, making sure he knew where Chris was and what the other man had at hand to throw. At first, he’d hated those fits, their unpredictability, their intensity. But as the silence and stillness grew, he found he missed them. Somewhere in that time, he had started going to Chris. At first, it had been out of concern, and there was still a lot of that in it. It was just the two of them in this thing. He might not like what they had to do, but he liked having Chris around, being able to touch him, be in the same room with him. He liked it a damn sight better than he liked being alone, as they had been at the start. And truth be told, he even liked the sex, or was coming to. So to speak. Chris’ mouth on him was better than anyone else’s had ever been, even Charlotte’s. Maybe there was something to be said for sex with a man. He was coming to like touching Chris, too, not that that was a surprise. Fowler was probably still feeding them drugs or something, he thought, and even if he wasn’t, he and Chris had always been close friends. Trapped together, no Buck for Chris, no Charlotte for Vin – and no anybody else for either of them, maybe the thing between them was opening up a little more. The first time he’d touched Chris cock, he hadn’t been as repulsed as he’d expected. But it had taken the break-up with Buck to get Vin to do more, to worry enough about Chris to start trying to make him happy – or a little less sad. Touching him had helped for a while, making him smile a little, at least during the sex. When that started to fail, Vin had gone to his knees. The first time – the first time had been frightening and desperate, for them both. The second time, Chris had suggested they do it at the same time, and it had been better, both of them getting off about the same time. Now though, even that wasn’t making Chris smile. They’d stopped pleasing each other, Vin crouching between Chris’ legs, working to get him interested enough to respond while Vin tried to work himself at the same time. He’d stopped being disappointed when Chris called out Buck’s name – at least he was participating at some level. Vin had stopped being hurt when Chris rolled away from him afterwards, turning in on himself and shutting Vin out. “Chris?” he said softly, standing in the open door of Chris’ bedroom. It was as dark as it ever got for them, a nimbus of gold over and around Chris and spreading out in a radius around him. It was late, but not late enough. Chris was standing in front of the large-screen monitor on the wall, the ‘fake-window’ as Vin had come to think of it. He didn’t look up, didn’t even acknowledge Vin’s presence. Vin stepped in, his movements quiet. “Chris?” he said again, more slowly and a little louder. Chris moved, then, his eyes not leaving the monitor but his head cocking a little. The scene on the screen was still, a desert image, Vin knew, from the first quadrant, he thought. Low hills rising from the sand-covered desert floor, sun set or sun rise, either one, the sky colored in purples and reds. It was one he had seen before, one Chris seemed to study often. He started to ask, thinking it a way to ease some tension, but even as his mouth opened, something stopped him. Chris might have motioned or shifted or something, but Vin didn’t actually see it. Something felt different, though, the radiation changing. It was faint, the beginnings of the itch under his skin that he got when they touched or when they needed to touch, the attraction drawing them together. But it hadn't been that long since they had been together, not long enough for the itch to come in on its own. Which meant Chris wanted him. Vin still hesitated, unsure. His hope, his want, could be making a mistake, misreading this, trying to make it happen when it wasn’t there at all. He still wondered if there were drugs in the air, in their food, if the attraction was helped along a little to make things easier for them. With Mary in charge of the project, things were different, but maybe not as much as he thought. And truly, he didn’t know what to think, not even about himself. He’d never wanted to have sex with a man, not even Chris, but now, now it was almost all he thought about. Because Chris was the only person in his world, the only person he could touch. Chris did move, consciously, one hand dropping from where his arms were crossed over his chest. He held it out to his side, an invitation, and Vin moved the few paces to him. But he didn't touch, not immediately. Once they connected, the compulsion would overwhelm them. He stopped, turning to look at the other man. Chris had lost weight, too much, his clothes hanging loose, his bones too sharp. Unlike Vin, he'd preferred to keep his hair cut short, up until the past several months. Now it was long enough to brush his shoulders, his bangs covering his eyes when they fell forward, which was often. At present, they were swept back, his eyes sharp and focused, more attentive than Vin had seen them in a while. They moved from the picture, not drifting but straight over to meet Vin's eyes. The itch grew stronger, a thrum that settled into his belly. Vin blinked, and those eyes were still there when he looked back. On him. Not thinking of Buck, not yet, anyway. Boring directly into his head, his mind. Like they used to, before this had all started, back when they were friends who understood each other, had real lives that were entwined but not the same. Back when they trusted each other. Chris' hand moved closer, pushing at Vin's hair. Vin wasn't really aware of turning into the caress, his attention on the slow stroke that stirred through his whole body, drawing heat from the soles of his feet, the tips of his fingers, all the way into his groin. "You all ri– " Before he could finish, the heel of Chris' thumb was on his lips, holding him silent. Chris stared into his eyes, his hand firm on Vin's jaw, then leaned in. It was so slow that at first, Vin didn't know he was moving. It was only as the eyes grew larger, becoming the center of his view, that he wondered, but then Chris' lips were on his and the part of him that could think faded fast as the need came over him. It was as it usually was when Chris touched him, Vin's body taking over, wanting the building desire, wanting the release. But the kiss – the kiss. Their mouths had been on each other, on necks, on cocks, on throats, licking, biting, marking. But this kiss – this kiss was different. It was passionate, but not the desperate, frustrated, distracting contact they had shared before. It was lips on lips at first, as if Chris didn't know him – or maybe knew him all over again. Knew him differently. A first date? The idea would have made him laugh if he'd been able. But Chris was still kissing him, the hand still holding his head, another hand sliding around Vin's waist and pulling him close. It was – different. Not at all like the other times they had done this. The pressure was there, the thrum of need as the radiations within them called to each other. But Chris was not pushing, not rushing to finish it as he had done every other time before – even the times when he had been the one starting it. His hands were careful and gentle, as if this was really something he wanted, as if Vin was really something he wanted. Not who he was stuck with. Chris' tongue licked across Vin's lips, an offer and a request. Slow and sweet, even, not pushing, but asking. It was different, for Chris had never asked before. Vin leaned in closer, opened, and sighed as that tongue slid in. It wasn't like with Charlotte – she had been forceful with him, but always in a passive sort of way, pushing him to take control. Her tongue would slip past his teeth and touch his tongue, then play a game of chase with it, until he was in her mouth. Chris wasn't passive, but he wasn't his usual aggressive either. He wasn't pushing, but taking his time, as if he were tasting Vin, getting to know him. The hand on Vin's jaw had moved, slipping to cup the back of his neck, and the one at his waist was drawing circles in his lower back in a sort of massage. The itch was building though, growing from an annoyance into a sort of pain. He found himself pulling in against Chris, rubbing their groins together as his own arms drew them closer to each other. His erection was already heavy, that first thrill between them bringing it awake, just as Chris' was. As Chris was. The thought startled him and he pulled back, blinking. He couldn't remember the last time he hadn't had to work to get Chris interested. Chris was aroused now, his eyes flaring gold, staring directly into Vin's. His lips were wet, his tongue licking slowly over them, his skin taking on the slight sheen of sweat and the shimmer that came with it. Chris pulled, drawing Vin back to him, and Vin went. He was surprised more when they were kissing again, the idea and the doing of it more familiar now. It was nice, almost as nice as it had been with Charlotte, but different from that. Nice because it was something new with Chris, something that took the edge off the need a little. But only a little; even kissing, their hands were working up under shirts and into the exercise pants, touching bare skin. Chris pressed in against him, but it wasn't just for the friction. A whispered word, "Bed," and Vin let himself be drawn along as the other man moved the short distance to the far wall and the one piece of furniture there. Chris pulled him down, Vin’s attention on the pleasure and on Chris’ desire. It might have been desire for him, he thought, but he didn’t let himself dwell on that thought, couldn’t let himself hope. “Want something,” Chris said, drawing back a little. His eyes were bright, gold flashing in the green. “Trust me?” No, Vin thought, but he didn’t say it. This was the most active Chris had been in so long that he didn’t think he could say anything that would dampen the moment. Chris grinned a little, reading it in Vin’s eyes. “Not going to hurt you,” he said, his voice rough. “You’ll like it, I promise. You have to.” It sounded a little like a threat, but Vin knew that it wasn’t; Chris was right, Vin had to enjoy it, enough to get off. They both had to get off, in order to produce enough energy. Chris kissed him again, and when they broke for air, he held up one hand. In it was a long, dark cloth, folded on itself so that Vin had no idea how big it was. It was fine, though, delicate; he could tell because it was already starting to wear where Chris was touching it, the radiation they put off affecting it quickly. Chris glanced at it, saw the wearing as well, and said, “Well, you won’t have it on long, it doesn’t have the metal microfibers that they put in every other fabric we use. This will make it easier.” Vin puzzled it through until it made sense. “Blindfold?” he asked, then swallowed. “You want me to . . .” “I want you to do nothing but feel,” Chris said, “want you to have nothing to worry about. Can’t worry if you don’t know what’s happening.” The logic was all wrong, but in its way, right. That didn’t help the flutters in Vin’s stomach though. “Won’t hurt you,” Chris repeated, already reaching to place the cloth over Vin’s eyes. He tensed, started to draw away, but Chris leaned in. The weight of the other man pushed Vin back into the bed, and as he started to argue, they were kissing again, Chris’ tongue slick and big in his mouth. The cloth was cool and soft, some sort of satin, Vin thought. Chris’ fingers wormed under Vin’s head, pulling his hair a little as they knotted the material, and Vin heard a noise, knew he’d made it. “It’s all right,” Chris said around the kissing, “it’ll fall off pretty soon any way.” There was a sort of amusement in his voice, and that alone gave Vin a little reassurance. It’d been too long since Chris had sounded anything other than hollow, and he was right, the cloth wouldn’t last long, not with the radiation from both of them. Vin made himself relax, letting himself adjust to the blindness. It wasn’t so bad, not with Chris’ mouth on him, Chris’ hand rubbing along his arm, teasing the thin skin inside his wrist. Every time Chris’ thumb brushed over his pulse point, Vin’s erection jumped, as if the two were directly connected. The link got stronger as Chris pulled at his arm, drawing it above his head, and in the far back of his mind, Vin found it funny that Chris had discovered this trick. He was so distracted by the rhythmic touches that he didn’t register the cool metal folding around his wrist, or the soft clink of a lock catching. It was when Chris’s hand left his wrist that he realized he was caught. “What the – “ He pulled, trying to free his hand. The pinch of metal against the bone curbed some of his passion, and he brought his other hand up without thinking. “Shhhh,” Chris said, catching Vin’s free hand. “You’ll like it.” “Not like this,” Vin shot back, and he struggled, trying to get his hand free of Chris’ hold. “Don’t like this – Chris, let me go.” He arched his back, trying to push Chris away, but Chris rolled on to him, pinning him to the bed. At the same time, Chris’ lips once more found his, and his thumb was rubbing along Vin’s pulse point as his erection ground against Vin’s hip. He wanted to fight it, wanted to resist, but his body was subject to Chris’, the radiation giving the other man control. Vin tried to keep his anger, but the physical contact felt too good. His body relaxed back into the bed, his mouth opening to the pressure from Chris. This time he was aware of the click of the metal cuff around his wrist, and he whimpered his dislike, but even to his own ears, it sounded more like permission. “Just feel,” Chris said, drawing away. “You’ll like it if you let yourself. This is what you want, isn’t it, me loving you?” He wouldn’t have a choice, he thought, just having Chris touch him would be enough to make him want it. But – where was the line? Was there a line? “Chris,” he said, scared suddenly, “you’re not going to hurt me – are you? Please, don’t, I don’t want –“ “Trust me.” Vin waited, expecting Chris to kiss him, to touch him, to do something to make it impossible for him to resist. But there was nothing, no movement, not shifting of the bed, no contact. He knew Chris was there, he could hear him breathing, feeling his heat and the tingling of the radiation attraction. Quietly, Chris repeated, “Trust me.” Vin swallowed. “What are you going to do?” he asked, surprised that he sounded so thready. “Give you what you really want,” Chris answered. “Make you really want it.” ‘It’. Vin’s muscles contracted instinctively. He wasn’t surprised, though, had been expecting it. They’d tried it once already, and failed spectacularly. They’d been stoned, both of them, on the drugs Fowler had forced into them, to make Vin compliant and Chris aggressive. “Why?” Vin asked. “My mouth ain’t good enough anymore?” The bed shifted, just a little. “Mouth’s fine,” Chris sighed. “Just want more, and so do you. Need more. Need to see if I can . . .” His words drifted off, as if he were trying to find them. “If you can what?” Vin demanded. “See if you can make me?” He heard Chris sigh again. “See if I can actually do it, have sex with someone other than Buck. I've got to move forward, got to let him go.” The last was quiet, the name said with hesitation. “Ain’t we been having sex?” Vin asked, irritated. “You seem to be doing all right with that, the way it’s been.” Chris’ fingers moved through Vin’s hair, tugging gently as if to calm him. “I know, I told you, your mouth’s fine. But I need to see if I can forget him. I can't keep living with this doubt, wondering if he's going to come back to me. I've got to take some control.” Vin twisted, the metal scraping his wrists. “You could just ask me,” he said. “You don’t have to do it this way, don’t have to make me.” “Better this way,” Chris said, and the bed shifted again, just before a finger brushed one of Vin’s wrists. “Easier for you.” “How’s it easier for me?” Vin asked, but the last word caught in his throat as the sexual rush shot through him. “Because it’s easier for me,” Chris said just before his mouth covered Vin’s again. “Just let it be, let me do this, for both of us.” Distantly, in what little part of his brain was still working, he knew it was because he wasn’t Buck, because Chris wanted this but not with Vin himself. He knew it was partly because Chris was angry, at Buck, at Fowler, at Vin, at the world in general, the fates that had trapped the two of them in here together, and left Buck outside. He knew it was because Chris needed to be in control of something, anything, even it if it was just this. Just this. Something Vin had never done before, letting a man take him. Fuck him. The thoughts, doubts, jostled in the back of his mind, urging him to say something, but Chris' tongue was in his mouth and one of Chris' hands was now at Vin's waistband, pushing it down. Chris shifted, much of his weight pressing on Vin's chest, and his second hand joined the first, the fabric of Vin's pants rubbing along his skin as it was forced between the mattress and his body. It hurt, just enough to contrast with the sexual pull, drawing Vin's meager attention. He drew his legs up, curling his body off the bed as much as the position would allow. Part of him knew that it was good that the pain was distinctive, not overcome by the pleasure. Maybe there were some lines that his body wouldn’t cross, even with Chris working so hard to distract him. But he didn't have time to think too much as one of Chris' fingers traced along his hipbone, close enough to his groin to make him forget to breathe. Chris said something, the words soft. They sounded like, "In some ways, you’re too much like Buck," but it could have been something else as Vin's ears were blocked partly by the blindfold and partly by the positions of his arms. Chris rose, an air current washing over Vin's bare skin in the wake of his absence, and the cloud of want cleared for a few seconds. "I'll do what you want," he rushed, "just let me go." "Yeah, I know you will," Chris answered, hands pulling Vin's pants off then stroking up his calves. "And I want you like this." The bed moved and creaked, then Chris was pushing Vin's legs apart, settling between them. Vin tried to fight it, drawing his knees up and trying to settle his feet together, but Chris’ fingers stroked the sensitive skin of Vin's inner thighs. Vin's legs splayed despite his will, and heat rose in his face as Chris huffed a little chuckle. His words were more clear now, cut with a little amusement. “You sure you haven’t done this before? I’ve known whores who weren’t this easy.” His hands were moving on Vin’s thighs, the underside now, rubbing harder and pushing low along Vin’s ass. “You don’t have to lie, Vin, I know you’ve wanted this for a long time, wanted me. It's the radiation, maybe drugs, if Mary's lying to us. That's all it can be – I had Buck, still want him, but I want you too. Only thing that makes sense is that it's something we can't control.” The truth of the words caught in Vin’s chest, and he couldn’t find an answer, didn’t want to. Didn’t want to admit it. Chris leaned up, his hands sliding up Vin’s torso, pushing up under his shirt to pinch at his nipples as his body stretched over Vin’s. “Been a long time since I had a virgin,” he said, his voice rough. “Hell, even Buck had been fucked by another man.” The words faded though, the name of his lover, maybe ex-lover, too heavy, Vin thought. Some part of him wanted to say something, to draw Chris away from the thought of Buck, but before he could formulate an idea, Chris was kissing him, his tongue driving deep into Vin’s mouth, almost choking him. The fingers pulling at his nipples, coupled with the presence in his mouth, pushed his arousal higher, and his body arched up, wanting more contact. Chris’ thighs pressed against the back of Vin’s, bruising, and spreading Vin’s legs wider so that his groin was flush against Chris’. Their erections rubbed against each other, Chris’ pants the only thing between them. “Fuck,” Chris moaned, pulling back violently, breathing fast. He ground against Vin, the friction burning, but Vin couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to stop it. He was getting close, fluid leaking from his cock and smearing into Chris’ pants. Chris cursed again, then pulled all the way off, leaving Vin gasping and straining against the cuffs, desperate for contact. Before he could get his bearings, Chris was moving, climbing up his body, his bones sharp as they glanced off Vin’s hips and ribs. Chris stopped when his knees were in Vin’s armpits, his hands digging into Vin’s hair. Between the blindfold and his arms, Vin couldn’t quite make out the words, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on, the smell of Chris’ musk hitting him a second before he felt the slick heat of the head of Chris’ dick against his lips. He took it, habit kicking in even as Chris pushed his thumbs against the hinges of Vin’s jaws, demanding. It drove in, thick and pungent but familiar and, despite it all, welcome. He sucked and licked and put as much of himself as he could into loving this thing in his mouth. He missed having his hands, wanting to grab at Chris’ hips and guide him, or even hold him in place, especially as the thrusting grew deeper and cut off his air. He tried to pull away, but Chris held him in place, his hands locked around the back of Vin’s head. Vin struggled, then, gasping as he could, his mouth open as far as he could manage. Even as he choked and gagged, his cock throbbed for attention and release. He could die, he thought, suffocate, and his body would still get off, just from having Chris this close, the other man’s radiation more effective than Vin’s own. As abruptly as he was doing everything else, Chris jerked back and out, the force of it leaving Vin heaving for air. Chris still sat on his chest, so he couldn’t turn as he coughed and sputtered, drooling from the corners of his mouth. “Dammit,” Chris swore, his voice close and clear. “Mouth’s too good, Tanner, may not be able to stand your ass.” “Let me go,” Vin said, or tried to; he was wheezing, his lungs catching up, “and I’ll give you the best blow job yet –“ “Shut up,” Chris said, but it wasn’t sharp, just flat. “Going to have your ass and you’re gonna like it, I’ll make sure of it. Even though,” he made a sound that might have been a laugh, the breath ruffling Vin’s hair over Vin’s left ear, “don’t know that it matters. You could come now, couldn’t you, even choking to death.” He made the noise again and Vin heard the desperation in it. “Why the hell couldn’t it have been Buck?” Chris muttered, the pain in it so stark that Vin’s belly twisted. “Why couldn’t it be him?” The anger came out of nowhere, or maybe somewhere, maybe that part of himself that was submitting to this, to everything Chris wanted, to things Vin himself had never even thought of wanting. “Let me up,” he snarled, his voice grating, “get your damned hands off of me and let me up.” He tossed his head, pushing to get the blindfold off, and twisted his hands, uncaring of the tearing to the skin under the cuffs. Chris’ weight shifted, and Vin thought he might be relenting. The hope of it grew stronger as one of Chris’ hands fell to Vin’s wrists. “Don’t,” Chris sighed, his tone hoarse, “you’re hurting yourself.” “What the fuck do you care?” Vin shot back, and he struggled harder, twisting under Chris’ hands, and trying to lever his body up, to push Chris off of his chest. “I ain’t Buck, ain’t never gonna be – get the hell away from me!” “I know,” Chris said softly, “It ain’t your fault.” The words might have been an apology, or as close to one as Chris would ever give, but they didn’t do anything but make Vin madder. “Fuck no, it ain’t my fault, ain’t nobody’s fucking fault! But we’re stuck together, and the least you could do is stop hating me for it!” He twisted and bucked and pushed himself up as much as he could, trying to dislodge the other man, his anger and frustration overcoming, finally, his desire. Chris tucked his legs closer to Vin’s body, sliding back so that he was sitting on Vin’s belly and his chest was pressing against Vin’s. The weight pinned Vin to the mattress, so that he couldn’t move, even though he tried. “Vin! Stop it!” Chris snapped, and his mouth was close, too close, and he was kissing Vin. It took longer this time, Vin’s fury keeping the arousal at bay and helping him to try to fight. He managed to break the contact, pulling his lips away, almost rubbing the blindfold free, but Chris’ hands clamped hard on his head, holding him still. This time, as Chris’ lips met his, he bit, or tried to. His teeth closed on air, even though he knew he had scraped across the soft flesh of at least one lip, and he snapped his teeth a second time, trying to drive Chris back. The blow that followed was more startling than painful, an open-handed slap to his cheek that stung. His lip split, cut on his own teeth, and for a second, he froze. That was all Chris needed, that instant of stillness. His lips were on Vin’s again, his tongue licking at the blood, then slipping into Vin’s mouth and taking control. Vin tried to shake it off, but the anger was suppressed by the rush of blood to his groin, and he opened to Chris as if there’d never been a pause. Chris was slower, now, more gentle, and one hand drifted down Vin’s neck to his chest. He fingered Vin’s nipple again, light and teasing, and Vin whimpered, hating himself for it, hating that he had no way to refuse. “Please,” he whispered against the other man’s mouth, “Chris, please –“ “I plan to,” Chris said. His tongue flicked out, touching Vin's lips, but instead of driving back into Vin's mouth, he traced down over Vin's chin then along his throat skipping over his shirt but catching at the same nipple he'd been touching. The path only led down, Vin knew, and he wasn’t disappointed. His nipple was still tingling, his erection once more dripping and bouncing on his belly as Chris licked farther down. The violation of his belly button was not painful except in the too-much-of-a-good-thing way that put Vin so close to orgasm that he was thrusting his hips up, begging for contact. Chris ignored him though, kneeling between Vin's legs. He didn't give Vin time to get his bearings, touching his balls every so often or the soft skin just past them. The soft skin that led back to the small circle Chris wanted. Vin tried to say no, tried to fight it, but Chris' touch was magic and frequent, and he couldn't refuse when Chris positioned his legs, knees up, spread wide, giving Chris access. The first time he touched the puckered ring, Vin tried to draw away, at least in his head. His body did move, but it was a writhing motion that canted his hips up, making it easier for Chris. "You're gonna like this," Chris said, touching it again, then slowly pushing in. Vin knew what this felt like – they'd had more than enough tests and insertions and experiments done on them since the radiation exposure had put them here. He'd been violated in more ways than he liked to think on. But this one wasn't for medical reasons, and the way Chris was doing it, slow and curious, left no doubt about the intent. "Tight," Chris muttered, or Vin thought he did. "You need to relax, or this is going to hurt." Then it was going to hurt, because he didn't think he could get much more relaxed, not with the way his body was opening to Chris, giving the other man anything he wanted. The finger went deeper, twisting around. It wasn't painful but it was unfamiliar and because of that, uncomfortable. Chris’ voice seemed to come from a distance, his tone distracted. "I can make you come just by doing this," he said, "I can make you come with one finger. I used to do it to Buck, all the time, just to show him who was in control." It wasn't a challenge Vin wanted to take, not with his body so far out of his control, but Chris was twisting his finger in deeper, then pulling it out almost all the way before going back in. The rhythm was fast and hard and every so often, the finger would turn inside him, touching a different place. The pressure was building, the need for release growing, spilling from his cock to ooze along his belly. Maybe, he thought, maybe if he got it over with, if he went ahead, Chris would too and they could stop this before it went any further . . . "You'll come even harder the second time," Chris said. Before Vin could argue, Chris' finger swiveled again, but this time it touched something deep inside Vin and the orgasm exploded through him. He drifted, not wanting to come back, but eventually whatever was rubbing along his belly pulled him back to awareness. He shifted, tried to move his hand only to be reminded that it was still caught in the cuffs. "What are you doing?" he asked, or tried to; it came out garbled and unclear even to himself. "Just be still," Chris said just before there was another swipe over Vin's abdomen. "I keep forgetting how much younger you are. You still put out a lot." It took Vin a second to make the words make sense. "What are you doing?" he asked again, worry bouncing around in his head. "Lube," Chris answered, the word flat. "If we produce it, it doesn't degrade as fast. Buck figured it out, he’s always been good that way, at coming up with ways to make the sex work." Lube. Vin jerked, felt the pull of the cuffs, hated the blindfold. "What do you need it – " "We're not done yet," Chris said, distractedly. “You’ll like it.” Vin was too lethargic to resist as Chris once more touched the ring of muscle. It wasn't as tight now, after the release, and Chris' finger was wet with Vin's ejaculate. But something wasn't right, Vin noted, this was larger than Chris' finger, longer and colder and unyielding. Vin shifted, then gasped as pain jarred him, the thing inside him not giving with the new angle. "Be still," Chris ordered, but his tone was distracted. He pulled whatever it was out, then repositioned it before pushing it back in, deeper. "What are you doing?" Vin asked, thinking that he was just repeating himself, and Chris ignored it now as well, pushing whatever it was in and out, the friction starting to burn a little. "Got to stretch you," Chris answered, more or less. "The handle of one of our forks is a good size, round and not too thick. Pretty, too, the way it glows when it comes out of you. Buck said I make things glow gold, like the sun. But you, you’re making it glow kinda of blue and silver, like the water at night." The idea of it made Vin a little sick. "You're doing me with a fork?" he choked out, and he squirmed again, until the pain caught him. "Forking you," Chris said with another chuckle. "Buck would love that. Everything we did made him happy, made him laugh. I miss that. I miss him.” The last words were almost too low for Vin to hear, but the tone was different now, not as sad, but becoming more bitter. Vin barely had time to brace himself before the bitterness turned to the anger he knew too well. "Time for something bigger," Chris said louder, the words clipped. He pulled the fork handle out, and for an instant, Vin was relieved. Oddly, though, there was a sort of emptiness, and his muscles spasmed at the loss. Until something larger snugged up against his opening. "That's pretty," Chris said, his voice harder now, the edge one Vin knew too well. "Your come makes the silver metal sparkle, and where it touches you, it shimmers on the glow. Open up." It hurt, though, stretching the ring too fast, and too wide, and he cried out as Chris pressed it in. "Hush," Chris scolded, but the pressure eased back. "Draw your knees up and relax, open up for me." "No, I don't want this," Vin said, his voice hoarse. "Yeah, you do," Chris said, and the edge was back, cold and sharp. "You'd be lying to both of us if you say otherwise." Something warm and wet swept over Vin's spent cock, jolting into his balls. Another languid swipe – Chris' tongue, he realized as arousal stirred again. "Won't take you long at all," Chris announced. He licked again and Vin couldn't stop himself from arching up into the contact, his cock starting to swell. The thing at his entrance slide inside, uncomfortable but not hurting the way it had. "Knew you’d like it," Chris said, his tone cold. "My metal lube tube half inside you and your dick coming up. By the time you get a my cock inside you, you'll be begging for it, your ass waving in the air. It’s what you want, isn’t it? What you’ve wanted since before Buck left?" Vin didn't have a chance to argue, as Chris pushed the tube further in, turning it. It hurt again, stretching and stinging, but Chris' mouth came back to Vin's groin and he couldn't sort the pleasure from the pain. It went on for a while, Chris matching the attention of his mouth to the thrusts, so that it jumbled in Vin's head. He wasn't sure when Chris stopped playing with his cock, but the pain and discomfort were gone and he was again feeling empty when Chris pulled his tube out. "If this doesn’t make you ready for me, nothing will," Chris said, but his tone had changed once more, not the distraction from earlier, or the cold sharpness, but a sort of flatness, a deadness as if he felt nothing about what he was doing. About what he was doing to Vin. Something blunt and cold and large rubbed along the crease between Vin's cheeks, spreading them with a slick goo before lodging into place. Too big, way too big, Vin thought, but his erection pulsed as Chris blew across it. "You're getting a real honor," Chris said, his tone still dead. "This was made special, for me. He used to like to watch me fuck myself with it, said it glowed gold and green and shot sparks. I never got to see it, not while it was in me, but it'll be in you now." Vin's throat was dry, his mind momentarily over taking the phermones and endorphins fritzing his brain connections. "You have a – you've got a dildo of Buck's – " He couldn't finish the sentence, the idea too sick, the fact that it was about to be in him repulsive. "He didn't want me to forget him. Guess I should have gotten him one of me, huh." He laughed then, low and long, but it was desperate, the joke one only a few of them understood; the radiation didn't allow either Chris or Vin to touch many things before those things decomposed. The lube they were using was specially made for them, and it functioned as a lotion, cream, or anything they needed for their skin. Whatever gel or substance Buck had used to get the cast of his erection would never have worked for Chris or Vin. "Chris," Vin started, the wrongness of this coupling quickly with a fear for Chris' state of mind. But Chris went on, his tone dead again, as if he were a machine. "Seems kind of fitting to be using this on you, letting him fuck you first. Guess if he can do it, I can." "Chris," Vin tried again, scared. "Let's slow down, you don't have to – " "He was right, though," Chris went on, talking over Vin, "the glass glows bright, the pretty blue-silver." "Glass?" Vin blurted, louder. "It's glass? What if it breaks – Chris, don't – " "Reckon you need to get your knees up and hold still." Chris shoved then, the thick head of the glass cock going in. Vin cried out, arched, but the curve of his spine made the angle worse and he bent, drawing his legs up as Chris had commanded. Lush heat engulfed his own cock head, and he was caught once more between the pleasure and the pain. He rode the waves of both, not sure where they crashed against each other, until a movement shifted the big thing inside him and it came up against his prostate. The pain shattered into tiny pieces that glittered against the haze of his arousal. He was so close, on the edge, when Chris pulled out of him and away. The abrupt absence of sensation left him dizzy. Something cupped the back of one of his knees, bending him and pushing him back into the mattress. Then Chris snarled in his ear, "Going to give you what you want, Tanner, the ride you've been waiting for. See how we both like it." As with every one of the implements he had used, Chris pushed in fast, and set a hard, deep pace that had Vin aching with the stretch of tissue and muscle. Just as it started to overwhelm, Chris found the angle and each stroke rubbed the sweet spot, each stroke taking Vin's breath. He was on the edge, so close that he wanted to beg, would have if he'd been able to string two words together, then Chris' fingers closed around Vin's erection, pulled once, twice, as Chris growled, "Come for me, you know you want this," and Vin did. When he came to, he was stretched out on the bed, hands still over his head, blindfold still in place. But as he flexed one arm, he realized that the cuff was open. The skin pulled, stuck to the metal with sweat and some blood, but he was free. The blindfold fell apart when he tugged at it, and he blinked even in the dim light. He thought at first that he was alone, not sensing Chris, but as he wiped at his body with the remnants of the blindfold, he caught sight of the other man, standing before his damned monitor picture again. Chris looked as he had when Vin first came into the room, but now he wore only his pants and they were open, even though he had put his dick away. Vin sat up, but it was a slow process, his muscles sore and tight from their confinements, his ass bruised and a little torn. As he swung his feet to the floor, he caught sight of the three things Chris had used on him, sparkling against the ruffled bedclothes. The sight made him queasy. Despite himself, he made a little noise as he reached for his pants. Chris stiffened but he didn't turn. Vin wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, wasn't certain of his own feelings. All he wanted was to get to his room, to get cleaned up. That desire got even stronger as he levered himself up, and something inside him leaked out, tickling as it drifted down his inner thighs. Vin was almost to the door, his pants bunched in his fists, when Chris said quietly, "When I lost Sarah and Adam, the rage kept me alive. The rage and Buck." Vin stopped, but he didn't look back. "I swore I'd never get hurt like that again. And I don't guess I'm hurting as much now as I did then, being able to fuck you proves that. But I ain't never gonna hurt like this again either." He turned so that Vin could see his face if he looked. "I know what you want from me, you can't hide it. It's in your eyes when you come – had to cover them up so I couldn’t see what you feel. But I can't give you nothing more than what I just did in that bed. I won't. I ain't never hurting like this again." His words burned, scorching what little control Vin had. "That the way of it?" he shot back. "You take what you want from me, whether I want to give it or not, then treat me like a slut because I can't fight you? 'Cause you can shove anything you want inside me and I'll still get off?" He turned as well, meeting Chris' gaze directly. "Ain't nobody else who can do that, Chris, only you. You want to know the real funny part of all of this? I'm the only person in this whole fucking galaxy who ain't gonna walk out on you. We're gonna be stuck together for the rest of our lives, and you're worried I might hurt you?" He shook his head, turning back to the door. "I ain't locking you to a bed and fucking you with someone else's dick. I never held you accountable for what happened with Charlotte and me, and I never tried to come between you and Buck – I ain't the one using saving his life as an excuse to fuck somebody else." There was more he could have said, more he probably should have, but it was catching up to him now, the pain, the fear, and the sheer stupidity of it all. He made it through the door, thought he might make it to his room before he collapsed, but as with everything else that had happened so far, his luck ran out. Chris caught him by the hair, jerking him back and slamming him against the wall. He was in Vin's face, spit flying as he yelled, "I'd never hurt him if I didn't have to – it's this fucking radiation, Tanner, you of all people should know that what we feel for each other ain't real! I don’t love you and you don’t love me – it’s something else going on in our heads! If had it to do all over, he'd have been with me, not you!" "So he could be trapped in here with you? That's some kind of love!" Vin heard himself yell back. "Much more real than what we feel for each other, wishing him to be going through this hell with you! But at least we agree – I'd have let him be in here with you, too! Hell, he may as well be! He’s in bed with us no matter what I say or do!" He pushed against Chris, pushed harder when Chris didn't budge, then in a move that surprised even him, he punched Chris full on in the face. For an instant, Chris was as stunned as Vin. Then he fell back, staggering until he went down on his ass in the floor. Vin didn't wait around this time, making it to his room and locking the doors behind him. And then locking his bathroom door as well. The shower was hot, he saw the steam rising, felt it gusting against him, but he couldn't seem to get warm. Memories of those kisses, the soft seduction and the lie behind them, left him more raw than the aches in his body. Of course, he reminded himself, it could all be like Chris said, it could all be in his mind, radiation, drugs and his own desperation coloring it all. Regardless, he'd been fucked, and Chris had done it. At least that part was done, was real. Separated by walls and metal and the very air itself, Buck had managed to screw him, too.

"Sir, we're approaching JFK for landing." Awakened from his nap by the flight attendant, Roger Lococco sat up, rubbing his eyes as he glanced out the window. Too soon to see the familiar shapes of New York Harbor and Long Island. As it often did whenever he was landing somewhere, the word 'home' crawled into his mind, searched around for a bit, looking for a toe-hold, ultimately crawling away again. No closer to being a recognizable concept, attached to a concrete place, than before. As the shape of Long Island formed from the dark waters, Roger regarded it with indifference. New York. Another airport. Another city. Another stopping-off place on the route to nowhere in particular. Roger settled back, looking around briefly at the self-assured luxury of the Concorde cabin and its bland, business-suited inhabitants. Corporate America, corporate Europe, corporate Japan. After a while all the distinctions blurred, there were no differences. He was conscious of himself in contrast to them; they were not. All too absorbed in their Wall Street Journals to take notice of the one who was Not Them. His gaze brushed over the complimentary copy of The Times sprawled out on the seat next to his. One word seemed to pulse on the page, darker than the rest, drawing his attention to the lower right column. One word: Strychen. Roger picked up the newspaper, began reading. Washington, DC: Capitol Hill was shocked today to learn of the shooting death of Admiral Walter Strychen. Strychen was gunned down in Senate chambers yesterday by his superior, General Leland Masters, who is said to be suffering a nervous breakdown. The White House will issue a formal statement tomorrow ... Two names were not mentioned. Although the story made a perfunctory, one-sentence reference to Isle Pavot and Herb Ketcher, the name Lococco was thankfully omitted. Already fading from public memory, a minor player in a national embarrassment. The other name missing was Terranova. He read through the newspaper account twice. First on the plane, again in the airport lounge. No, Vinnie was not mentioned, but he was in the story. Between the words, behind what was not said. In the terms 'witnesses' and 'government agents.' Roger folded up the paper and took a slow sip of beer, thoughtful. He let the initial, sharp slivers of anger and disgust which were always attached to the words Strychen, Isle Pavot, Ketcher, soften, fade away. Instead he focused on that one, unwritten word: Vinnie. Vinnie Terranova. The name weaved through his mind, trailing threads of memory. A pair of searching blue eyes a man would sell his soul for. A moment in a room in Bethesda when those eyes met his in some sort of secret understanding, a moment broken by the interruptions around them. And, the threads weaving back further, a stormy weekend in Boston. Flesh and movement and heat and rough, gentle whispers. "Ah, Vinnie," Roger said to himself, smiling, taking another drink of beer. Looking around his surroundings. Still thoughtful. ----- As soon as Vinnie turned the key in the lock, he knew. Guardian angel, sixth sense, or an uncanny self-preservation instinct told him: there was someone in the house. Vinnie let the door ease open in silence. Stepped inside, hand on his gun, and paused, searching the greyness, senses in overdrive. He took a cautious step forward, trying to decipher the conflicting impressions: an intruder... but there was something familiar. Some sound or smell or... some aura he couldn't quite place. As he stepped fully inside the kitchen, a dry, quiet voice said, "Evening, Buckwheat." Surprise. Relief. Confusion. "Roger?" Vince whispered. The voice moved. "The very same." Vince's eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and now he saw him. Roger Lococco, standing right there in front of him, large as life and half as real... This had to be a dream. Before he could wake up, Vince wrapped his arms around him and pulled him into a hug. No, no dream. Dreams didn't feel like this -- warm and firm, textures of denim and leather. Roger's body stiffened at the contact, slowly relaxed. He patted Vinnie's back as he drew away. "Glad to see me?" Vince shook his head in amazement, grinning, switching on the kitchen light. Took in the sight of Roger -- dressed in black, slung into that beat-up leather jacket of his. Tanned... Dark blond curls a little wilder... But otherwise unchanged. There was silence for a minute. Too many memories and questions and emotions competing for attention. Roger laughed quietly. Vince laughed too, the adrenaline rush finally dissipating, then said with mock severity, "You broke into my house, Roger." Roger grinned and slid into a kitchen chair, resting an arm over the back. "You might wanna see about getting better locks." Vinnie shrugged out of his jacket and settled into the other chair, still smiling, still not quite believing that this was real, that Roger was really here. "Oh yeah?" Roger's eyes flicked around the room. "Yeah. I expected more of a challenge. Too easy." Vinnie laughed again. "Sorry to disappoint you, Roger." He slid his chair closer, leaning over the kitchen table. "But what are you doing here? Where have you been? What have you been doing all this time? How the hell are you, anyway?" Roger chuckled, waving away his questions. "Whoa, whoa. Take it easy there. Save the interrogation for later." He reached into his jacket and produced a folded up newspaper and tossed it onto the table. "I saw this, decided to stop by." Vinnie's smile faded. He didn't have to look at the paper to know what it was. Only two days ago... It seemed much longer, somehow. Seemed like a nightmare from years past. Roger watched him, silent and intent. The significance of Roger's appearance struck him then. That Lococco would come out of hiding because of this, seek him out... Vinnie felt like hugging him again. Instead, he said quietly, "Thanks." Roger smiled and gave a little shrug, then stood up, taking off his jacket, hanging it over the chair back. "So. You have any beers around here, or are the cupboards bare?" Vince let himself be soothed by Roger's casual familiarity. He smiled and asked, "You mean you didn't already check?" Roger feigned indignation. "Now would I?" Vinnie stood up to get the beers. "Housebreaker but not a snoop, huh? I'm glad to see you still have your code of ethics." Roger laughed softly, heading for the living room, settling comfortably on the sofa, propping his feet up on the coffee table. Vinnie stood back, smiling at the sight. Roger Lococco. The last person he'd expected to pop back into his life. God damn, it was good to see him. ----- Vinnie ordered in pizza and they sat in the living room, Roger stretched out comfortably on the sofa, Vinnie sitting in the chair opposite. Watching him with the same intent, curious stare that used to put Roger on his guard when he worked for Profitt. Hell, I should've known he was a Fed the minute he gave me that look, Roger thought, smiling inwardly. Perhaps because there was so much to be said, so much that was unknown, their conversation remained small talk and was filled with silent lapses. After a while Roger asked quietly, "What will you do now?" Vinnie looked at him questioningly. "Huh?" "Ah." It struck Roger for the first time: He isn't leaving them. He should have expected that, he supposed, but he wasn't prepared for it. He gave a half-smile and a self-deprecating shrug. "I meant, what would you do now you've left the OCB... But I guess I have my answer." Vince sat back in the chair, glanced down at his beer bottle. After a long silence, he said, "You think I'm making a mistake by staying." Yes, Roger thought, but what he said was, "It's your decision. I'm a little surprised I guess. I thought by now, you'd see the system for what it is." Vince sat forward, obviously agitated, but keeping it in check. "It's not the system that's corrupt, Roger. People make it corrupt. The system works. That's what this whole fiasco taught me, in the end. The system did work." Roger bit back the sarcastic remark which was poised on his tongue. He took a sip of beer, shaking his head. "That's all this little episode has taught you? Hell, all I had to do was read a newspaper account full of omissions and distortions to know this must have been the system at its worst. Yeah, the system works, Vinnie. I just wonder who for." "You weren't there," Vinnie countered, beginning to show his anger. "Don't judge me. You can't." Roger fought back his echoing anger. I can too judge you, and you know it. Vinnie softened his voce and said, "You used to believe in something. I know what they did to you. I know how they used you. But your beliefs -- they were never wrong. Have you forgotten that?" Roger glanced over and immediately abandoned the cynical response which had been his first impulse. "No," he whispered. "I never forgot that." Vince seemed satisfied by that answer, so he left it at that. There wasn't really much to say. He knew Vinnie well enough to know that if Vinnie had made up his mind, he was not going to be talked out of it. And maybe, for Vinnie, staying with the OCB was the right choice. He didn't believe it was, but the choice was not his to make. There was an uneasy silence, but gradually the unease faded and the silence became comfortable and familiar. The brief anger was forgotten, overshadowed by the simple happiness Roger felt just being around Vinnie again. Eventually the journey caught up with him and he closed his eyes. He napped without knowing it until Vince woke him up with a gentle tug on his shoulder. "The bedroom's back there." Roger started to get up, then paused. The question started to form on his lips before he could fully consider all the conflicting emotions, but Vince had spotted his pause and correctly guessed its source. He smiled softly and said, "I'll take the spare room. You go ahead." Roger nodded, grabbed his satchel and headed for the bedroom, yawning "Good night." Uncertain if the relief outweighed the disappointment. Then he shook his head and reminded himself just how long it had been since Bethesda. Two years, and a lot of miles in between. ----- His sleep was so deep that when he woke, Roger believed himself to be dreaming. Certainly, it was a familiar dream. Waking up in a comfortable, reassuringly domestic bed, turning over to find Vinnie, naked, nestled beside him. It wasn't until Vinnie smiled and kissed him that Roger let himself accept that it was not a dream. Morning light crept through the nearly closed curtains. Soft shadows seemed to highlight, rather than conceal, Vince's sleepy, cheerful expression. A sunbeam cut through the gap in the curtains, sparking the clear blue of his eyes. Roger masked an appreciative gasp with a yawn and murmured, "What's this? Breakfast in bed?" Vinnie grinned and gave his shoulder a soft bite. "Uh-huh." Relief and contentment flooded through Roger's body, warming it as powerfully and precisely as the desire for Vinnie's closeness. Whatever was to happen later, for now, this was enough. Was inevitable. "What's on the menu?" he asked. Vince's whispered reply brushed his ear, "Whatever you want, Roger." Roger involuntarily shivered from the jolt of lust that shot through him, stirring his arousal. He slid his hand under the sheets and along Vince's body until he felt Vince's erection, warm, needing his touch. His fingers closed around the shaft, exploring its texture of veins and smoothness. Vinnie made a small, guttural sound of approval and began nibbling his ear. "Seems like it's already been prepared," Roger whispered, smirking, giving Vince's cock a gentle tug. Vinnie smiled in exasperated lust and whispered back, "Then you better not let it get cold." Roger laughed quietly and pulled Vince into a languid, searching kiss, rediscovering the taste, the softness of his tongue and drawing it between his lips to savor it. Vince moved closer, his hands roaming Roger's body, quickly ridding him of his underwear. He cupped and stroked Roger's balls, lifting their weight against the base of his cock. Roger made a brief, approving sound in his throat and tugged Vince's shaft again. Vince pulled Roger to him, gasping quietly when their cocks touched, flesh joining in a throbbing bond of heat. Roger clutched Vinnie's shoulders, shuddering from the contact, his hunger becoming more insistent. His lips skimmed along Vinnie's neck, feasted behind his ear. He tilted his hips, pressing his cock along the length of Vinnie's, feeling its answering swell. "Oh yes," he whispered breathlessly, licking Vinnie's ear. "Yes." Vince moved then, carefully, keeping Roger soldered to him as he shifted onto his back. Roger slid his legs around him, devouring his neck, only pausing his caresses to allow Vinnie to reach for the nightstand drawer. When Vince's hand returned, it slid between his legs, brushing his balls, and two greased fingers slid into the welcoming heat of his ass. Roger moaned, relaxing for Vinnie's fingers, rocking slightly as they stroked within. He braced himself as they withdrew, shifting until the head of Vinnie's cock pressed against him. Vince held him, kneading his buttocks, staring up at him as he thrust inside, quick, deep, smooth. Roger shook as Vinnie's cock filled him: rigid, heavy heat, embedded in his core. Vince took a shaky breath, remaining still. Roger pressed down around him, locking him inside, watching the signs of pleasure on Vince's face as he moved, slowly, tauntingly. He ran his hands over Vince's chest, thumbing his nipples. Raked his fingers along Vince's shoulders, down his arms, drew them up his own thighs and grabbed his swollen, straining cock. With a soft, sensual groan, Vince began to move then, pulling back, driving forth, burying again and again into Roger's ass, thick caresses. Roger matched his rhythm, met it with furious, wild thrusts, each bombarding his body with the pure, dizzying pleasure of unfettered intimacy. Rode him harder, his body holding Vince in tight confinement, as deep tremors began to course through him. He arched back, choking Vince's cock inside his ass, as he came, his cock jerking and shooting warm semen over Vince's stomach. Spinning in the throes of his own orgasm, Roger heard Vince's moans, felt his body buck beneath him, dived into the wonderful, perfect moment when Vince's come poured inside him, deluged him. He slowed to watch Vince then, reveling in his ecstatic beauty. Gradually the delirium lifted and Roger reluctantly released him. Slid against him, smiling at Vince's shiver as their wet, sticky cocks collided. For some time they stayed unmoving in a loose embrace, their deep breaths filling the silence. Roger shifted a little, kissed Vince gently. "My body remembered yours," he whispered, then tensed when he realized he'd voiced his most private thought. Fuck. What's next? Quoting Hallmark cards? Vince gazed back in what looked like bewildered gratitude, then graced him with a soft, affectionate smile. "Your post-coital commentary has improved," he murmured. Roger relaxed. "Has it?" He slid off Vince but settled next to him, into his arms. Stayed there, dozing off and on as he watched the filtered daylight move across the floor as the morning aged. After a while he became aware that neither of them was sleeping, and he sensed that there were things they both wanted to say, and things they should say, but instead focused on the one minor question in his mind. "Last night," he said. "If this is what you wanted, why didn't you...?" He felt Vinnie's lips press to his shoulder in the ensuing silence, then Vinnie said, "I don't know. Maybe because I wanted it so much, I thought it would be better to wait." He paused, then resumed with a smile in his voice, "Besides, you were pretty beat last night. You think you could've kept up?" Roger gave him a sidelong glance. "You better believe I could've, Buckwheat." Vinnie laughed. "Yeah, right, Spanky." Roger reached back and pinched him for that, and settled comfortably. Refusing to let the warm feeling of the rightness of this moment pass too quickly. Not wanting to let it go at all. ----- Vinnie let Roger sleep, getting up to shower and shave and stock up on groceries. When he returned from the store, he heard the sound of the shower running. He flashed on that rainy weekend in Boston when they'd both been walking around in their private worlds of lies, and when those worlds had collided from undeniable needs of body and soul. The impact of the flashback disturbed him, so he tried to push it away. When it persisted, he forced himself to remember it all, realizing for the first time just how thoroughly he had shoved the memories of Boston aside, despite never completely losing the lingering touches of Roger's flesh and passion. He was standing in the kitchen, preoccupied with trying to name this elusive emotion -- too calm to be sadness, too immediate to be nostalgia -- when Roger appeared, dressed and smiling. Vinnie let the memories scatter; the present was here. Now. Roger was here. Now. The afternoon proceeded lazily, Vinnie and Roger discussing and discarding ideas on what to do, occasionally falling into comfortable silences. Vinnie reflected how different this was from the last time they had been together, in the safe house, when everything had seemed urgent, tense, and final. Of course, a lot had changed since then... But there was still a question, a hesitation, in his mind which with shocked guilt he identified as Is this too good to be true? Dismayed by his own thoughts, he felt the need to cleanse his soul, and began the only way he knew how -- by sharing as much of it as he could with Roger. He told him about Amber, about his mother and Don Aiuppo, about Frank and what became of the money Roger had left behind. Finally, about Strychen and Masters and Prescott Wilson and Vernon Biggs. Roger listened, every so often asking a question, not making comments, and showing his curiosity without passing judgment or offering unwanted sympathy. Vinnie felt a relief in sharing what he could, although there was a deeper feeling of unease as he recognized subjects he could not, or was not ready to, share, like his own periodic crises of faith in the system. Gradually, the afternoon disappeared. The long silence which threatened to surround them was cast away by the welcome distraction of dinner. Vince had already decided to 'poison' Roger with his home-made spaghetti, and Roger offered to set the table, joking about this magnanimous gesture which took all of two minutes. Afterwards they sat quietly in the kitchen, Vince hoping Roger would voluntarily open up about his whereabouts these past two years. He watched Roger for a long time, searching for any sign of old pain or a new desire for distance. "And what have you been up to?" he asked at last, as casually as he could. Roger didn't answer for a minute, and seemed unsatisfied with his eventual, "That's hard to say." Vince waited. After some deliberation, Roger added, "I've been moving around a lot." He flashed a smile then, but to Vince it seemed forced. "Haven't stayed in one place long enough to get up to much." "You like living this way?" Roger shrugged. "Mostly. It's what I'm used to." Vinnie could feel the tension in Roger's answer as if it were a tightness in his own gut. Irrationally, he began to resent Roger's reticence. He fought not to lose his patience. With forced gentleness he said, "You don't have to, you know. There are other choices." Roger's eyes met his, but the emotion to be read in them was obscure. Not unsettling, but Vinnie wished he could interpret it clearly. Roger said slowly, "I know what my choices are, believe me." "Do you?" Vinnie countered, then immediately tried to soften this response by saying, "I just want to know, are you happy now? At peace?" Roger began to answer, then sighed, looking away. "Ah, Vinnie. You never did know when to stop asking the difficult questions, did you?" Before Vinnie could respond, Roger went on, speaking quietly but determinedly. "The truth is, I move around because I tell myself I have to. And I tell myself I have to because the prospect of standing still scares me. Because of what I did, I have to look at the world differently now. I can't take for granted that black is black and white is white just because I say so anymore. When you stand still, you start to believe the world is fixed, that there is such a thing as permanence." Roger paused, seemingly expecting a rebuttal Vinnie was not ready to make. He continued in the same soft voice, "And, of course, when I stand still, I have time to think, time to wallow in all those memories... Real happy stuff, Vince -- Burning villages because they happened to be on the wrong side of the DMZ. Killing people for a mad man who took advice from his toes. Following every order Herb Ketcher gave me..." A note of bitterness had crept into his voice but Vinnie was too disheartened to challenge it. Trying not to sound as desperate as he felt, he said, "Roger, you have to forgive yourself." Roger stared at him and said simply, "I have. But forgiving yourself doesn't erase the memories." Vinnie considered this, wanting to debate it, but the fact was he was probably not the best person to dispute it. His own memories loomed too close to the surface, his own guilt was lying in wait. And if Roger suspected as much, he was being a true friend in not calling him on it. Wanting to reply, however, he said, "You can't run forever." Roger's smile was chillingly self-confident. "Watch me." Vinnie froze, feeling the heavy sadness of those two words sink in, weigh him down. He stood up and distracted himself by clearing the table, frantically searching for something to say to erase those words from memory, from existence. When Roger stood up, Vinnie turned to look at him. "You don't have to live like that," he said. Roger smiled softly. "I know." When they moved to the living room, they settled into a surreal relaxation, watching the late movie on TV. It was obvious to Vinnie that they both wanted to step beyond the gap of sorrow the day's conversation had opened up. They moved to the bedroom together without questioning it, but despite the warm passion in their kisses and caresses, the heaviness of the evening had drained them of sexual energy. Roger fell asleep first, holding Vinnie to his chest, and Vinnie stayed there, motionless, listening to Roger's steady breathing until sleep finally claimed him. ----- The next morning, Vinnie was jolted out of sleep by a startling but pleasant sensation: Roger's tongue on his cock. He squirmed and sat up, breathing heavily, and tossed the covers aside. "Roger..." he mumbled, gasping as Roger's lips brushed down the length of his shaft. Roger, grinning wickedly, gazed up at him. "Mm-hmm?" He tickled the root of Vinnie's cock with his tongue tip. Now achingly hard, Vinnie groaned and sank into the pillows, watching as Roger licked around the head of his cock, intent and obviously enjoying his task. Roger closed his lips around the head and engulfed him in warm wetness. With a quiet moan, Vinnie eased further inside Roger's mouth, feeling the velvet texture of Roger's tongue stroking him. His fingers tangled in Roger's curls, grasping gently, as he lost himself to the endless, flowing sensation of Roger drinking him. His body felt both heavy and weightless as the tingling current of pleasure mounted inside. Roger increased the suction around his cock, lavishing it with wet caresses. Liquid heat seemed to rise up through his shaft, vibrating it. Vinnie shuddered and writhed against the bed as he came, pouring into Roger's mouth, waves of orgasmic ecstasy washing over him. As the fog lifted, Vinnie leaned against the head-board, dragging air into his lungs. Roger rested his head on his belly, licking his lips. Vinnie gave a short, breathless laugh. "What was that? Breakfast in bed?" Roger kissed his navel. "Uh-huh." Vinnie murmured something affectionately grateful, kneading Roger's shoulders. Roger rose up on his knees, smiling down at him. He looked incredibly sexy, his eyes heavy-lidded, his blond curls unruly, his lips sheened with moisture, his cock a deep tan-red, arcing against his thigh. Desire shook Vince. He grabbed Roger's hips and pulled him forward until his lips touched the tip of Roger's cock. Roger moaned low in his throat, pressing closer. His cockhead was thick with heat, a trickle of pre-come wetting the slit. Vinnie slid his tongue forward to lick the precious drop, eliciting a slow hiss of encouragement. Parting his lips, he urged the head inside, sucking tenderly, savoring its rich warmth and supple texture. Roger began to sway, rocking his hips, rubbing his cock over Vince's tongue. Vince smoothed his hands over Roger's ass, guiding his movement. He bit down lightly, skimming the ridge with his teeth. Roger braced his hands against the wall, his cock rigid, throbbing heat. Vinnie curled his tongue to its shape, licking and lapping while his teeth caressed the ridge. Roger's gasping moans, the taste of him, increased Vinnie's desire, stirring it until his body pulsated with empathetic pleasure. He suckled harder, squeezing Roger's buttocks, spun into such tight concentration that his ears rang. Kept ringing... Roger's body stiffened in his grasp, and he felt Roger's fingers tapping his cheek. Vinnie looked up, confused, saw Roger shaking above him as he pulled away. "You better answer that," Roger panted. The ringing... The phone. With a frustrated snarl Vinnie climbed out of bed and tramped off to answer it. "Yeah?" he spat out as he grabbed the receiver. It was McPike. Vinnie slumped against the wall, rubbing a hand over his face. He shivered from the juxtaposition of hot sex and intimacy being replaced so abruptly by stark, cold, daily life. Roger came padding in after him, pulling on a long-sleeve denim-blue shirt. He leaned against the doorway, his flesh glistening with perspiration. Only half-hearing the conversation on the other end of the line, Vinnie watched regretfully as Roger's erection died from inattention. He hung up with a complacent, "Yeah, yeah," and told Roger, "That was Frank." Roger nodded. "I have to go out for a couple of hours." Roger nodded again. Vinnie watched him quietly then said, "I won't tell him if you don't want me to." Roger gave a sort of half-smile and shrugged. "You didn't tell him before. Is there a reason to now?" Vince thought about that but before he could form a response, Roger said, "It's your call, Buckwheat. If keeping me a secret is gonna cause some sort of friction between you two then you should probably tell him." Vinnie considered for a moment. "I don't think there's a reason to." Roger nodded and started towards the hallway. Vinnie reached out, hooked an arm around his waist and spun him around, pressing him into a quick, fierce kiss. "And when I get back," he murmured, flicking a rogue curl from Roger's forehead, "we'll continue where we left off." Roger's eyes sparked with lust, then he laughed softly and gave Vinnie's balls a none-too-gentle grope. "Uh-huh. I know we will." ----- When Vinnie returned several hours later, however, the mood had changed. His own because of the meeting with Frank. A rehash of the events in Washington to go into the final report, which seemed pointless. Frank had seemed tired and short-tempered, and Vince had fed off it, deciding irritability was contagious. He regretted his pissiness and making a mental note to make it up to Frank later. He came home to find Roger pacing his kitchen, trying to appear non-chalant but Vinnie could sense underlying tension. Like a tightly-wound spring about to uncoil. There it was -- that Lococco restlessness. Vinnie had known it would surface sooner or later, though he'd been hoping against hope for 'later.' Couldn't Roger keep still for even a little while? Then Roger's words flooded back to him, haunting: when I stand still, I have time to think, time to wallow in all those memories... To defuse some of the strained atmosphere, Vinnie convinced Roger to come out with him to the local pool hall. Change of scenery, a few beers... Vinnie felt a need for the distraction himself. The game and cozy neighborhood atmosphere lifted their mood, as Vinnie had hoped it would. Predictably, Roger was a pool shark, though Vinnie didn't mind losing since it afforded him an opportunity to stand back and admire Roger's lean grace in action. And watch his ass. Which Roger caught him doing, looking up from a shot. Smirked in reaction before striking the ball. A few beers and a few games later and Vince was ready to drag Roger into the alley and ravish him there. Roger seemed to be having similar thoughts and suggested leaving. The walk back a blur of lustful anticipations sheltering them from the cold night air, they reached the house and started to strip before the door was even closed. Vinnie caught Roger with his hands, backed him against the kitchen wall and claimed his lips in a devouring kiss. Roger returned the kiss with equal hunger, struggling out of his shirt, unzipping his fly. Vinnie pulled back to cast the rest of his clothes aside and bolt the kitchen door. Roger climbed out of his boots and jeans and stepped backwards into the living room, wearing only a taunting grin. Desire rose thick and savage inside Vince as he followed him to the bedroom, his need to feel Roger's naked flesh something uncontrollable. Roger slid across the bed and Vince dived against him, locking their bodies together as he initiated another deep, hard kiss. Roger consumed his tongue with biting, wet heat. He buried his fingers in Vince's hair, holding on as he writhed beneath him. Vince held Roger's hips, trapping their cocks between them, moaning into the kiss. When he pulled back, Roger's eyes sparked with animal lust. Vinnie paused for a split second as all his wants and needs besieged him. Slowing his breathing, softening his caresses, he kissed Roger's ear and whispered, "I want to feel you inside me." Roger's eyes closed briefly as he half-moaned, half-hissed, "Yes." He released his hold and sat back, watching as Vinnie fumbled in the nightstand. Roger took the plastic tube from him and with gently guiding motions shifted Vinnie onto his back. Vinnie exhaled a hushed cry as Roger's fingers entered him, greased him with careful strokes, relaxing him. He was drawn into the rhythm and his body warmed with longing. He opened his legs further, brushed them against Roger's hips in silent entreaty. Roger withdrew his fingers, knelt between his legs, ran his hands over Vince's thighs as he gazed down at him. A quiet, beautiful, fragile look that caused Vince's breath to crack in a soft gasp. Lifting Vince's legs back, Roger pressed inside him, slow, smooth, deep. Vinnie arched to meet him, a pleasured groan escaping his lips as he felt the hard length of Roger's cock fill him, swelling heat throbbing thickly inside him, beginning to move with even, tender thrusts. Watching the open, gentle look in Roger's eyes, he reached for Roger's shoulders, drawing him closer as he tightened around him, answering strokes. Like a fire igniting within, solid, spreading, Roger's thrusts sent rivulets of burning, sweet sensation cascading through his body, building and rising in his loins. Vinnie squeezed Roger's cock inside him as he reached for his own, tugging at its straining form. Roger drove into him harder, faster, their bodies meeting and colliding in wild, blissful union. A torrent of pure, fiery energy crashed over Vince as he came, shaking violently from the release, all senses shattered and flying. He dug his fingers into Roger's shoulders, falling into the chaos of ecstasy. He heard Roger's hoarse moan, and Roger's cock pulsed inside him, flooding him with a thick, rich tide. Vinnie drowned in the dense, fluid sensations of orgasm, feeling their flesh melted as one. His grip on Roger relaxed as Roger caressed him warmly, sharing a bond of vulnerable contentment. He closed his eyes as his body began to make demands for air and peace. Shuddering from the loss as Roger left him, he wrapped an arm around Roger's waist and pulled him close. Roger sank heavily against him, panting for breath, slick with sweat. Tangled together, spent, without meaning to, they both drifted into oblivious sleep. ----- It was still dark when Vinnie woke up. Before awareness set in he'd risen and wandered off to the bathroom; only upon returning did it register that Roger was no longer in the bed. Curious, he wandered into the living room to find Roger in jeans, sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa, watching CNN with the sound muted. Vinnie sat down beside him, watching Roger's face as the TV's light flickered across it. Unreadable... No. All too readable. Vinnie sighed heavily and turned towards the television. After a minute or so Roger said quietly, "I think I'll be leaving today." Vinnie ran through a list of responses, from an accepting nod to a plaintive Don't go, and discarded them all. Despite everything, despite the attraction and lust and silent understanding, despite the undeniable bond he felt -- and was sure Roger felt, too -- some things did not change. After all was said, and done, and felt, and shared, this was still Roger Lococco. A dusty memory unfolded... Roger's dry voice saying, "I move fast and bore easy." No, that memory was unfair... but the damage was done. Resentment uncoiled and Vinnie found himself glaring at Lococco, wondering if beating him to a pulp would really feel as good as he imagined. Roger turned to him then, smiling, seeming to have read his thoughts for he said, "You can hit me if you want to, but you gotta know I'll hit back." Thrown by Roger's mind-reading, Vinnie laughed guiltily, his fury already dead. "I know it won't do any good anyway," he sighed. He gave Roger a sidelong glance. "Will it?" Roger chuckled quietly, shaking his head. "Ah, Vinnie... I know you know that this is not about you, or us, it's about me. Right now this is what I have to do." He looked directly into Vinnie's eyes, calm, serious. "I know you understand that," he said firmly, although his eyes revealed the fear that Vinnie wouldn't understand. "Yes, I do," Vinnie responded without hesitation. He did understand, and that was partially the problem. Understanding wouldn't keep him from missing Roger like crazy once he'd gone. If only he could hold Roger's lone-wolf attitude against him, it might be easier to watch him leave. Roger reached out, pressing his palm to Vinnie's cheek, gave him a soft kiss. "Thanks." Vinnie returned his kiss, feeling a sort of peace at having the issue settled, but needing Roger to know that understanding was not the same as accepting. "Don't stay away so long this time, huh?" He grinned and added, "I'll buy new locks -- give you a better challenge when you're breaking in." Roger laughed. "You do that." He watched the TV for a moment, then promised, "I won't stay away so long this time, you have my word." "Good." Vinnie curved his arm around Roger's shoulders, drawing him into a kiss. ----- 2 weeks later, New Orleans Choosing the ugliest postcard he could find was not an easy task. Too vast a selection. Roger scanned the racks with a connoisseur's eye, eliminating the merely mundane and routinely tacky. At last, gold. Plucking it from its slot, he smiled at his choice and, whistling idly, went to the cash register to pay, buying the stamp for it as well. There was a dark yet somehow inviting dive next door. Roger sat at the bar with his beer, affixed the stamp, fished in his jacket for his pen. He paused then, nursing another drink of beer as he considered what to write. For inspiration he turned the card over to admire its utter tastelessness. It was a hand-drawn cartoon, which already placed it above its photographic competition in terms of ugliness. A crude, outline map of Louisiana, with New Orleans marked by a naked woman with enormous breasts. A cheerful, bright red crawfish wearing a fishing cap with his 'arm' wrapped around her waist, thought bubble above his cap reading, Something spicy for ever'body in the Big Easy. Yes, without a doubt, this was the worst postcard he could find. Roger chuckled and turned it over again, beginning to write. Dear Vinnie, I've ended up down here and may stay for a while. Maybe I'll bring you some crawdads and catfish. Here's a number, should be good for a few weeks at least: (504) 555-2926. Call me if you need me. Take care of yourself. R (the end)

"I'm gonna go out of my way to make life as difficult for you as possible." "You're new here, son, so I'll let that pass. Others have tried to wear the white hat, and all have failed." "I just caught one of your landlords harrassing one of your tenants. Don't ever let me see that again." "What's his name? I'll see that he's dealt with." "The easy days are over. I'll be watching you." "So you say, Mr Tyler." * The Arms was dim from smoke, the stench of stale beer in the air. Sam didn't know what he was doing, standing awkwardly in the doorway. Gene was at the bar with Ray - an early lunch, Sam supposed, since it hadn't yet gone noon and there were shot glasses in view. He had his head back, was barking out a laugh. Seemed comfortable and relaxed in ways he never was with him, and Sam felt a twinge of something indecipherable low in his gut. He wanted to crow about giving the money back to Warren, he realised. Wanted to tell Gene this was the way to go, that a bent copper was worse than a crook, because he had no sense of loyalty of anything to anyone. And Gene lived for loyalty, if there was one thing Sam was beginning to learn about his Guv, it was that. Sam wanted to wash the taste of his encounter with his mum out of his mouth with a stiff drink and companionship. She had refused his offer of money with such repugnance, he didn't think he'd ever rid himself of the memory of her expression. He wanted to just be with Gene, concentrate on that instead of the conflicting emotions jostling about for attention. Since arriving in this Godforsaken place, Gene had been a revelation he couldn't have anticipated. He'd never thought he'd grow to enjoy his company, to actively seek it out. But having saved each other's lives more than once, they'd formed a bond. One that wasn't as strong as Sam constantly wished it was. If Gene were going to continue ignoring Warren's criminal activities in order to line his pockets, then Sam was going to have to do something to prove a point - maybe, in this situation, words weren't enough. He didn't move. He simply stood like a sentry guard to hell. And Gene never even noticed he was there. Sam turned on his heel and pushed back out through the door. He'd go to the station, grab some food in the canteen. It was pointless trying to talk sense until he had Gene on his own, and he'd find a way to secure that happening. * The corned beef hash was about as disgusting as Sam remembered, greasy and slick against his palate, but at least the company was good, even if Annie refused to listen to him with an open mind. Any semblance of enjoyment was stripped as soon as Phyllis told him about Joni, though, and all he could think was 'opportunity'. He remembered her from the club; dark hair, sad eyes. He'd sensed she didn't like her position as one of Warren's dancers, but the music had been too loud, and the club too packed, to strike up a real conversation. "I'm frightened. Really frightened." "Frightened of who?" "Stephen Warren. He says he's gonna kill me if I don't deliver you to him. Wants me to act as a honey trap. Says if I don't, he'll... he'll..." Joni started to shake, her eyes wide and wild, her arms crossing over her chest, and Sam's protective instincts went into drive. He subconsciously stepped forward, hands held out, placating. "Calm down, Joni. It'll be okay." "You don't know him like I do, DI Tyler. He's ruthless, has high-up people on his side." "I need evidence. It's his word against yours, otherwise. I can't just go storming in with the full weight of the law." "Can you talk to him? If you pretend you're going along with his plans, maybe you'll get what you need?" He sighed, rubbed the back of his head. "Even in this day and age, I'd be compromising a potential investigation." "Please, DI Tyler? Sam? I know a place where he's cut off from his thugs. I could ask him to meet me there and you could go instead." "And what do you expect me to say? That I'll play his little games? Because I won't, Joni. I'm not corrupt." Joni's eyes hardened, her jaw set. "No, you're not. You're meant to be a good cop. The only decent one in this whole stinking place, but I'm coming to you for help here, and all you can do is leave me to die." Sam was stung by her words. Her disgust was an echo of his mother's, cutting deep into his veins. He needed to go by the book on this one, but it was a different book. He couldn't rely upon Gene, Annie didn't believe a word he said - he didn't know who he could turn to. "I'll do what I can, Joni, but I can't make any promises." * Sam tried to ignore the anxiety uncoiling within him as he drove, his quickened heart-rate and sweaty palms. He had to show Warren he wasn't intimidated. And if that wasn't true, he had to fake it. Sam pulled into the alleyway Joni had scrawled the directions to on a burger wrapper. One of the growing collection of abandoned textiles warehouses loomed to his left. A good place to do business, Sam thought. Quiet, out of the way, and not yet under suspicion by law enforcement, because it was hard to tell which businesses were still operating. He had to give Warren his due - he was a smooth operator. Sam climbed out of the car and made his way to the door, knocking five times, as he'd been told. The door opened, but no one appeared to be in the immediate vicinity. Sam went on immediate alert, and it occurred to him that it had been foolish to come here without taking a gun from storage, or at the very least, a cricket bat embedded with nails. If Warren had intended on killing Joni, didn't have any qualms about throwing wads of cash at people who were meant to be his enemies, and had a job description that included drug-smuggler, gun-runner and dodgy estate dealer, he'd probably not think twice about attacking a cop. On the other hand, if Sam went in fists blazing, he might provoke that kind of reaction when none had been intended. Sam held back, readying himself, taking a few deep breaths. He stepped into the warehouse, his footfall a steady crunch against dust and grit long set. "DI Tyler," Warren's voice echoed from behind him. "What a pleasant surprise." Sam had started to turn when he felt the dull weight against his head, his legs crumpling beneath him. He coughed through the plume of dust that rose with his fall. He was about to speak when there was a second thump and he was rendered insensible to the world. * When he came to, he was bound to a bench, naked. Judging by the distance of the ceiling and his view of the door in his peripheral vision, he was placed higher than he would be on a bed, lower than on a table. A rush of warm air was playing against his stomach. There were handcuffs around his wrists, he could feel the cold, solid metal digging into his flesh as he experimentally pulled his arms up, fists bunched. His legs, on the other hand, were tied with rope against the wooden bench legs - coarse fibres rasping against his skin. An inner voice told him not to panic, but his real voice sounded strained to his ears. "What're you doing, Warren?" "I'm giving you exactly what you wanted. A little time alone to tell me how you really feel." "Great. Well, then, I feel that you're a despicable pissant who preys on innocent people." "I always considered myself more puissant," Warren said with a smirk that was unnervingly menacing. "And if you're referring to Joni, she's far from innocent." Sam's muscles tensed as a hand settled low on his abdomen, thumb brushing idly towards his cock. A blade twirled in Warren's other hand, a flash of his distorted reflection flickering before Sam's eyes. He choked back a gasp, gaze roving to find a smirk that repulsed him, blue eyes that glinted in the meagre light. "I would never touch her," Warren continued, stroking, now, sending tremors up Sam's spine. "She's one of my best earners, very accommodating to those she's tasked to take care of. And she's much too soft. I like them hard, DI Tyler. That way, I can see them snap." Sam swallowed thickly, rolling his head back. He knew what Warren was implying, and it wasn't mere implication. His message was loud and clear. He had the power. He had the power and Sam had nothing. The hot breath was against him again, turning his skin to gooseflesh. As much as he wanted to deny that this was happening, to claim that this didn't happen, to anyone, but especially to men, to coppers - the reality of Warren's hand against his cock and warm mouth starting to suck on his balls begged to differ. Sam struggled in his bonds again, starting to shout. "No one will hear you," Warren said, pulling off. "It's just you and me. I thought about letting my guards watch, but I wanted this to be a private moment between us. I wanted you to enjoy it as much as I will." Sam found his inner reserve of steel. "I never could, Warren. This is sick. You are." "You might want to tell your body that, Sam," Warren said, adding weight to his name. "Although maybe you're imagining I'm someone else? Your superior officer, perhaps?" Sam squeezed his eyes shut and ignored the hardening of his cock, bile bubbling at the back of his throat. He didn't want this so why were his nerve endings responding to Warren's ministrations? There wasn't any truth to his proclamation that he was thinking of Gene, but he wanted something he couldn't explain, that was true. It was confusing, a feeling he couldn't reconcile with everything he had previously believed about himself. It was unsettling that Warren somehow knew this - that the short time they had spent in each other's company revealed a secret so close to Sam's heart. No. He couldn't see Gene in his mind's eye at this moment - refused to taint his image with these feelings of disgust. He had to imagine something else, someone else if needs must, but not the person he'd been dreaming about since he arrived in 1973. 1973. Imagination. That was small consolation. Perhaps none of this was real, perhaps he was safe and warm in a hospital bed, thirty-three years from now. But why would his mind conjure up such a horrific scenario? And why could he feel every vile touch, smell the cloying stench of Warren's cologne? He was aware of Warren rounding the bench, fingers clenching into his hair to wrench his head up. "Suck, my sweet. You'll want to get it good and wet. And if you even think about using those sharp little teeth of yours, I'll slit your throat." The head of Warren's cock brushed against his lips and Sam kept his mouth firmly shut. He refused to make this easy for the deranged creep who held him captive. This didn't stop Warren, who pinched his nose until Sam had to open his mouth to suck air into his burning lungs. He managed one mouthful before Warren was thrusting into him, his cock thick and heavy against the back of Sam's tongue, triggering his gag reflex. Sam's eyes watered as he looked into Warren's face - not crying, he wouldn't cry about this - but stinging from the pain of the violation. "I wanted to feel your pursed mouth around my cock the second I saw you," Warren crooned. "You're so unlike all the other cops. You have style and conviction. They're very attractive traits in a man." Sam wished he could silence Warren, needed him to stop talking. He was pretending this was about desire, but it wasn't, it was about domination. And somehow, that Sam could handle, it made sense within his understanding of the world. He hated it, but he understood. The idea that Warren might do this because he wanted him was sickening beyond words. "I'm going to take you now. It will hurt as I split you open, mould you around my dick, loosening you with each thrust. But don't worry, dear boy, it'll start to feel special soon enough." Warren undid the ropes tying his legs and Sam kicked. He made a concerted effort to struggle, yanking his arm down so hard the sharp crack of his thumb breaking rent the air. He screamed, still pulling, hoping the sweat trickling over his skin would help him slide his hand out from the handcuffs. If he had a hand free as well as his legs, he'd be able to keep Warren off, at the very least, until the knife came into play. Warren laughed, the sound low and cruel. "Feisty to the end. I love it." "I'm gonna kill you." "No. I'm going to have you and then I'm going to let you live with this lesson etched into your mind. There will be no death today." Sam kept kicking, but Warren got hold of his ankles and hoisted him up until his lower back was off the bench, his weight resting on his shoulders and neck. Warren climbed onto the bench and started dragging his cock up Sam's crease. Cold, clenching fear overtook all of Sam's senses as he contemplated how simple it was for Warren, that he was nothing but a mere ragdoll in his grasp. Warren dropped one of his legs and he meant to kick, but then fingers were at his hole, digging in, and the pain was distracting. He didn't move. "I was going to prepare you properly, but I think you'll only make things harder for yourself if I take the time and effort, so this will have to do." Sam thought about lying, saying that he'd do whatever Warren wanted so long as the pain would stop, but pride prevented him from being so weak. He couldn't stop himself from screaming when Warren forced his cock into him, though. Couldn't do anything but wheeze at the feeling of being stretched beyond his limits. Warren drew back until only the head of his cock was still within him, then pounded forward again. He repeated the action, but quicker. Sam's skin crawled as Warren moved, grunting as his face turned red. "It would have been easier to lie you on your front, but I wanted you to look into my eyes when I did this, Sam," Warren said, triumph making his voice coarse. "I wanted you to see that I owned you - body and soul. You thought you were above my money, but you weren't above my lust." Warren snapped his hips, changing the angle until Sam realised with mounting horror that his body was responding again. He prayed to a God he didn't believe in that he'd lose consciousness as the pounding got faster and his cock hardened between their bodies. "Yes, that's right. I knew you would love this. I told you it would be special," Warren continued, sounding exalted. "You're positively Machiavellian, Warren," Sam spat back. Warren bent down and kissed him. Sam felt his resolve to remain strong cracking, the prickle of tears harsh against the back of his eyes. Warren slobbered over him, tasting of bitter coffee and cigars, and Sam wanted the world to end. Four more thrusts and Warren was coming, pumping into Sam with a guttural growl. He collapsed, body slick and stinking of sweat. Sam's instincts took over and he kicked again, drawing his legs up and twisting his hips. He screamed with the exertion, almost achieving success when he heard an almighty crash and recoiled as light flooded into the room and the door to his left rocked off its hinges. Warren pulled out of him, half stumbling, half running towards another exit in the building. Sam heard the thunder of running footsteps follow in the same direction. His muscles buckled and he sank onto the bench, the fight left in him slowly dissipating. A familiar silhouette blocked the light and Sam's stomach turned. In all of this, he had never thought there might be a chance for someone coming to his rescue, but here he was. Gene, looking down at him with such revulsion, Sam's heart stopped beating. At first, he thought the disgust was directed at him - that he could be so pathetic to allow himself to be used, but then Gene was stroking Sam's head with one hand, trying to undo the handcuffs with the other. "I'm so sorry," Gene muttered, soft, but desperate. "I knew what he was, but I never thought he'd go to these lengths. I should've warned you." "It's my fault." Sam choked out, overwhelmed. "I was too stupid to realise this was a trap and too weak to stop it when I finally twigged." Gene's expression was maniacal as he shook his head. "No, Sam, don't ever think that. You were the only one brave enough to stand up to Warren. The rest of us are the idiots and the cowards." Sam wished he could believe it as Gene took off his coat and laid it over him. Wanted to agree when his wrists were finally free of the handcuffs. Knew he never could when he watched as Warren was dragged away by Ray and Lytts and terrified nausea clutched at him and didn't let go. * He didn't expect Gene to look at him the same in the ensuing days, and he didn't. Gene was there when he was examined by the doctor and there when he was sent home. There was a protective, watchful streak to his gazes that were unsettling and comforting all at once. Sam was on some kind of suicide-watch, he could tell. Gene insisted on him staying at his house, and he would have said no, was going to, but the thought of being alone in his flat put a stop to his refusal. Gene initially said that his wife was staying with her sister, but Sam could see he was lying by omission, and a week into his stay Gene admitted they had split. "I can't believe he took the risk," Gene said, filling up two glasses with scotch. "He didn't think it was one," Sam replied, softly, watching the liquid swirl. He looked up at Gene to see his brows knit together, a hesitant flicker in his eyes. "Warren was banking on me being too humiliated to say or do anything." "And was he right?" Sam took a large mouthful of his drink. "I don't know. It's not - I couldn't - description doesn't do it justice." "Nothing will do it justice. Warren could rot in hell for eternity and it wouldn't be enough," Gene said with a low growl. Sam silently agreed, longing for a time he wouldn't be able to recollect every sound and movement, for the words to stop reverberating in his head. The worst aspect was that he knew exactly what Warren had been doing - psychologically he understood the motivations and purposes, could write a whole essay about it - but he still woke up every night covered in a cold sweat, rocking from side to side, sobbing into the night air. "He'll be going into maximum security," Gene said, breaking into his thoughts. "Just got the word today. Not sure how long for, yet, but it's a start." He said it with a detached air that was so unlike himself, Sam wanted to punch him to get him back to treating him how he used to. But that detachment stopped Sam from flashing back to being tied to the bench, rope scratching his ankles. Gene plied him with more alcohol, thinking it a cure for all ills, and Sam accepted because it dulled the pain and humiliation, for an hour or two. In the next couple of weeks, Sam tried to get back into the rhythm of work, although Gene was understandably reluctant to let him. He wasn't the only one treating him with kid gloves. Most people at the station could hardly look him in the eye. But Sam was insistent and he had to have this, because without it, all he had were his thoughts. "I need a case, Gene. Something to focus on. Please." Gene's stare was guarded. "Alright, but it's strictly a desk job." "Fine." "You're not to be out on the street." "I get it." "It's not that I don't think you're capable," Gene said, touching Sam briefly on the shoulder. Sam had expected to want to flinch away from his touch. Most of the rape cases he had encountered previously suggested he would, but Gene's skin against his own calmed him and he found himself moving into it more often than not, even initiating contact. It was a grounding influence, an overwhelming sensation of familiarity that cut through the memories that kept him up at night. And a lot of the time, Gene wasn't afraid to touch Sam, which he supposed could be through ignorance, but it felt more like he knew what Sam could take. The physicality of their relationship had changed. Gene was more willing to talk, less ready with his fists, but he would put a steering hand on his elbow, sit close to him on the settee - seemed to think he could erase Warren's fingerprints dancing across Sam's body - and sometimes, he could. But at this moment all Sam wanted was to be left alone. "It's not that you don't think I'm capable, I'm just not," he said monotonously, winding his arms across his chest and withdrawing into himself. * Four months passed and Sam was still plagued by nightmares, although they had abated to once or twice a week as opposed to every night. He was bathing less, too, not needing to scrub so hard. These were encouraging signs, he thought - signals that he might be working towards passing for normal. He still lived with Gene, though. Hadn't found it within him to gather the confidence to step out on his own. Gene didn't seem to mind. Although he afforded Sam more and more responsibility, he still sheltered him - giving him easy cases, keeping a close eye on how people at the station treated him. Occasionally, this pissed Sam off and he rallied against it, but then there were those other times when he needed someone to bolster him up, and Gene was there, caring more than he probably should and making Sam feel an emotion that wasn't numbness and disconnection. There was a look that Gene would get that suggested he was waiting for a certain reaction from Sam, an uneasiness in their interaction that pointed to depths Sam didn't yet have the strength to uncover. Gene stood by him and Sam had to be thankful for this. Sam began covertly working on a draft proposal for a specialised unit that would help support rape victims. He hated the word victim, would more often refer to survivors, but he knew from previous conversations that no one else understood his reasoning. He envisioned a place where people could go to talk to counsellors and health care professionals - a centre that had close allegiances and initial funding from the police, but would ultimately operate separately. Gene looked at him as if he were mad when he put forward his idea. "It would be a recovery centre," Sam explained, sitting on Gene's brown leather settee, half a scotch swirling in the glass in his hand. "People are afraid to talk about what's happened to them, but for some, it's necessary." "Isn't it a little too close to the bone?" Gene said, concern deepening the frown line between his brows. "It's precisely because I have personal experience that I am the person to head this," Sam replied, obstinately. "We won't secure much funding." "I'll do my best with the little we're given. I'm sure there'd be volunteers." Gene kept frowning. "How would you be able to tell if the people you were trying to help were others like you? Not just tarts who didn't get their way?" Sam rose quickly, spinning on his heel, surprising Gene with his swiftness. His fist connected with a satisfying crunch and he would have hit again, but Gene stepped away, holding his hands out. "Wrong thing to say," he grunted. "I understand." "No one deserves to be raped. Not every case may be genuine, but you're a fool if you think that's the majority." "I never said that." "No, but you've thought it before now, haven't you? Oh, she's a woman, she must have asked for it, invited it, with her bedroom eyes and slutty clothes. Me? I was obviously abused, no bloke would ever want to be tied down and fucked like that." Gene winced, avoiding looking at Sam. Sam stood his ground. "I'm doing this. You can help or you can hinder." "Why? Why not try to forget?" "Because I've tried and it hasn't worked. I'm not gonna let this crush me, Gene. I'm not that weak." Gene's eyes were evasive, his hand curled into a fist so tight his knuckles whitened. "There's a difference between weakness and dealing with whatever it is you're dealing with." "This is how I deal." Gene took a swig from his flask, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "What do you want me to do?" "Smooth the way with Rathbone." "Is that all? Would you like world domination served alongside that? Maybe a side-order of eternal youth? Sam gave a tight smile. "Do your best, Gene. That's all I ask." * Sam sat across from Dr Tracy Wickham at a canteen table, jotting down notes to type up later. "I'd really like to provide a counselling service - not just for the survivor, but for friends and family too," he said, waiting to gauge her reaction. "If you're looking to set up counselling, you'll need a more comforting environment than this place. It's intimidating, all grey stone walls and taupe carpet," Tracy replied, screwing her face up as she glanced around them. She pushed her glasses further up her nose - a habit Sam had got used to seeing the past two weeks they'd held these discussions. Sam smiled as he followed her line of sight. "Yeah. Shockingly medieval, in't it? I'm not sure that the station is the best base of operations." "No, so where were you thinking?" "I've been looking at property, but at this stage it all takes money. I was wondering if you knew of any health centres that'd be able to find the space?" "I might." Tracy pushed her lips forward in concentration, obviously running through a mental list of names. "That reminds me, I've a couple other people you might be interested in talking to." "Great!" Sam poised his pen, preparing to take down names and numbers, when Annie came and placed her hand on his arm. "Sam, we need to talk." Sam stood, gave Tracy a small, confused smile, and followed Annie into Lost and Found. "Why're we here?" "Some privacy." Annie sat perched on the table, played with the hem of her skirt, her eyes fixed on her fingers. "What's this about, Annie?" "The Guv wanted me to tell you, because - well, I'm not sure why," Annie said, voice even higher than usual, and soft, too - as soft as she used to get when telling him he was mad for not believing the world was real. Sam felt tightness clutch his chest. "Tell me what?" "Warren rolled over on all his contacts. They're transferring him to a minimum security prison and lightening his sentence." Sam felt his mouth drop open, his throat constrict. "You can't be serious." "I wish I wasn't." Annie raised her hands and stepped forward, brushing her thumbs against his face with soft strokes. "Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry." Sam pulled away. "He sexually assaulted a police officer," he said, still not able to comprehend how this could be possible. "He has ties to international crime syndicates, not to mention a fair few friends still in positions of power." Sam went to punch the wall, thought better of it, and stared steadfastly into Annie's eyes, his chest heaving, face flushed. Each word he said was thick with anger and resentment. "Every time I think there's some justice in the world, I'm shown that's just not the case." Annie's expression was earnest. "Isn't that why we do what we do? To try and change that?" Sam nodded, more to himself than to Annie, willing himself not to conjure Warren's face into his mind. "Can you go and explain to Tracy that I'll have to reschedule?" "Of course." "Tell her I'm not sure when that'll be," Sam said, rubbing his hand against the back of his head. "Maybe next week?" Annie said with a hopeful lilt. "Don't make any promises, Annie." * The nightmares returned in full force, flashbacks cascading across his eyes, until one night he woke up yelling, Gene's arms around him. Sam peered into the darkness, knowing it was Gene, but unable to stop from shuddering straight away. "You were crying," Gene explained, awkwardly. He let go, moved back, but Sam crawled towards him. "No," he said, voice fractured. "Stay." Gene's hands settled back around Sam, a lingering note of discomfort in his posture. Sam waited as his eyes adjusted to the light and he could see Gene's Adam's apple bob in his throat, his gaze resolutely turned towards the wall. He thought about telling him to go, about getting up and finishing his draft proposal for the recovery centre, and was about to do so when Gene started to speak. "This reminds me of me and Stu, back in the day. Waiting for the racket to stop." "Stu?" "My brother." "How come I didn't know you have a brother?" "Had. Past tense. He died, ten years back. Got into drugs 'cause he'd memories he'd rather forget." "Of the war? Must've been terrifying for a young kid." Gene shook his head. "My old man was a drunk and he used to make us toe the line in various creative ways. His favourite was a punch, straight in the gut, then a right-hook to the chin." "Jesus. Sorry." "It's alright. I learnt to live with it. But Stu..." Sam filled in the lingering blank. "He didn't." "I'd protect him best I could, but it was never enough." Silence stretched between them, Sam shifting so that he was propped up against the wall with his feet flat against the bed, no longer enveloped by Gene's arms. He sighed to himself, the noise sounding too loud in the space between them. "You don't have to protect me," he said eventually, not wanting to sound like he was rejecting Gene and not entirely positive he was telling the truth anyway. Gene dug into his pocket for a cigarette and lit it with a detached shrug. "I take care of all my officers." Gene stayed with him through the night and they talked about anything other than Warren. But by the morning, Sam had made his decision. "I need to go and see him." Gene understood who he meant, despite their conversation recently veering into a discussion of George Best. "I don't think that's wise." "I have to. I have to prove myself to him." "You don't." "You can't understand." Gene reached out, increasing their contact. His tone was gruff, but Sam could hear an underlying note of concern. "Then tell me, because I think I need to." "He took something from me that day, Gene. He stripped me of my spirit, of belief in myself. It was why he did it. He said it was about lust, but it was about power, so I have to show him, show myself, that he doesn't hold that over me anymore." Gene voiced Sam's doubts. "But what if, after all of it, you still feel like he does?" "Well, in that case, I'll expect you to stop me from killing him." * They hovered by the door of the interview room. Sam stopped himself from pacing, but only just, his hand jittering against his thigh. "I could come in with you, if you'd like?" "It'd undermine my intention, I think." "The offer's there, if it gets too much, or you discover you wanna beat him to a pulp after all." Sam gave the hint of a smile. "I'll yell if that's the case." He took a deep breath, looking Gene in the eye. "You shouldn't be letting me do this, you know." Gene shrugged, expression vacant. "It's what you wanted, and I've learnt not to get in your way when you set your sights on something, no matter how I feel about it." "You make it sound like I'm headstrong, stubborn." "Yeah, what a ridiculous notion, however could I think that?" Sam raised an eyebrow. "It's not so true anymore." Gene's blankness disappeared, replaced by a look akin to outrage, skin tightening and eyes boring holes. "Is that what you think? That just because you have bad dreams you're somehow less than you were? You've proved that you're strong - stronger than many. You wanted this, so I'm here, but don't think for a second that I think you need this." "I don't just have bad dreams. If you think that's all I go through ---" "I don't," Gene said, shaking his head, eyes wide. "I know that isn't everything, but you're still you, despite what that limp-wristed sexual-sadist did, regardless of whether you'll feel better after this or not. I know that you'll come out of there the same stubborn prick who went in. The confidence you've got hasn't gone. It's just been whacked around a few times." Sam pursed his lips, not sure if he should show anger or gratitude. He didn't know if Gene was right, whether Gene's belief in him was borne out of an inability to understand the ramifications of his encounter with Warren. But he did know that he'd come this far and he had to see it to the end. Sam opened the door and stepped through. He was aware his body language was betraying him, that he kept his back to the wall and stood upright and tense, ready to spring should Warren turn into an attacker. Warren didn't seem to notice. Gaol had not been kind to him. His hair was long and lank, he was no longer wearing fine clothes, and he was thinner now, more haggard. But none of that stopped him from regarding Sam with amusement. "Couldn't stay away, could you? Had to see the man who opened your eyes to a whole new world." Sam regarded him for a long time, until Warren's smirk slackened and he began to look uneasy. This was the opening Sam needed - a quick pulse of energy thrumming through him. He sauntered forward and sat at the table. "You thought you could break me," he said, conversationally. "Don't tell me," Warren said with obvious trepidation that was revealed to be fake in the next breath. "I didn't?" Sam shook his head slowly. "No." "And why is that?" "It's simple. There are more important things than you in this world." "And more important things than you, I imagine." "Exactly." "But you don't still think about my cock driving into you, Tyler? Claiming you? Marking you as mine?" Sam was surprised that Warren's obvious attempt at intimidation didn't work. He calmly quirked an eyebrow. "I try not think about vile experiences." Warren chuckled, the sound thick. "You're still a hard man. That's really very sweet." "You failed to understand that being hard and being flexible aren't mutually exclusive. I don't snap easily." "Really? Then why have you come to speak with me today?" "Because, thanks to you, I've now found my place. See, I was lost before. Didn't know what I was doing here, couldn't understand why I bothered every day. But now, I have something to believe in." "Belief, really?" "Yeah. I'm gonna do everything in my considerable power to stop bastards like you. But if I can't always manage it, I'm going to ensure that people who think they've been broken can see just how strong they are - that the actions of weak-willed individuals like yourself don't have to dictate the way they lead their lives." "Good for you." The bitterness was sharp in Warren's voice. Whilst he wouldn't let his expression betray him, Sam could tell he was seething. And he realised, in that moment, that his objective had been achieved. He had done exactly what he set out do to. And Gene had been right all along. He stood, turned his back on Warren, and didn't flinch when Warren spoke. "I'll be seeing you, Sam." Sam put his hand on the door handle, pausing to glance over his shoulder. "No. You won't." * Sam sat in the Arms, the fug of smoke hovering above his head and the stench of stale beer flooding his nostrils. He had been discussing the latest advances in the recovery centre proposal with Annie; the idea of implementing training with WPCs and bobbies, until she had unceremoniously declared she needed to use the loo. "What about me?" Gene asked, nudging across the bar closer to Sam and looking at him like he wished to look through him, a dark inquisitive glint to his gaze. "I don't get any of this namby pamby training?" "The very fact that you used the words namby namby, Gene, show that this would be a very lost cause." "What? I can't be sensitive?" Sam felt a laugh bubbling up inside, threatening to escape. "Oi, you slag, d'you wanna talk about it with the Gene Genie?" he asked, imitating Gene with an accuracy even he was impressed with. Gene concealed amusement through furrowing his eyebrows in a comically exaggerated fashion. "What's wrong with that?" "Nothing, Guv," Sam said, shaking his head and smiling. He felt, for the first time in a long time, that it was genuine amusement --- he no longer needed to pretend to be okay. They shared a look, Gene regarding Sam carefully, as if sensing a subtle yet significant change. Sam acknowledged this with a slight head-tilt, wondering when he'd have the courage to thank Gene for the time and patience he'd given him. Despite the jokes and protestations about Gene's lack of sensitivity, he'd shown Sam a side that he knew few had ever been privy to. They shared a closeness that Sam felt positive neither of them had experienced before. "Another... water?" Gene asked, peering down at the empty glasses on the counter with a raised eyebrow that provoked another smile. "No. I'm alright, thanks." Gene wound an arm across his back and clutched his shoulder, the weight still warm, familiar and comforting, but with an extra spark too. Sam leaned into it and contemplated him with a lazy grin. Gene's eyes widened a fraction and his lips seemed to soften, until he recovered his senses and he loudly and rambunctiously ordered another round. "'Course you're alright," Gene said when his beer was on the bar. His eyes were on Sam's glass, but his arm was still holding firm. "You've got me, haven't you?" Sam didn't need to say anything, but he nodded and gave a self-mocking twist of his lips. "And for better or worse, you've got me."

______________________________ With what attentive courtesy he bent Over his instrument; Not as a lordly conqueror who could Command both wire and wood, But as a man with a loved woman might, Inquiring with delight What slight essential things she had to say Before they started, he and she, to play. - The Guitarist Tunes Up, by Frances Cornford _________________________________________ She walks toward him, slowly. Her shy grin captures his heart; she holds it in her hands, between the gentle swell of her breasts, distended and round with desire. She slips out of her fuzzy pink sweater, dropping it on the rug before pushing her skirt to the floor. She blushes, slowly-seeping pink onto her neck and chest, as she reaches to unhook her bra. He stops her, fingers tangling with her soft, small ones, kissing each wriggling digit—her hands, her heart—as he opens the clasp. The bra falls to the floor and she's bare before him, nervously glancing away from his steady gaze, a lock of fiery hair falling into her eyes. Smooth, smooth skin beneath his fingers; he strokes her lovingly, admiring the music of her gasps and whimpers, fine-tuning the sensitive spots on her body until she's resonating in perfect pitch… Her panties join the rest of her clothes on the rug. They tumble to the bed and her soft sighs echo in the silence; he pulls the credenza from her throat, kiss by kiss by kiss, touch by touch, thrust by thrust, joining her in duet, their cries cascading in harmony as the climax echoes in the stillness of the night and one soft word escapes her lips. "Oz." *** He was driving towards what he remembered to be a pretty good taco stand when all of a sudden, the earth jerked and he slammed on the brakes. Huh. Must've been a 'quake. Just as he was about to step on the gas, he noticed a big purple monster with sharp yellow teeth in the alley nearby. It looked like it was having a discussion with a creature who looked a bit like Skeletor from the He-Man cartoons he'd watched as a kid, except he was kinda green, and a little…wet-looking. They were exchanging something…drugs? Wow. The neighborhood had certainly gone downhill since the last time he'd been there. Turning left at the light, he remembered his He-Man lunchbox. Filled with nostalgia, he wished he knew where it had gone. The taco stand was a bust. Well, really, it was more busted than a bust, but either way, he wasn't getting tacos for lunch. His stomach rumbled and he wondered if there was any place left to eat in L.A. He spotted a fairly normal-looking guy walking down the sidewalk ahead and drove forward. As he came closer, he could see that the guy was wearing one of those sandwich-signs. It read: The End is Here. Glancing around, Oz figured he just might be right. He rolled down the window. "Hey!" The guy kept walking. "Hey!" Putting the car in Park, Oz leaned out the window, waving his arm. "Do you know where…" Blinking he trailed off. He felt so…weird. Weirder than was normal for him. A familiar itch started along his spine and his gums began to tighten. He was transforming. In the middle of the day. Gasping for breath, he reached for his meditation beads hanging from the rear-view mirror. Closing his eyes, he began his mantra, fighting to concentrate over the frantic thudding in his chest. Struck by a wave of dizziness, he faltered, crying out as the bones in his face cracked and twisted. Sounds faded. The world turned grey. And Oz slipped into unconsciousness. *** He wonders where she is, if perhaps he's misplaced her somewhere, underneath the sofa or behind the 'fridge. He searches, but isn't worried; he knows her scent, her touch, her voice. He'll find her in the end. He finds Skeletor in the washing machine. Crawling from the appliance, the cartoon shrugs and looks through a pile of laundry. He walks through the door, Skeletor following, and the Bronze is pumping. Devon wails from the stage and the guitar sings and the drums crash and Oz is without his bass. He pulls a bone from Skeletor's leg, but it only plays one note, one awful, terrible note that carries across the crowd all the way to the ocean. Skeletor walks into the water and glances back, waving a webbed hand before ducking under the swell of the waves. He's alone, now, sand below his feet; his shoes have disappeared. He cuts himself on a piece of glass and sits in the surf, watching as tendrils of red spread through the foam. He hears a voice from the hallway and stumbles from his bed. He didn't have to look; she found him, instead. *** "Oi! Wolf." Oz groaned, grimacing at the funky taste in his mouth; it almost reminded him of… His body jerked with the memory, his hands clutching reflexively around the object threaded through his fingers. His beads were still there. Closing his eyes once more, he began his mantra again, sighing as a cool calmness washed over him. He could still feel the barest irritation at the nape of his neck, but he was in control for now. "Wolf?" Groaning, he sat up, blinking into the brightness…and a pair of blue eyes. "Spike?" "Got it in one, Wolfboy." "Right. Where…? How…? Huh?" Spike smirked, crossing his arms and leaning against the van's fender. "Can't say as I've been here before, but I'm pretty sure this is hell," he said, pointing to the sky. Still a bit dazed, Oz followed Spike's gesture with his eyes, blinking when he saw both the sun and the full moon hovering in the sky. "Weird." "That about covers it." "Huh. So are you still…?" Oz asked, gesturing to his head. "Nah. All souled-up, now." "Didn't know they were handing those out." Gazing at the sun, Spike sighed. "Only if you're insane." "Ah. Understandable." He watched Spike watch the sun. He wasn't entirely comfortable taking Spike's word about having a soul, but he figured if he was going to be eaten, he'd rather it be a vampire he knew than a big, scary monster he didn't that did the deed. Switching his gaze to the sky, he studied the moon; it wasn't so impressive next to the sun. "So…that moon thing, is it permanent, do you think?" "Dunno. Imagine so." Glancing at Oz, Spike tilted his head. "It giving you problems?" "I feel a little…itchy." "You and me, both." "Oh. Right." Oz nodded. The sun was Spike's enemy, just as the moon was his. A great roar split the silence and Oz glanced over at Spike. "Maybe we should…" Oz inclined his head towards the van. "Right with you." He got in the van, reaching for his keys as Spike crossed to the passenger side, opening the door and sliding into the seat. Oz started the van. "Oh, I put the girl in the back," Spike remarked offhandedly, pointing his thumb towards the rear of the van. "Oh." Oz glanced in the mirror; sure enough, there was a girl slumped across the back seat. "She ok?" Spike winced, turning away from Oz to look out the passenger window. "Don't know. She's…not been herself, lately." He fiddled with the door lock, pulling and pushing the knob, the click of the locks activating the only sound for a few moments. "Before, I mean." "Ah." Oz glanced at the girl again. She was pretty, but he knew better than most that 'pretty' wouldn't save you from the monsters. Turning his attention to the road, Oz began to navigate the cluttered streets, weaving through blocks of cement and tree limbs and car parts. He'd just stopped at a red light when he noticed movement in the rear-view mirror; the girl in the back was sitting up, but…she looked like she was ready for a sci-fi convention. "Uhm…" Not taking his eyes off the mirror, he reached out and tapped Spike's shoulder. "Is she supposed to do that?" Looking back, Spike swore softly, sighing. "Suppose so." The girl leaned forward, icy eyes focused on Spike. "What dimension is this?" Sliding over to the window, she studied the landscape, from the shattered buildings to the great purple tentacles sprouting from the ground. Glancing at Spike, she nodded. "This is more acceptable. The stench of rotting death—of blood and pain and despair—is heavy here. This will be…a challenge worthy of Illyria." Spike grimaced—"Right. Glad you approve"—before returning his attention to Oz. "That's Illyria. Some sort of primordial God-King, only she's taken up residence inside Fred's skin. The other one's Fred, by the way." "So…they're both sharing a body?" "No. Well, at first it looked like Fred was gone, that Illyria had taken up residence and there was only room for one, see, but now…I can't help but wonder how much of Fred's really in there." Oz watched Spike watch…Fredlyria for a few moments, then shrugged and pulled into the intersection. If there were any cops left, he supposed traffic violations would be pretty low on the radar. He drove another three blocks before catching Spike's attention again. "Uh, Spike? Where are we going?" "Bollocks. I thought you had a place in mind." "No, I just… Well, we'll find something." "Yeah." Oz turned onto the freeway, accompanied by the rhythm of the van's locks engaging and disengaging. *** They traveled for hours, meandering through the streets, stopping occasionally to pick up survivors—screeching to a halt, waging war against creatures so fantastically grotesque that even the Hellmouth had never seen their like, stumbling, crawling back to the van—until the vehicle was packed with people. "We've got to stop." "Hate to break it to you, mate, but I don’t think we're gonna find a working loo in this hellhole." "It's not that—not that a bathroom wouldn't be nice, but—we're almost out of gas." "And all the pumps we're passing…?" "Are computer automated. They won't work if the system's off-line and…the power's fluctuating too much to keep a computer running." Signaling—although he didn't know why, since there wasn’t anyone else on the road—he turned onto a service road. "We've got to find one of the old ones." Fifteen minutes later, they found a station, and a place to stay, strange as it seemed. An old roadside amusement park was across the street from the station, its riderless attractions still and creepy in the strange twilight as the full moon passed over the sun. The itch grew worse as Oz surveyed the park and he reached into his pocket for his beads. Creepy or not, it had several inhabitable trailers and a large convention center that was intact. It would do, for now. After helping the survivors find a suitable place to sleep, Oz followed Spike to an abandoned trailer which was dusty inside, but had a sofa and a bed in the back room. Grunting, Spike stumbled into the back. Sighing, Oz bedded down on the sofa. *** It's cold. He shudders in an attempt to warm himself, wrapping arms around knees that are curled against his body to hide his nakedness. It's quiet. He doesn't know whether the quiet is better or worse; he really doesn't want to know what makes monsters scream. They're staring, glazed eyes fixed on his naked body, on his helplessness. Rows of faceless soldiers, grey-eyed and expressionless, mindless drones in the thrall of the white. Of the cold, white walls, white floors, white coats. White coats dancing in the halls, in perfect rhythm to the screams, to the howls and yelps and wails, the beat of research thrumming through the complex, knowledge and judgment rising in counterpoint as the soldiers march to the beat. He spins—they'll step on him, crush him beneath combat boots and unflinching stares—still naked, still helpless, and the white coats ask for a scalpel and the blood flows, fists clenched, straining against the cold until the white comes… He fights, blinking, straining to see, to think, to breathe, to maintain even the barest amount of control, but the drugs sing a song that sticks in his head; he hums along as the white clouds his vision… *** Gasping, Oz fell onto the floor with a thump. He could still feel the cold, seeping into his bones, both from the atmosphere and the scientists' inquisitive stares. Shuddering, he huddled against the sofa, hugging his legs to his chest and hiding his face between his knees, fighting to keep the nightmare at bay. It didn't work. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself from the floor and crept across the trailer. He shivered again as he pushed Spike's door open and peered into the darkness, courtesy of thick, heavy blankets over the windows. Apparently, after a century, some habits were hard to kick. "Wolf?" "Yeah." "Alright?" "I… No." The bed sheets rustled as Spike pulled back a corner and patted the mattress. "Come'ere." Rubbing the chill from his arms, Oz maneuvered into the space between the bed and the wall and slid beneath the sheets, twisting and wriggling until he was cocooned in the blankets. "'S wrong?" Spike's voice broke the stillness, loud in the dark. "Nightmare." "Know plenty about those." Releasing a long, shuddery sigh, Oz turned his head to the wall. "Do you ever think about it?" "What? The perfect Twinkie? Nah, that's Harris's shtick." Despite himself, Oz felt the corner of his mouth curve upwards at the mention of Xander; he missed his Twinkie-loving friend. "Twinkies aside, though, I meant…them…the Initiative." Spike sucked in a breath. "'S not nice to hit a bloke below the belt before sunrise—or whatever the bleeding hell passes for sunrise in this hellhole." The mattress dipped as Spike rolled away; Oz heard the crinkle of plastic and the snick of a lighter as a small flame lit the room. Spike's face was gaunt in the firelight, his eyes distant as he took a pull from his cigarette. The flame died, leaving the end of the cigarette glowing like an ember, floating eerily as Spike took it from his mouth. "More often than a Baddie like myself cares to admit." The silence stretched between them, heavy and warm and comfortable. As Oz's eyelids grew weighted with sleep, he whispered into his pillow, "Thanks." A cool hand pressed into the middle of his back and finally, he slept, undisturbed. *** After a week of nightmares—waking in a cold sweat, flailing and falling from the sofa, stumbling into Spike's bed—the arrangement became permanent. After a long day of scavenging for water and food and supplies, battling vamps that came after the survivors and vandals who came after the supplies, they'd stumble into the small bed, bodies pressed together, Spike's limbs wrapped around his body as he sought Oz's warmth during the night. The constant pull of the moon ensured that Oz never slept long. Most mornings he'd extract himself from Spike's grip and go for a jog around the park, but sometimes he'd simply lie awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to his own heartbeat, his own breathing, and Spike's occasional mutters about blood and sex and onion blossoms. Sometimes, Spike got hard, rubbing himself against Oz's hip, nuzzling against his shoulder, whispering about want and desire and love. He stared at the cracks in the window, or at the repeat of the grain in the veneered particle board of the cabinet fronts, and thought of Willow. He'd never really been able to get her out of his mind. She was always…there…her sweet smile and the sparkle in her eyes… It wasn't about mating or the Wolf or any of the mumbo-jumbo he'd read in some of Giles's journals, it was about Willow… …nothing more and nothing less. She'd captured his heart and he'd never even wanted to ask for a return. Sighing, he rolled over, feeling Spike shift to mold against his back, slipping a cool arm around his waist, and prayed for sleep. *** His hands are empty. He feels useless, hollow and plastic like a mannequin. He can't remember what it was like, before. He hears its sadness; cries rising like birds to the heavens, then plunging into the depths in coarse, rhythmic shouts. His guitar is weeping. In the hands of a Polgara, who plucks at its strings like picking feathers from a chicken, ripping the sounds from deep inside, where the notes are jumbled and confused, keys mixing, timing uneven and fitful, full of sudden stops and pauses, caesura and fermata in an infinite loop. In the hands of a Brachen, who twists the pegs 'round and 'round, laughing merrily as the strings creak and snap, percussive and sharp staccato rising above the universe, falling into disrepair and disfunction. No more music to be found. His fingers twitch in the empty air. His guitar weeps, still. *** He was snooping through the supply closets in the convention center when he stumbled onto Fred, who was leaning over a conglomerate of green circuit boards. She looked up, dropping a screwdriver as the door clicked shut behind him. "Oh! Hey, Oz." "Hey, Fred." "That's me. It's short for Winifred, but no one calls me that. Just Fred." "Yeah, I'd heard that." Oz hid his grimace. Spike had mentioned Fred wasn't herself; it was the third time she'd told him her name. Smiling, she held out her hand. "You want some peanuts?" Oz shook his head. "Alright,"—she tossed the handful of nuts into her mouth and continued in between chewing—"but there's plenty where these came from, if you change your mind. I found 'em in the green shed out back, the one with the tin roof? I think they were for the elephants. Do you think they had elephants?" "I don't think that amusement parks have elephants. That's usually more of a circus thing." "Oh." Fred's face fell a little. "I could be wrong, though. It's been a while since I've been to one of these, when it was actually running, I mean." "No. You're probably right. I guess they just…fed them to people. People like peanuts, too." "Yeah, people are funny like that." "Anyways, I was looking for more parts—thought I'd make myself useful and see if I could find a way to contact home, or the others, at least—but there weren't any electronics, just goobers." She sighed, popping another handful of nuts into her mouth. "Lots and lots of goobers." She bent to retrieve the screwdriver, then straightened, squinting at the mess on the table. She fiddled a bit, then turned the knob on a radio faceplate she'd hooked to the contraption. The room was filled with scratchy static for a few moments while Fred tweaked her creation. "Hmm," Fred murmured as music began to play from a speaker that looked like it had been pulled from an automobile. Oz made a mental note to check the van when he left. "Guess I'm picking up the wrong frequency." Fred's brow furrowed a bit as she peered at the circuitry, then she shrugged and smiled. "I was going for communication, but the music's nice, too, isn't it?" "Yeah." Oz closed his eyes and the rhythms and chords washed over him—he hadn't realized how much he'd missed music, although it made sense that he'd have to do without the thing he loved most in hell. His fingers itched for a guitar as he strummed the air in time with the music. He'd abandoned his last guitar—his favorite guitar—near a McDonald's on Interstate 5 to make room for another survivor, and he was keenly feeling its loss. He wondered, momentarily, if he might be able to find it, but the chances of it being intact after Godzilla and Company rampaged through the streets was slim at best. Glancing up, he saw Fred, grinning and swaying in rhythm. He was never the dancing type, more the stand-and-play type, but he extended his hand to Fred anyways. He was always a little wary of getting too close to Fred—she babbled a lot and had a big brain that reminded him of Willow, and that hurt—but he just couldn't seem to resist the sweet, childlike smile. Besides, everyone needed a friend in hell, and Spike treated her like a china doll while the others, wary of her Blue moments, steered clear. And, truthfully, Oz was glad to know such a good person still existed in the world. So they danced and twirled until the music stopped for commercial, and Oz hugged her close and thanked God that Willow wasn't living through this disaster. *** He stared into the darkness as the mattress dipped under Spike's weight. He was tired of hell. He was tired of struggling, tired of being hungry, of being afraid, of not knowing if everyone he knew would be dead in the morning. Jaw tightening, his breath began to quicken. He wanted to scream. Just as he thought he'd explode, a cool hand found his and their fingers twined together. He squeezed tightly; Spike squeezed back. Together they squeezed and squeezed and squeezed, until Oz's fingers first began to ache and then grew numb. He growled unhappily as a strong arm wrapped around his chest and forcefully pulled him into Spike's cool body, yelping when sharp fangs ripped into the muscle in his shoulder. He'd wondered when it would be his turn. So many others had died; it was only a matter of time until he joined them. Closing his eyes, he relaxed, falling limp in Spike's arms, against Spike's mouth, breathing shallow and lethargic. When Spike's mouth pulled away, tongue lapping at the wound, Oz gasped, eyes popping open to stare into the shadows. "Spike?" "Shhhh." Gentle hands gripped his shoulders, pulling until he was flat on his back—"'S alright, pet"—and soft, smooth lips brushed against his mouth. For a moment, he didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't blink… …and then he opened his mouth. He groaned as Spike's tongue slipped inside, twining with his own, tracing the lines of his palate, his gums. The coppery taste of his own blood filled his mouth as he grappled for purchase on Spike's chest, one hand slipping to a smooth back, the other to knot in Spike's hair as he tugged the cool body onto his own. He wanted to think of soft smiles and curvy hips, of green eyes and small, tentative hands, but the fear and desperation and hunger were wearing away at him, day by day, and, combined with the maddening prickle of the moon on his skin, he needed something. Something hard and rough and strong and fierce, something physical, something overwhelming, something to make the world fall away… Spike's wandering hands tugged the elastic of his boxers, pulling them down and off and then there was nakedness, hard chests colliding, legs winding together, cocks rubbing and thrusting, one against the other. Thoughts of hell and death and monsters were swept from his mind as muscular hands gripped his hips, nearly lifting him from the bed as his groin was pressed against Spike's thigh, one of Spike's legs sliding between his own. It was a different sensation, slick with sweat and heat while his partner remained cool, moistened only by the opaque fluid oozing from their pricks. Lips latched onto his neck, sucking and nibbling and licking at the sensitive skin; he cried out, fingers clenching and tugging on Spike's hair. A half-growl, half-moan was ripped from his chest as blunt teeth pressed into his wounded shoulder; yowling, he bucked, flipping Spike onto his back. Landing astride Spike's hips, he sat a moment, surveying the landscape. Spike was smooth and pale and flawless, youth captured for eternity, splayed out before him, waiting to be marked. He leaned forward, capturing Spike's lips in a deep, wet kiss, teeth clacking together with the biting force. Ripping himself away, he began to gnaw on Spike's flesh—the tender tendons of his neck, the rippling muscles in his shoulders, the flat planes of his chest and abdomen, the tiny peaks of his nipples. The skin became red and abraded under his mouth, his cock throbbing with each grunt pulled from Spike's wicked mouth. Glancing up, he watched Spike, eyes closed, biting his lip, fingers twisted in the sheets. A wave of lust rolled through his body and he launched himself towards Spike's mouth, teeth sinking into the fleshy lower lip as his hips rocked into the cradle of Spike's legs. Heat pooled in his stomach, flickering into his arms and legs, shooting up his spine until finally sparking between his legs. Hips juddering against Spike's abdomen, he came, slumping onto Spike's chest as he, too, shuddered his completion. He panted against the flawless skin of Spike's chest, face pressed against the wonderfully cool body as fingers began to trail through his hair. "Alright?" Spike's voice was gravelly and soft and oddly sexy. "Think so." He sighed, feeling boneless and wrung-out and wonderful. Hell could wait until morning. *** She's just as beautiful as he'd remembered. He gazes at the dimple in her cheek, soaks up her sweet smell, imagines how she'll feel beneath his hands, his body, writhing together in concert, their reunion explosive and desperate, sheets tangled into a cocoon. But her smell is different. She smells of another. Possessive rage floods his body; he growls, stretching and twisting in remembered moonlight, spitting and roaring and he wants to kill, wants to rend and tear and devour. Blood fills his mouth, blonde hair splayed across the floor like a blanket. Her screams are like church bells; he worships inside her torso, taking unto himself her body and blood and life. He gorges himself on meat, on this usurper who would steal her away, to rob him of her sweet smile, her gentle hands, the soft skin of her belly. So he takes his revenge: the other will smile no more, hands never touching, belly always empty. But he is satisfied. The other is vanquished, and she is his. *** Days and weeks melted into months They sent out search parties to scavenge for supplies; they were always a little different on return. Sometimes, the party had grown, picking up stray humans who'd managed to avoid death by monster. More often than not, they returned a few men short. Sometimes, they didn't return at all. In her Blue moments, Fredlyria played Lord of the Manor, dispatching rival creatures with relish. The rest of the time, Spike used bluster and bullshit to keep the encroaching monsters at bay. It was a strange half-life, the monotonous weight of the day-to-day struggle to find enough to eat broken by stark moments of terror in a fight for their lives. Occasionally, though, there were smiles and friendship and laughter. He and Fred kept fiddling with her radio, giggling and enjoying music when a new station was found, frowning and puzzling over resistors and capacitors and oscillators when they received nothing but static. They spent three days fashioning a guitar out of a modified shovel and some piano wire; it wasn't terribly in-tune, but Oz lovingly strummed it in time to whatever music was on offer for the day, be it Rock or Hip Hop or New Age. In her drive for communicating with the rest of her friends, Fred was working on a new device, using the parts she'd not needed for their radio. Not paying much attention, Oz was blissfully picking away at his guitar while Fred frowned and mumbled and calculated until the device began to pick up a signal. "Will……erg is in...tody. I repeat……llow Ro….erg is in custody." The guitar fell from Oz's fingertips, clattering to the ground as he strode across the room to stare at the radio. "Willow." "Oh. That didn't sound good, did it?" Fred bit her lip, twisting the dial to clarify the signal. "…..threat to nation…..curity….an…dangerous." "Willow." The skin on the back of Oz's neck began to prickle, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Someone had Willow. "What is this?" he growled. Fred squeaked. "I—I'm not sure. It sounds like…military? But that doesn't make a heap of sense, seein' as how you probably need some sort of code to get in, and Willow doesn't seem to be all that threatening, really." "Except for the hacking." His gums were itching again. "And the…major mojo." Fred grimaced. The tingle spread down Oz's spine. He frantically searched his pockets for his meditation beads, but surmised they must've fallen out of his pocket earlier in the day when he and Spike had torn each other's clothes off. Sinking to the floor, he tried to control his breathing. Willow was in danger. Howling in agony as his skin began to stretch, he didn't notice Fred running out the door. The colors in the room faded to grey as his pupils began to dilate; the smells became stronger as his senses sharpened. He squirmed as the prickle spread from his spine across his back, rolling onto the floor and wriggling against the irritation. "Oz." He looked up at his name; Spike was in the doorway, Fred hovering anxiously behind, peeking over his shoulder. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he managed to speak—"Change. Go"—before collapsing to the floor. Spike pushed Fred out of the room and closed the door. Finally the pain stopped. Oz glanced down at his hands; they were still human, slightly clawed with tufts on the back, but he hadn't changed completely. He bared his teeth at the scent of vampire as Spike came closer. "'S alright, pet. Keep breathing." Oz shook his head as the smell came closer; it was at the same time threatening and irresistible. His claws itched to rend and tear, his fangs to sink into flesh, to indulge in the taste and smell of fresh meat. "Spike…go." His words came out more a growl than anything else. "Not going anywhere, love. Gonna stay right here." Spike crouched where he stood, slowly creeping forward on his knuckles and knees. "Tell me what you need, Oz." Oz turned away, a whine bubbling from his chest as he fought to keep from pouncing on Spike and tearing him to shreds. Trembling, he sank his claws into the floor, relishing the feel of the wood splitting beneath his fingers. Suddenly, the smell of Alpha vampire changed, twisted, to become less threatening and more appealing. Turning his head slightly, he glanced at Spike from the corner of his eye. A bolt of lust spread through him at the sight of Spike on his back, belly vulnerable and throat exposed. Before he could stop himself, he was across the floor, nose and mouth pressed against Spike's neck, growling and nipping and soaking in the smell of submission. His cock surged to life as Spike whimpered under his fangs. Teeth and claws ripped at Spike's clothes, shredding the material like lettuce; Spike was perfectly still, lying compliant under razor-sharp fangs. Snuffling along the line of Spike's sternum, he licked a path down the pale abdomen, stopping to gnaw gently on a sharp hipbone. Licking happily at the dark, sluggish blood that oozed from the wound, his ears pricked up as he noticed Spike was speaking, slowly and softly. "..let go, pet. Let me help, I can take it…" Oz felt as if he were coming apart at the seams. On one hand, there was his friend, Spike—his good friend—willing to endure being ripped to shreds to help him regain his control… And on the other hand, there was an Alpha offering his submission. His mind was filled with the need to take, to claim, to thrust and bury himself into the body on offer. He grappled with Spike's torso and flipped him over, Spike's soft litany of acceptance and encouragement enflaming the heat that blossomed in his stomach, in the pads of his hands and feet, in his groin. Panting, he ripped his jeans and boxers off, groaning in relief as his aching dick was released into the cool air. He sniffed along the nape of Spike's neck, licking and nicking the skin, lapping at the blood while his claws sank into cool hips and pulled Spike to his knees. His cock, heavy and engorged with blood, brushed against the curve of Spike's ass; he growled, nails raking down Spike's sides, leaving narrow crimson stripes in their wake. Shifting his hips, he aligned his cock with Spike's entrance. As he began to push forward, some small part of his mind protested at the thought of ripping his friend open and he slid down a curved back, pressing his face in between pale cheeks, tongue diving into the tiny dark hole there. He slurped frantically, fingers digging into Spike's buttocks while he cursed and jerked his hips into Oz's face. Stabbing insistently into the hole, he worked to open Spike up, eating into his body without mercy, his need too great, too immediate, to be gentle. Giving the opening one last slurping kiss, he slid up the trembling frame and rammed into the inviting entrance. Hot and cold flashed over him as he fucked into the body below, all rational thought driven away by the animalistic need to thrust, thrust, thrust… His hands scrabbled along Spike's chest, his sides, his shoulders, squeezing and groping possessively. The slapping of his balls against Spike's thighs echoed in the small room, driving him into a frenzy of need and want and lust. A dreadful yowl bubbled up from his chest as pleasure surged through his body like a shockwave, pulsing and flowing to center in his groin. Hips jerking against Spike's ass as he attempted to thrust further, to press his come into the depths of Spike's body and proclaim himself Alpha, he roared, sinking his teeth into the nape of a smooth neck until his fangs touched bone. With a thundering growl, he released Spike, who collapsed onto the floor. Rumbling happily, he licked the new wound and settled onto the still body below to rest. He drew in two deep, peaceful breaths, then screamed as the Wolf receded, bones shifting, hair shedding, fangs retracting. He writhed against Spike's back, slipping onto the slick floor. Banging his elbow against a table leg, he yelped and cradled the sore spot while the rest of his body shuddered and jerked as he became Oz once more. He slowly became aware of a soft, steady voice and cool fingertips carding through his hair. Sighing, he slumped against Spike's body, whimpering at the bone-deep ache of a partial transformation. "Alright, pet?" He shuddered as Spike's breath tickled his neck, nodding. "Did I hurt you?" "Nah." One of Spike's hands found his clenched fist, insinuating long, elegant fingers between his short, square ones. "Was bloody good. Came like a sodding train wreck, in case you didn't notice." Grunting, Oz shifted until he could look up at the ceiling. "Don't think I did, to be honest." He let his eyes flutter shut as slightly chapped lips rubbed against his jaw. "'S alright," Spike muttered, nudging Oz's chin with his nose until Oz opened his eyes. Leering, he continued, "Can make it up to me, tonight." Oz blinked into laughing blue eyes. "I think I can do that." Heaving himself to his feet, Spike extended a hand. "Come on, Wolf. Gotta go find some new kit," he said, gesturing to the pile of rags that were once Spike's t-shirt and jeans. "Oh. I'm so sorry, man." Oz grimaced, rubbing his forehead. "Hey." Spike turned to face Oz, arms spread out inviting Oz's eyes to take in his naked flesh, marred by red and purple scratches and bite marks. "No big—'s not like I can't carry it off. Just…don't want to scare the kiddies." "Right." Oz scrambled to his feet, tugging on his jeans, scowling a bit at a missing button and fastening his belt tightly. He looked up as Spike was opening the door. "Hey, Spike?" Spike looked back over his shoulder. "What?" "I think I've been saying this a lot, but…thanks." "No need. Got to stick together in this place." Smiling gently, Spike turned and exited the room. Tugging on his sneakers, Oz followed. *** Her eyes are haunted. She peers at nothing through the bars, green eyes dull, hair matted and dirty. He reaches, fingertips grazing the cool metal, just a touch, just the barest touch, and her eyes meet his and her lips move in silent plea—"Help"—and he stretches, but he's moving away, struggling against invisible hands that pull him away, away, away from her, far from her pleading mouth, her frightened eyes. She reaches through the bars, fingers grasping in the dark, while her mouth, still voiceless, repeats the same soundless plea, over and over, until all he can see through the shadows is her mouth, her lips, her teeth, her tongue, asking again and again for his help. The darkness creeps in; just before she fades from sight, she slumps to the ground, green eyes dull. *** "Oz, your rook won't move like that." "Oh, that's a rook? Here I was, thinking it was a knight." He surveyed the row of identical tokens they were using as chess pieces; it was bad enough playing checkers with them, but with so many different pieces represented, he just couldn't keep track. Of course, Fred had no trouble keeping up with which token represented knights and pawns and queens. "Aren't you gonna move it back?" "I'm pretty sure that's my knight." "No, it's a rook. Look, this one"—she pointed at a token—"is your knight." "I think you're trying to cheat." He knew very well she was right, but there was something about having an argument, even a friendly one, that kept him engaged, drove away the darkness and made him want to keep living. Fred's eyes widened, comically. "Cheat? I never cheat!" Crossing her arms over her chest, she attempted a scowl, failing miserably when he smiled at her. Sniffing slightly, she turned her head. "Besides, you know I don't have to cheat to win." "Are you sure?" He raised an eyebrow. "Now, now, kiddies"—a smooth, accented voice interrupted their banter—"Settle down, or I'll have to put you over my lap." Giggling, Fred glanced up at him, eyes glinting mischievously. "You're gonna need a better threat, Spike. I think Oz might like the sound of that." "Hey. I think I resemble that remark." "Well, at least—" Fred was interrupted by a scream. Immediately, brown eyes faded to blue and Illyria rose from her seat, nostrils flaring as if she could smell the monsters as they approached. "Spike, ready yourself for combat. The foe is ravenous and tires of playing games." "Right." Spike stood, swinging his jacket across his shoulders dramatically and following Illyria towards the sounds of war. Oz darted into the supply room and grabbed his guitar-shovel before following the sounds of clanking swords and screams of pain. As he approached the battle, he paused, jaw dropping at the sheer numbers of demons; this was no random vamp attack, this was an annihilation. Gritting his teeth, he charged into the fray. Swipe. Thrust. Stab. He wielded his shovel as best as he could against the horde, using the pointed end to slice into the skin of those without armor plating, the blunt end to stab at eyes or genitals or other vulnerable spots. He lost track of time, moving from one opponent to another, dodging and rolling and striking when he was able, scrambling to his feet when he couldn't avoid being hit. When a monster with lurid yellow scales and small, sharp, pointy teeth pinned him to the ground, mouth open and poised for the kill, he felt the Wolf rise in the strange half-transformation he'd achieved before. And suddenly, he was hungry for blood. Surging from the ground, he sank his fangs into the yellow demon, ripping its throat out before charging towards a vamp who had Anne—a girl he'd found hiding under an overpass three weeks ago—by the shoulders, gaping maw of teeth threateningly close to her neck. His claws sank into the vamp's back, raking downwards and opening the flesh in deep furrows of recycled blood that flowed like tar down the vamp's legs. The vamp's screams were cut short when Oz snapped its neck. He'd just moved on to a huge demon with bulging purple eyes and a strange blue ooze seeping from his skin when he heard a familiar shout. Turning, he gasped as he watched a stake plunge into Spike's chest. The howling wind caught the ash and blew it towards Illyria, who screamed for Spike as the blue melted away and Fred sank to her knees. Heart in his throat, Oz charged across the field dodging claws and swords and fists, and he was almost there, just a few feet more… …and the world went black. *** He grunted as he woke and his body exploded in pain. He ached from head to toe, and in some places he never knew existed. He rolled to his stomach, struggling to get his knees under him, the clank of chains loud in the quiet room. He was in…some kind of giant kennel, surrounded on all six sides by metal bars, although there was a thin cotton pad beneath him, cushioning his knees from the uncomfortable floor. A washer and dryer were to his left, another cage to his right. He was caged like some urbanite's dog, kenneled and put away to bark and growl behind closed doors. He peered into the other cage: Fred was curled up in a corner, eyes glazed. Hugging her knees to her chest, she rocked back and forth, repeating: "I'm not a cow. I'm not a cow. I'm not a cow." "Fred?" His voice was hoarse and his throat protested at his attempt to speak. Fred didn't answer. "Fred?" He forced himself to speak through the pain. "Fred?" She didn't acknowledge his existence, never stopping her mumbled assertion. "Shit." He slumped to the floor, a broken sob wrenching itself from his chest. He buried his face in the cushion. It was blue and smelled like dog pee. He smiled, sadly. His hair had been blue once; Willow had kissed his nose and said she'd always had a thing for Smurfs. Closing his eyes, he prayed for death to come quickly. *** She's a vision: bright green eyes, flaming hair, sweet, supple curves… He's fascinated by the sway of her hips as she comes closer. Her lips are soft against his own, she tastes of chocolate-chip cookies and cappuccinos, of hope and love and happiness. He sighs as she pulls away, then whimpers as she takes a step, then another, in the opposite direction. Hope flees in her wake and the unnatural yellow-green of twilight floods his cage. "I'm sorry, Oz." Willow's voice echoes in his ears. _______________________________________ here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) - From i carry your heart with me, by E. E. Cummings ___________________________________________________ FIN. Originally archived here.

Entry tags: spander advent, spike/xander A Spander Advent (1/3) Title: A Spander Advent Part: 1 of 3 Pairing: Spike/Xander Rating: NC-17 Disclaimer: I'm not Joss Warnings: angst, slash Summary: Takes place during AtS S5, and ignoring the comics. Angel sends Spike on an errand, and Spike meets up with an old acquaintance. AN: A bit of a Christmas gift, from my nekid numbers choices of Advent and Xander. I'll post all three parts today. Thank you to sentine for the perfect banner!!  One “No. Absolutely bloody not.” “But, Spike—“ “No. Get someone else to do it. Percy, maybe. Bloke could use a holiday.” Angel looked up from his pile of papers and made his Patient Face. He’d been practicing it, Spike noticed. “Wes is doing the research to make negotiations run smoothly. Have you ever tried to figure out the details of Raar etiquette? Not easy. And Gunn’s handling the legal side of things. Lorne’s busy with premieres this time of year and Fred—“ “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Only old Spike is dispensable. But you’ve hundreds of sodding lawyer minions about the place, mate. Surely one of them is available.” Now Angel frowned, as if he didn’t want to say the next words. Then he sighed. “I need someone I can trust, Spike.” That brought Spike up short. Old pouf had never before hinted that he might—albeit grudgingly—have confidence in Spike. Angel put down his Mont Blanc. “Look, it’s no big deal. We’ll fly you up to San Francisco and you get to spend the month messing up your hotel room and watching pay per view porn while we do all the work down here. You babysit the talisman, we negotiate a truce between the Raar clans, apocalypse is averted, and then you can come back to LA and haunt me some more.” “Not a bloody ghost anymore,” Spike muttered. “Yeah, whatever.” Spike thought about it for a moment. It wasn’t as if he had anything important to do here anyway, or as if he enjoyed the lawyer wankers’ company. And he quite fancied San Francisco, actually. Lots of lovely fog that was good for vampires and reminded him a bit of London, loads of homeless people to snack on—not that he was doing that anymore—and good food when he felt like eating human-style. Plus, he’d been camping out in offices and the like, and a real bed and hot baths and telly sounded brilliant. Still, it wouldn’t do to appear too eager. “Don’t want to fly,” he said. “I want to drive.” “Fine. There’s a whole garage full of cars. Take one.” “I want the Viper.” He didn’t even like the Viper that much, but it was a matter of principle. Angel glared, then huffed out an impatient breath. “Fine. Take it.” Spike smiled and collapsed onto the sofa. “So where’s the precious trinket, then?” “In London. The Watcher’s Council—what’s left of it—found it. They’ll be sending it to the States day after tomorrow.” His mouth crooked upwards in a slightly Angelusy smile. “And one of the Watchers will be staying with you and the talisman until negotiations are complete.” Spike leapt to his feet, sputtering slightly. “What? I am not spending weeks cooped up with one of those tossers.” “You don’t have any choice. The Raar are insisting on two guardians, and I’m not sure the Watchers would release the thing to any representative of Wolfram & Hart anyway.” Spike fumed silently for a few moments. He could refuse, of course. The pillock couldn’t force him to do anything. Except the old bastard could probably force him to leave Wolfram & Hart and, pathetic as it was, this was the only place that passed for a home for Spike nowadays. He didn’t relish the thought of being on his own now, not when he still—and he’d barely admit this even to himself—felt a bit fragile after the events in Sunnydale and after. “Fine,” he snarled at last. “But you tell those arseholes to send someone young and pretty, at least. Wouldn’t fancy a month with Rupert.” “Yeah, okay, whatever. Go see Harmony. She has the name of the hotel you’ll be staying at.” Two He was beginning to wish he’d flown. He’d left the firm as soon as dark fell, but this time of year that meant rush hour, and he’d crawled impatiently through stop and go traffic all the way through the San Fernando Valley. He was able to move faster once he got over the Grapevine, but then he still had hours left through the flat and empty darkness, and the only radio stations he could find played country music, or Mexican, or spouted at him about hell, with which he was already far too well acquainted, ta very much. He arrived in San Francisco during the still hours of the very early morning and pulled up in front of the hotel. It wasn’t a huge one, but it was just across the street from the Bay, and it looked fairly posh. The inside was posh, too, all done in minimalist tans and soft greens, and the bird behind the counter gave him a cheery smile. The check-in process went well and soon he was dumping his small bag on one of the queen-size beds and glancing out the window at the view of the Ferry Building and Bay Bridge, then rooting through the honor bar for those ridiculous tiny bottles of booze. He noticed that the little refrigerator also contained a round Styrofoam container, and he grunted in satisfaction. Looked like the pouf had kept his promise to have blood delivered daily. Content with his temporary arrangements, Spike pulled off his boots and then spent a few seconds debating with himself what do next. The bathroom had a deep bathtub, and also an oversized, glass-enclosed shower equipped with one of those wide spouts. Rainforest showerheads, he thought they were called, and he was eager to try it. But then his eye fell on the bed, with its fancy white linens and small mountain of pillows, and he threw himself onto the mattress. Porn first, bath later. Three “What the hell are you doing here?” Spike turned his head away from the curvy blonde sitting near the window. He hadn’t really expected her to be the Watcher he was waiting for, but one could always hope. Besides, she’d smiled at him twice now, and he had had the feeling that if he went and chatted her up, she wouldn’t turn him away. But now he sighed when he saw the man approaching him. “They sent you? You’re the Watcher?” Spike asked incredulously. “I’m more a Watcher than you are a lawyer, bleachboy.” Spike rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I expect you’re mostly just excess baggage, the one they could spare.” “Same could be said for you, Spike. And anyway, aren’t you supposed to be really most sincerely dead?” “Not of late.” Spike heaved another sigh. “Let’s do this over a couple of pints, yeah?” “Smartest thing you’ve ever said.” The hotel bar was a nice one, full of pretty people in posh clothing. Big windows looked out at the outdoor seating area, where the hardier customers sat in wicker chairs under glowing heaters. But Spike steered them instead to a small booth near the back of the place. The table was of polished bamboo and the cushions were sleek and comfortable. They sat and Harris shoved his small suitcase against the side of his seat. A waiter came over, a handsome bloke in jeans and a white button-down shirt. He plunked a small bowl of mixed nuts down between them. “What can I get you?” he smiled. “A beer. Big and cold. Something American.” The waiter’s smile turned up another notch, his deep blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “You want something big, huh? And strong?” He was flirting with Xander Harris. “Yeah, I could go for that.” And, even more amazingly, Xander Harris looked to be flirting back! Spike cleared his throat, loudly. “Thirsty here, mate.” The waiter turned toward him. “You looking for the same?” “Jack. Neat. And make it a double.” The waiter leered happily. “A double, huh?” Harris laughed and Spike rolled his eyes. “Just bring us the drinks, all right, mate?” The waiter winked at Harris and headed back toward the bar. “Didn’t know you fancied blokes, whelp,” Spike said. “Okay, A, I am a grown man and no longer remotely whelplike. B, there’s a whole lot about me you don’t know. And C, we’re not here to discuss my love life or lack thereof, Fangless.” Spike started to bridle at the old nickname, and was going to point out that he was now unchipped and thoroughly fanged. But then he realized that the boy’s words had no heat behind them. They sounded weary, and, now that Spike had the chance to really look at Harris, he noticed that the boy looked…worn. His California tan was long gone and his pale skin was now heavily stubbled. His hair was long and unkempt, his clothes—a pair of khakis, a blue and orange t-shirt, a denim overshirt, and a brown leather jacket—looked lived in, and his eye had such a dark circle underneath it nearly appeared bruised. The straps of his eyepatch had dug into his skin, making sore-looking red lines. True, he had just arrived from several thousand miles away, but Spike thought this was worse than just a long journey and a bad case of jetlag might account for. “What’re you staring at? I’m the one who’s seeing a ghost.” “Not anymore,” Spike mumbled, making Harris frown in confusion. “Right, then. So the Council of Wankers sent you with the cherished knickknack, yeah?” “Yep.” Harris dug in his jacket pocket for a moment, then pulled out a small wooden box. “I don’t see what the big deal is. The thing’s damn ugly.” He held it out to Spike, who lifted the lid. Harris was right. It was a chunk of unidentifiable metal, scratched and tarnished, about as big as a walnut. It was carved into some shape, but Spike couldn’t quite make out what it was meant to be. He closed the box and handed it back. “Yeah,” he said. “But to the Raars it’s like the bloody Holy Grail, and the clans are ready to start slaughtering each other over who gets to keep it.” Harris shrugged. “So let them slaughter. Few less demons wouldn’t make me cry on my pillow.” “Maybe not. But they have weapons that make the a-bomb look like a friendly pat on the back.” He made a face. “Mojo, yeah? Like your witch?” Harris apparently shared Spike’s opinion of magic, because he looked disgusted, too. “The Raars go to war over this and they’ll take the rest of us with them, human, vampire, and partridges in the bloody pear trees.” “Another end of the world. Like that’s gonna freak me out anymore.” Harris rubbed where the strap dug into the side of his head. “So what’re we supposed to do? Giles wasn’t very specific.” Spike was about to answer when the waiter returned with their drinks. Harris held his toward the waiter in a little mock toast and took a long draught. “These are on you, Spike. I’ve got nothing but pounds and Euros.” “I’ll charge it to the room. Wolfram & Hart can get us pissed.” To the waiter he said, “Run a tab, yeah?” “Sure thing. Enjoy, guys. Just wave when you want me.” With a little waggle of his eyebrows he walked away. “Cheeky,” Spike said. “It’s the patch. If I’d have known how much people went for the whole Danger Guy look I’d have poked that eye out long ago.” Spike snorted and wished he could smoke. Sodding Californians and their stupid lungs. He downed his whiskey instead, and watched as Harris drank more of his. “So,” Harris said, slamming his glass down. “You were gonna tell me our plan.” “No plan, berk. We’re just here to keep an eye—three eyes—on the thing, in a nice neutral spot, while that lot sorts their differences.” “So…we just hang out in San Fran?” “Not here to be tourists. We’re meant to stay put.” “A little R and R. Okay. I can handle that. How ‘bout another drink?” Harris waved the waiter over and said to him, “Just keep ‘em coming until somebody passes out, okay?” “You know, I get off in about two hours. If you want to get off in about two hours, too….” Harris patted the bloke’s arm. “Thanks for the offer. Normally I’d be tempted, but I’m not even feeling human tonight. Another time, maybe?” The waiter smiled and shrugged philosophically. “Okay.” He turned to Spike and raised his eyebrow. “Not too human myself, mate,” Spike said, and Harris barked out a laugh. They sat for a long while, drinking silently, until Harris finally said, “So. What’s with the resurrection? And how’d you end up with a bunch of demon lawyers anyway?” Spike told him everything—being revived, more or less, as a ghost in Angel’s office; that nasty business with Pavayne; his recent unexplained recorporalization. Harris listened carefully, asking a question now and then, until the tale was told and Harris looked like he might be permanently melted to the seat. Their waiter had already left, giving them both a little wave before he went, and now the bartender was giving them meaningful glances. “Think it’s time to head out,” Spike said. “You look like you could use a bed.” “Bed. I’ve heard of those.” Spike stood and a moment later Harris slowly rose to his feet as well. Spike signed the bill, leaving a healthy tip for their departed waiter, and Harris followed him out to the lobby, dragging his suitcase behind. “Oh. I need to check in,” the boy said, blinking owlishly at the front desk. “Already done. Come on.” They went into the lift and up to the fifth floor, and Spike led them to their room. When they got inside, Harris blinked again at Spike’s small valise, which was at the foot of his bed. “My room. Where’s my room?” “You’re there. Mi casa es su casa and all that rot.” Now Harris looked alarmed. “But—but---“ “We both have to be with the trinket at all times. Can’t do that in separate rooms, can we?” “Nobody said I’d have a vampire roomie.” Spike plopped down on his bed. “Not like you haven’t had one before, is it? Least I won’t be tying you to a sodding chair. Besides, I won’t bite. Much.” Harris closed his eye and swayed slightly. “Okay. I’m too tired to do anything about it, but I’m officially lodging a protest.” Spike didn’t bother to answer. Within minutes, Harris had toed off his shoes and climbed beneath the covers without even bothering to take off his clothes. Spike really hoped he didn’t snore. Four “Are we really stuck here? ‘Cause I’m gonna go stir-crazy after a couple days.” Spike had already informed housekeeping of his unusual sleep schedule, so they’d both slept undisturbed until mid-afternoon. Then Harris had showered and shaved and ordered a burger from room service and Spike had drunk his blood and showered as well. Afterward, they’d each sat on their beds, Spike watching HBO and Harris tapping away on the laptop he’d brought. An hour or so after the sun set, Harris had stood and stretched and looked longingly out the window. “We can go up to a half mile from here,” Spike replied. “Yeah? How’s anyone gonna know if we go, say three-quarters of a mile?” Spike grimaced and lifted the hem of his left trouser leg, to reveal the device strapped around his calf. “GPS,” he said. Harris snorted with laughter. “It looks like you’re on house arrest!” “So are you, then, ponce, because we’re tied together like Siamese twins.” “Why half a mile?” “Dunno. I expect they thought that’d be enough to stretch our legs a bit.” “Well, can we, then? Stretch? Because I’ve never even been to San Francisco before.” Spike clicked off the television. “All right. Haven’t been here myself in ages. Back in the late 70’s, Dru and I—“ “Uh!” Harris held up his hand. “Is this story gonna end with death and mayhem?” “Well, yeah.” Harris shook his head. “Had plenty of that to last me a while. Let’s just go, okay?” So they put on their shoes and coats and headed out into the night. It felt cool to Spike, with his lack of body heat and recent years spent in Southern California, but Harris had been in London, and he kept his jacket unzipped as they walked. They strolled past a few of the big piers, but they hadn’t gone far when the stupid thing on Spike’s leg beeped and they had to turn back. When they were in front of the hotel again, Harris stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “I’m hungry,” he announced. “You’ll like this place, then,” Spike said, and took his elbow to drag him across the street toward the Ferry Building. Harris did like the Ferry Building, and he spent a long time walking back and forth down the long hall, wandering into the various shops. He bought some apples and tangerines and beer at an organic grocers, and a hunk of cheese at the cheese shop, and three bottles of wine at an Italian place. That surprised Spike—he hadn’t taken the boy for a wine drinker. But maybe any alcohol would do. Spike paid for everything. Why not? W&H had plenty of dosh. When their arms were fully laden, Harris led them into Taylor’s Automatic Refresher, where he crowed happily over the chili dog and the sweet potato fries and the chocolate shakes. “You’re going to get big as a house if you keep eating like this,” Spike observed, stealing one of the fries for himself. They were good. “I haven’t eaten like this in months. Not a lot of food like this where I’ve been.” “Where’s that?” Spike snagged another fry. Harris’s face grew grim. “Africa, mostly.” “Yeah? Earning your soul?” These fries were nearly as good as those onion things they’d had at the Bronze. Harris didn’t smile. “No. More like losing it. And next time I’m gonna order garlic fries instead, undead thief guy.” He scooted his plate a bit farther away. Spike grinned. “’M evil.” Harris snorted and threw a fry at him. They didn’t talk much after that. Harris finished his meal and they went back to their room, and then they drank and watched bad movies in near silence. Spike found himself wondering about Harris’s time in Africa, and what had happened there to turn him so grim, but the boy was clearly not anxious to talk about it, so Spike let it be. When dawn began to brighten the sky, Spike pulled the curtains closed. Harris stripped to his boxers, yawned a good night, and fell asleep. Five There was a liquor store just over a half mile away, off Market Street. Spike couldn’t go that far without setting off the sodding alarm, but they decided that Harris could, because Spike was only a half block away and could at least keep an eye on the outside of the shop. Six The boy was capable of downing a surprising amount of booze. Seven Peaches was going to have a tantrum when he saw all the liquor store charges. The thought of it amused them both. Eight “If I don’t give it a rest for a day or two my liver’s gonna go on strike.” “One of the advantages of being a vamp. Mine quit over a century ago.” Spike took another swig from the bottle, felt the warm comfort of the liquor as it slid down his gullet. Harris looked up from his laptop. “Do you like being a vampire, Spike? I mean, the superpowers, the no aging stuff, all that…must be nice.” Spike thought for a minute. “Yeah, I expect so. I mean, I was pretty happy about it before the chip, and Buffy, and then the soul. Had some good times. Some of the bits are bloody inconvenient, though. The whole invitation, thing, for instance. And it took me ages to learn to do my hair without a mirror. I miss the sun as well. Why? Suffering from demon envy, are we?” “No. Not really. It’s only, I’m just a regular guy, right? Most of the people I know have these special things they can do, and I’m just lucky if I don’t get killed.” Spike took another chug. “You’re handy at attracting demons, aren’t you? That’s a superpower of sorts, I reckon.” Harris pulled a face. “Yeah, well, not really one anyone would want, though. Strength, speed, flying, those are cool. Demon magnet, not so much. And I don’t even know why it happens.” “You smell bloody delicious, whelp.” Oops. Spike hadn’t meant to admit that. Perhaps he ought to slow down with the Jack. Harris raised his eyebrow. “I what, now?” Spike sighed. “You smell good. To a demon’s nose you’re like…baking bread. Or sizzling bacon.” “Oh. Have I always smelled…edible?” “Yeah.” “But you never thought it might be relevant to mention that to me?” “Didn’t occur to me that you didn’t know. Thought your demon girl would’ve mentioned it.” “No, she never did. It does explain a lot, though. Huh.” Harris frowned thoughtfully. “Well, still not my superpower of choice.” “Nobody gets to choose these things.” “Would you? I mean, you didn’t exactly decide to become a vampire, right? So would you, if you had a choice?” It was a question Spike had deliberately not asked himself for ages. “If I hadn’t been turned, I’d have been mouldering bones long ago.” Harris waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. But if you could turn back to human now, would you?” “Peaches wants to,” Spike said quietly. “There’s a prophecy, you see, about a vamp who’s a champion and then gets to be a real boy again. He think that means him, that he can get a pulse and redemption, all tied up with a pretty bow.” “You were a champion. Maybe it means you.” “Maybe.” “You don’t look very convinced.” Spike finished off the bottle. “Don’t believe in prophecies. And even if I did…not sure I want it. I fought the pouf over it, not so long ago—I beat him, too!—but mostly because I didn’t want him to have it. I was tired of him always being the sodding hero, the one Bu—the one everyone goes on about.” It was much more than Spike had intended to say. To his surprise, Harris didn’t take the piss out of him over it, but only nodded slowly, looking much older than his years. “I know exactly how that feels, my good man.” Nine “I killed people there, Spike.” Spike looked over at Harris, who was stretched out on his bed, staring at the television screen. They were watching one of the CSI shows, but Spike was fairly certain Harris wasn’t talking about Miami. “Human people. They were bad guys, and a couple of them were trying to kill me, but still…I murdered them.” “I expect they deserved it,” Spike answered quietly. Harris turned his head to face Spike. His eye was oddly blank-looking. “Don’t all murderers think that? “I didn’t. Doesn’t take a soul to recognize that your victims are innocent. Now, Angelus, that was a plus for him. The purer of heart, the tastier they were. Me, I didn’t care much one way or the other. A meal was a meal. But I knew when I was killing someone good, someone who deserved to live, and I killed them anyhow.” Spike thought Harris might protest then that Spike was a monster, not even human, and therefore didn’t count. He didn’t, though. He only shook his head slowly. “I see them sometimes in my dreams. You’d figure I’d have plenty of experiences to populate a lifetime’s worth of nightmares, but when I dream, it’s just them I see. The people I killed.” “Me, too,” Spike said softly. Harris gave him a sharp look then, but said nothing, and turned back toward the telly. When an advert came on, Spike asked, “What were you doing there?” At first he didn’t think he’d get an answer. Then Harris began to speak, his voice low and almost monotone. “Buffy, Will, all the rest, they went to Cleveland after Sunnyhell. It was all Hellmouthy there, too. But with Ahn gone, and all the rest, I couldn’t face it. I just couldn’t. I was gonna get a job somewhere, anywhere, building houses. I’m good at that. But then Giles got this call about shit happening in Mozambique and I went, ‘cause everyone else was busy.” He snorted. “I couldn’t even have found Mozambique on a map before I left.” “But you went.” “Yeah. And Giles was right, there was shit happening. I wasn’t alone, not really. I even had a few of those new Slayers on my side. But there were demons and some really ugly humans, and people got killed. I saw a thirteen-year-old girl, a kid who’d just found out what she was, like, four weeks earlier, get chopped in half by a machete. I felt her blood when it splashed me and it was hot. It was days before I could get it all off me. Even now, sometimes, it’s like it’s still there, and—“ His voice broke. Appropriate, Spike thought, since the rest of him was broken as well. And because the boy—no, the man, he really was a man, now—because the man hadn’t dismissed Spike’s admissions the night before, Spike turned off the television and walked the three feet or so over to Harris’s bed and sat beside him and patted him on the knee. “I know,” was all he said. Harris wiped his eye with the back of his hand. “Everything was pretty much cleaned up by September. By then Giles was in London and everyone else was in…I don’t know. Slovenia. Slovakia. One of those countries in the middle. I went to London, and I’ve been mostly doing nothing. Drinking, I guess. Reading a book here and there. Trying to decide what to do with the rest of my life.” “So what did you decide?” “Apparently, to spend a month holed up in a hotel room with a vampire.” Spike patted his knee again. “Good decision.” Harris had to twist his neck to look at Spike again. “You know what? It kind of was. I didn’t expect to see you and I wasn’t all that happy about it—although I thought those guys in LA could’ve sent someone a lot worse, like Angel.” He shuddered. “But the thing is, it hasn’t been that bad. You haven’t been that bad. You’ve actually been kind of…good company.” Harris tensed then, as if he expected Spike to hit him, or perhaps just say something biting. But Spike didn’t, because he was trying to remember whether anyone had ever called him good company before, anyone at all in the last 150 years, and he was fairly certain nobody ever had. It was the sort of thing he’d remember. Oh, he’d been called loads of other things over the decades, most of which would have been unprintable back in his human days. But not this. He blinked at Harris, not sure how to respond. And then he did respond, or perhaps Harris did. Spike wasn’t at all certain which of them decided to move. But a moment later they were kissing, their lips locked hungrily together, and Xander’s whiskers were rough against Spike’s chin, and his tongue tasted of potato crisps and Pepsi, and it felt good, so unexpectedly brilliant that Spike forgot to breathe, but that was all right because Xander seemed to be doing enough of it for the both of them. Then, after not enough time, they pulled apart and stared at each other with wide eyes. It was Spike’s turn to tense as he waited for Xander to pull faces, or start yelling, or perhaps just get up and run. Instead, Xander smiled, slowly, until the happiness actually reached his eye for the first time, like a warm little flame kindling in the darkness. “I think,” Xander said. “I think that was nice.” “You think?” “I think that was one of the nicer demon kisses I’ve had.” Spike sputtered a bit. “One of the nicer—I’m a bloody brilliant kisser, I am!” “But I’ve kissed a surprising number of demons. I think to give it a fair rating, I really have to try again.” Spike felt the corners of his mouth turning up as well. “Well, we would want the scoring to be fair.” Xander lifted his hand and cupped it against Spike’s cheek. It was big and warm and calloused. Spike wanted to lean into it, to feel those rough fingers stroke him. “Let’s see,” Xander said. His face was very close to Spike’s now, almost touching. It took only the slightest movement for them to draw together, and once again they were kissing, tongues twisting with each other, lips pressing nearly hard enough to bruise, yet it was slow and sweet, the kind of kiss a bloke could drown in, Spike thought, and he very nearly did. “Even the Soviet judge gives that one a ten,” Xander whispered. Spike would have agreed, but he seemed to have lost the power of speech. But he could still squawk with surprise, it seemed, because he did exactly that a moment later, when Xander pressed down on Spike’s shoulders so that Spike was flat on the bed, and then Xander rolled on top of him, but the squawk was silenced by a third kiss, this one heady as the last but more urgent. When Xander suddenly froze and then lifted his head away, Spike wanted to cry. “This is okay, isn’t it? I mean, you do want this, right?” Xander’s voice was uncertain. Spike chuckled low and thrust his hips up against Xander, so Xander could feel how very much he wanted it. “What do you think, pet?” “I think this is…unexpected.” Cautiously, because Xander still hadn’t rolled off him, and because Spike could feel the man’s hard cock pressing against his, even through two layers of denim, Spike raised his hands and then settled them on Xander’s ass. That was comfortable, he thought. What he said was, “You fancying blokes…that’s new.” It was Xander’s turn to chuckle. “Not so much. Me admitting I fancy blokes, that part is new. I like girls, too, don’t get me wrong. But I’ve visited a few clubs while I’ve been in London, and I’ve recently come to appreciate the unfairer sex. And you?” “Been shagging blokes since before your great-grandmother was born. Since shortly after I was turned. First ‘Gelus, then—“ “Wait. You had sex with Angel?” “Nah. Angelus. Over a century ago. Angel would rather brood than get a leg over. Wanker.” “Huh. So you’re pretty flexible, then?” Spike curled his tongue behind his teeth. “Vampire, love. I’m very flexible. Want a demonstration?” Apparently, Xander did. They were both a bit overeager, which translated into some clumsiness as they pulled their kit off, but then there was loads of bare skin, and Spike could see that Xander really had lost that baby fat he’d been carrying a few years back. He still wasn’t exactly lean, he was too solid for that, but his waist was quite trim, with a line of dark hair leading from his navel to his groin, where an impressively large cock jutted from black curls. They stood a few feet away from each other, frankly staring, until Xander’s cheeks were colored by a faint blush that excited Spike all the more. So he stepped forward and took Xander into his arms. Xander grabbed him right back and they kissed again as their hands wandered over one another’s backs and shoulders and arses. Their bellies pressed together with their cocks trapped in between, and the hot friction was almost more than Spike could manage and he felt his knees go weak with it. Perhaps Xander’s did as well, because a moment later they were on Xander’s bed, their mouths and bodies still locked together, with Xander writhing and moaning on the bottom and Spike writhing and moaning on the top, and it was lovely. Xander’s foot caught for a moment on the electronic tracker strapped to Spike’s leg, and for some reason that reminded Spike that Xander was still wearing the eyepatch. He hadn’t yet seen the man without it. He reached up and moved to remove it, but Xander stopped him by clutching at his wrists. “It’s ugly,” Xander said. “I’ve seen ugly, pet. I doubt this qualifies.” Xander dropped his hands away but stilled beneath Spike as the vampire slowly and gingerly pulled the strap away. It really wasn’t remotely awful. The area over the empty socket was slightly sunken, but the lid was closed, and the skin that was visible was whole and healthy-looking. Impulsively, Spike brushed his lips against Xander’s eyelid, and then against the cheekbone below, before working his way over to suck on an earlobe. He wasn’t usually this tender and even as he shivered under Xander’s soft strokes of his lower back Spike couldn’t explain why he was being so gentle with Xander Harris of all people. But he was, and somehow it felt just right. They were rocking against each other, hard but not very fast, and Spike liked the taste of Xander’s skin very much. He gave up the earlobe and settled on Xander’s neck instead, softly sucking, even nibbling lightly with blunt teeth. “How much do you trust me, Xander?” he whispered. Xander’s movements faltered only for a second. With a voice that was thick and hoarse, he said, “Go ahead.” Just the permission alone was almost enough to send Spike over the edge. He quickly changed his face, feeling the satisfying fullness in his mouth when his fangs dropped into place, and just barely nicked Xander’s neck with one sharp edge. A fat crimson bead welled out and Spike lapped at it, shuddering with the ecstasy of fresh, living blood. “Merciful Zeus,” Xander groaned. He tilted his head more to the side, and that was all Spike could stand. He sucked once more at the tiny wound and rutted helplessly into Xander, and as the flavor of the man coated his mouth he howled against Xander’s flesh and came so hard his vision momentarily grayed and he lost track of the world. When he was once more aware of where he was and what he was doing, he realized that Xander was grinning crookedly up at him and their softening cocks were stuck together. Spike moaned slightly and rolled off to Xander’s side. It felt as if his bones were made of soft taffy. “In case you were wondering,” Xander said, “you’re officially at the top of the demon rankings.” “You let me bite you,” Spike said, still not quite believing it. “Figured that was gonna be part of the vamp package. And good gods, I’m glad it was.” “Feels nice, yeah?” Xander lifted his hand and let it fall on top of Spike’s hip. It was comfortable there. “Yeah,” Xander said. “Nice.” And then Xander had it in him to surprise Spike one more time, because he rolled on his side and gave Spike another kiss, just a quick press of the lips like sweethearts might share, and curled himself around Spike’s body before pulling up the covers and promptly falling asleep. The last time Spike had slept with someone else had been in Sunnydale, when he and Buffy huddled together just before he died. That had been pleasant and necessary, but there had been a bitter note of desperation there, the aftertaste of unhappy past events. Sharing a bed with Xander was simple and good, the heat of the man burning through Spike like the fire that had once consumed him. Part Two

1. "So, this is it." Alex rubs his hands against his thighs, wiping them on his jeans, trying not to be too obvious about it, doing his best to ignore the tilt-a-whirl sensation in his stomach. He spent the last week anticipating Derek's visit, and all day he's been doling out little pieces of his past, showing Derek around the neighborhood, taking him to Manny's for tacos, pointing out his high school and the place under the pier where he had his first girl. But now that they're here at the park where he used to play baseball every day after school, his palms have gone sweaty on him. He's not sure why this is the thing that makes him nervous. "Cool," Derek says, fingering the chain link of the batting cage. "I hit my first homerun here," Alex tells him, just to make it clear why this is important. "First of many." Derek grins. "Damn straight," Alex says, brimming with cockiness. And yet, there's still something making him uneasy. This place has always glowed in his imagination, like one of the holy relics his abuela had such reverence for, but suddenly he's seeing it through Derek's eyes, noticing things he never has before, the scrubby grass and the ancient paint peeling off the benches and the trash blowing around in the outfield. Derek probably didn't even have to go to the park to practice as a kid. Alex pictures him in a leafy expanse of backyard that bears a striking resemblance to the picture of the Garden of Eden that hung in Alex's Sunday school class when he was a kid. Derek takes pitches from his father, who cheers whenever Derek gets a hit and patiently reminds him to keep his weight back when he whiffs at empty air. His mother comes out to watch, bringing a plate of cookies warm from the oven and an encouraging smile. Everything Derek has ever told Alex about his childhood sounds like it should be on a postcard. Derek bumps Alex's shoulder, jolting him out of the vision. "I can just see you out here. Doing drills, running your ass off, while the other kids were just screwing around. I bet you were intense even then." He gives Alex one of those sideways smiles of his, significant somehow, and Alex thinks, not for the first time: So this is Derek. This is Derek. Seeing him in pictures, talking to him on the phone, none of that has prepared Alex for the sheer physical fact of Derek's presence, solid and real and right here. Alex is aware of every breath Derek takes, his muscles shifting beneath his T-shirt whenever he moves, the sweat beading on his forehead in the Miami heat. There's been a vibe between them all day, admiration, but not exactly, not only. If it were a girl Alex was paying all this attention to, he'd understand. But this is Derek. This is…he doesn't know what. It's just that we have so many things in common, Alex thinks. Want the same things, play the same position, hell, we're even the same height. But while he's trying to convince himself, Alex is staring at Derek's mouth. This isn't the first time that's happened today. From the quirk of Derek's lips, he's apparently noticed. Neither of them looks away, and there's a challenging spark in Derek's eyes, as if he's daring Alex to do something about all this staring. As if he assumes that Alex is too chickenshit. Alex is not chickenshit, and he stands his ground, shoots the challenge right back at Derek. The corners of Derek's mouth curve up, like he's laughing, and that's just infuriating. Alex takes a big breath to tell Derek off, but then Derek's lips are pressed up against his, warm and firm and undeniable. The breath stutters in Alex's lungs, and Derek's lips part softly, and he drags his tongue along Alex's bottom lip. Alex doesn't move, not to pull Derek closer or to push him away, his arms tangled up helplessly between them. Derek kisses the corners of Alex's mouth, catches Alex's top lip between his, worrying it gently. Alex shivers, a swampy feeling spreading all through his body. He has been told that this is wrong since he was old enough for it to even be a topic of conversation, and he's never really questioned that before. But this is Derek, and how can Derek be anything but right? Alex raises his arms, winds them around Derek's shoulders, and falls into the kiss. It's innocent enough to begin with, their lips moving softly, tentatively, and then Alex makes a noise in the back of his throat, and they're off, all over each other, kissing deeply, frantically, as if this is the natural conclusion to everything that's been building between them since they first spoke on the phone. They touch each other through their clothes, on the chest and the arm and the small of the back. Alex is hard, and he pushes against Derek's thigh, even though they're doing this in public where anybody could see them. He closes his eyes, and they're naked inside his head, skin to skin, and Alex can't picture anything he wouldn't let Derek do to him. Maybe, just maybe, this isn't quite so much of a surprise. He distantly registers the crunch of gravel, but his brain is thick and hazy, and it takes longer than it should to sort out what that noise means. Gravel. Tires. Someone coming. He jumps back from Derek, scans the parking lot in the distance. A police car is pulling in. The door opens, and a cop gets out. He reaches into the back seat for his nightstick, adjusts his hat, and then starts onto the grass. When he notices Alex and Derek, he frowns and heads in their direction. Cops patrol here, Alex knows that, and there's no reason to believe that this guy saw anything. Alex's heart starts to pound anyway, so hard it makes him feel sick. Pictures flash through his head, his mother having to bail them out of jail, her expression crumpling when she hears that the charge is public lewdness, the call from the University of Miami revoking his scholarship. It seems to take forever for the cop to reach them. "You boys got some business out here?" he asks, giving them a narrow-eyed look, taking their measure. "'Cause the park's closed." He nods at the sign not ten feet from where they're standing where the hours are posted. The truth is right there on the tip of Alex's tongue. We were kissing, and I didn't think I ever would with a guy, and it was blowing my fucking mind. The fear that he'll accidentally blurt this out half paralyzes him. So Derek does the talking, his expression all Boy Scout sincerity, "Sorry, officer. I guess we lost track of time. I'm visiting my friend here, and he wanted to show me where he practiced as a kid." The cop perks up at this. "You all ballplayers?" Derek nods. "Yes, sir. I'm in AA with the Yankees. And Alex here has a scholarship offer to Miami that he's deciding about." "The Hurricanes have a good team," the cop says approvingly. "Sure do." Alex has unfrozen enough to flash a smile, wide and confident, like the big league star he intends to be someday. "You boys be careful now," the cop tells them. "We've had some trouble here at night lately. That's why we've had to start enforcing the curfew." "Thanks for letting us know," Derek says politely. The officer nods and heads back to his car, and a moment later, the car pulls out of the parking lot. Derek smiles wryly, like that was a funny little misadventure. Like he was never really worried. Like he's never been off balance a moment in his life. Contrariness flares in Alex's chest, and he yanks Derek by the collar of his T-shirt, making him stumble. Derek's eyes fly open in surprise as Alex lays another kiss on him, hot and wet and defiant. Derek needs only a second to catch up, and then he's stroking Alex's cheek and kissing him back. Alex clenches his arms around Derek, and he wants so violently. Wants to have Derek, be him, best him. He pulls back, blinking and breathing hard. He has the sudden inkling that maybe it's always going to be like this between them. Derek eyes him speculatively for a moment and then squeezes his shoulder. "Hey, how about we go back to your house and get some more of your mom's pastelitos?" He waits, his hand still resting on Alex's arm, and a smile just comes bubbling up from somewhere in the vicinity of Alex's toes and breaks out brilliantly. Derek smiles back, playful and promising, and it brings the butterflies back to Alex's stomach. "Come on." Alex jerks his head toward the car. They don't touch as they walk back across the park, but the awareness, the connection is just as palpable as if they were, pulling and shaping and binding them together. And maybe it really will always be like this. Maybe that's the best thing that Alex could ever hope for. 2. The hotel room is blandly sterile, the way hotel rooms usually are, and they'd be at Alex's house right now if Alex hadn't given Derek that look after the game, smoldering from beneath lowered lashes, the look that always makes Derek want to tear the clothes right off him and push him down onto the nearest piece of furniture and do dirty, filthy things to him. The hotel was closer to the ballpark, so this was where they'd ended up. Alex arches up from the sheets, his skin sun-kissed against the stark whiteness of the bed, moaning as Derek worries a place on his neck. "Tell me," Derek commands. Alex laughs brightly. "I'm coming after you." Derek spreads Alex's legs wide, making a place for himself between them. He thrusts, his cock sliding against the inside of Alex's thigh. Alex stares up at him with wide, feverish eyes. Derek is going to fuck him before the night is done, and they both know it. "Derek," Alex says breathlessly. It's not DJ or Jetes or D, or any of the many nicknames Alex has for him. It's always Derek when they're naked together. Derek kisses his neck again, sucks, bites down, making Alex buck up against him. "Say it again. Like you mean it." "I'm going to come after you the next time we fight," Alex says more forcefully, his fingers digging into Derek's biceps. "Uh-huh." Derek strings kisses across Alex's chest, licks at a nipple, uses the edge of his teeth to make Alex gasp. "What do you think you're going to do with me when you get me?" During the brawl out on the field tonight, Alex had been supremely unconcerned, happy to stand off to the side with Derek, and let the knuckleheads be knuckleheads. But now, challenge sparks in his eyes. "You think I can't handle you?" Alex surges up against him, body to body, testing, pushing. Derek grips Alex's shoulders, holding him down. There is no bigger turn-on than this, having all that coiled power beneath him. Other people are like dominoes, just waiting to fall. Only Alex pushes back, pits strength against strength, makes Derek work for it, makes it so good when he finally gives it up. Alex moves his hands down Derek's back, fingers catching on skin, sometimes lightly, sometimes pressing in hard, leaving marks, leaving behind evidence that he was there. "I'm going to come after you. I'm going to give it to you." "Big words. Big words," Derek eggs him on. And then they're tussling and kissing and rutting together. Making promises, low and rough and heated, about what they're going to do to each other. "You want me to show you?" Alex wraps his long, powerful legs around Derek's waist, tightening his muscles, making Derek feel the grip, feel his strength. "How I'm gonna get you." He pulls Derek in, their bodies sliding together, their chests and bellies and cocks. "Yeah," Derek says between kisses. "You better show me." It's clear that fucking Alex is going to have to wait until later. Neither of them is going to last long enough for that now. Derek shoves his body hard into Alex's, and Alex gives as good as he gets, pushing up against him. Derek's heart is thundering, and the blood is pounding in his ears, and he's going to… The knock at the door startles them apart. Alex's legs flop back to the mattress, and Derek rolls off him. They both lie there, breathing heavily, staring at the door, hoping that whoever it is will just go away. "You're not expecting anybody, are you?" Alex whispers, half-accusingly. Derek gives him an exasperated look and whispers back, "No!" "Derek?" A voice calls out. "It's Joe. I wondered if I could talk to you." "Shit!" Derek hisses under his breath and like a lightning shot he's off the bed, grabbing Alex's hand, dragging him up. "Hey—" Alex protests. Derek hustles him over to the closet, shoves him inside amidst his suits and dress shirts, and says, "Don't make a sound." He grabs the complimentary robe off the hanger and slips it on, ignoring Alex's crossed arms and ferocious frowning. He shuts the door, also ignoring the irony that he's just forced Alex back into the closet. Getting caught in the act by Joe Torre is like getting caught by his father and his boss all rolled up in one, and it doesn't matter how legendarily well-adjusted Derek is. Nobody could handle that without being traumatized for life. When he opens the door, Joe is standing there looking uncomfortable, and a knot tightens in Derek's stomach, because he's not used to Joe looking like that around him. He jerks his head toward the room. "Hey Skip, you wanna—" Joe nods. "Thanks." He comes in, takes up a spot by the dresser, leaning against it. "I hope I didn't get you up." He nods toward the unmade bed. Derek's gaze drops down to the carpet. "Nah. Nah. I was just—" He waves vaguely in the direction of the bathroom. Joe nods absently. "So, Derek, there's something I wanted to say, didn't feel it could wait until tomorrow." Derek's shoulders tense. If this isn't about Alex, he can't imagine what it is about. What else couldn't wait. And if it is about Alex…well, Derek has hoped never to find the place where Joe stops being the coolest person he's ever known. "Go on, Skip," Derek tells him, braced for disillusionment. Joe takes a breath, and he turns an earnest look on Derek. "Teammates calling out teammates in the media, that's not how I like things handled. You know that. And what Curtis said— well, I just wanted you to know that the organization doesn't share that view. I don't share it. We think you're a hell of a leader, with the way you carry yourself, the way you play the game hard every day. We'll be addressing the situation with Curtis." Derek just stands there for a moment, all his energy focused on not laughing. Because that's what this is about? Never for one second did he think it would go any other way. That's the confidence you have knowing you're the future of the organization. "I'm not worried about it, Skip." He gives Joe an easy smile. Joe's expression relaxes. "Well, good. Good then. I'm glad we got that straight." Derek claps him on the back, moving him toward the door. "It's all cool, Mr. T. I'll see you at the ballpark tomorrow." Joe nods. "Have a good—" A loud crash from the closet stops him in his tracks. He raises an eyebrow at Derek. Derek thinks about all the ways he's going to kill Alex. "It's just, uh—you know—" He ducks his head and smiles sheepishly. "You know." Joe shakes his head, in a boys-will-be-boys fashion. "Yeah, I know," he says dryly. "Enjoy your evening." He heads off down the hall, and Derek closes the door and lets out his breath, because Joe doesn't know. That much is clear. He goes over to the closet and throws the door open. "What the hell was that?" He glares at Alex. Alex is naked and still hard and not the least bit sorry for nearly getting them caught, at least if the bright look of mischief in his eyes is any indication. "Lost my balance," he says with a shrug as he steps out of the closet. "Lost your balance?" Derek puts his hand on his hip. Alex smiles broadly. "Hey, it happens. So, that was close, huh? I wonder how long he was standing there before knocking. Do you think he heard anything?" He waggles his eyebrows. "Shut up, shut up!" Derek puts his hands over his ears. "That man is like a father to me." Alex grins impishly. Derek shakes his head. "Man. You are one kinky son of a bitch, you know that?" Alex throws his head back and laughs, easy and certain, like he too has the confidence that comes with knowing he's the future. That does something to Derek, sends needles of want and tenderness all through him. He catches Alex by the wrist and pulls him close and kisses him like the future is his favorite thing of all. Alex looks surprised for a moment by Derek's sudden change of mood, but then he smiles and touches the side of Derek's face and kisses just as eagerly. Derek pulls back, puts his hand on Alex's shoulders and pushes him down onto the bed. He takes a moment to admire the sight of Alex naked and aroused on the tangled sheets. Then he smiles wolfishly. "I'm coming after you," he says as he pounces. "I'm gonna get you." 3. Alex has always had a talent for putting blinders on. It's what makes him a good hitter, he often thinks. At the plate, he gets so locked in that he doesn't see anything else but the ball, as if the rest of the world simply ceases to exist. It's a habit that tends to filter into the rest of his life; Alex rarely pays attention to what he doesn't want to know. This changes when he comes to the Yankees. There's none of the insulating distance he had in Texas, where he could pretend that he and Derek were just going through a rough patch, that things weren't nearly as bad as people liked to make out. Maybe his blinders work too well sometimes, because he'd honestly forgotten what an ice pick to the chest Derek's anger can be, still simmering just as coldly years later. Day after day, he's faced with the reality of what they've become. Sometimes it's cordial and sometimes it's chilly, but there's never any of that sense of forever that they had when they were kids. Too often at the plate now, it's Derek that Alex sees and not the ball. This is disastrous for his game, not surprisingly, and after the 2006 season, he knows he has to do something about the Derek problem. One night when he's out on the town, he hits on the solution, a happy accident, so simple that he can't believe he didn't think of it before. It's basic baseball strategy, really. When you don't get your pitch, can't extend your arms and hit the ball into the bleacher seats the way you want to, you do the best you can with what you have, bounce a little chopper over the mound, in-and-out the ball down the right field line. Sometimes, the next best thing is enough to win the game. Alex comes into camp feeling as if the Jeter-sized weight is finally off his shoulders. Reporters nip at his heels, digging for a quote, probably hoping for some mea culpa about Alex's performance last season. He gives it to them, along with something much, much more print-worthy. At the first question about Derek, he jumps on the opportunity, "I'm tired of lying to all you guys. The reality is there's been a change in the relationship over 14 years…" By the time he's finished, there's absolute silence. Jaws have actually dropped. This is something that Derek, PR dream that he is, has never understood, the satisfaction of being a wild card in a world that has all too few surprises in it. The reporters recover quickly enough, and then the barrage of questions starts. Alex answers readily, like he's been waiting forever to unload all this shit. After it's over, he rolls his shoulders, testing. The muscles ripple like water. Not an ounce of tension in his whole body. Of course, when he reads the newspapers later, he has to wince at the "five nights a week" thing. Had he really said that out loud? Oh well, he decides. That's just the risk you take being a wild card. Sometimes you surprise even yourself. Not that it really matters in the end. People expect ballplayers to behave like grownup children, and the jokes in the sports pages are about treehouses and crank calls, not blowjobs and butt fucking. No one really wants to know the truth about them, or it would have been plastered all over everywhere a long time ago. Derek has no comment, as expected, and he spends the next day giving Alex dark looks. When are you ever going to learn to keep your stupid mouth shut? Alex just shrugs and smiles, as if to say: You're you, and I'm me, and we don't do things the same way, and that's not ever going to stop pissing you off. Derek's eyes widen for just a moment, because this is the place where Alex would normally be falling all over himself with lame-ass excuses and trying to justify his very existence. Instead, he smiles sunnily. "See ya out on the field." He doesn't need to glance back to know that Derek is frowning furiously. The team moves north for the start of the season, and every time Alex comes to bat, gravity seems to evaporate. His eyes go bionic on him as if he could see the very molecules of the ball if he really tried. There's nothing constricting his chest, no crushing weight of Derek's expectations and Derek's disappointment and Derek's elusive approval that Alex has never been able to win, no matter how hard he's tried. Alex can finally breathe. He breathes life into every swing of the bat, and the ball leaps for him, over the head of the second baseman, down the right field line, over the fence into the bullpen, halfway to the moon. Three weeks into April, he's tied the record for the most homeruns in the month. Derek comes over to him after the game that night. "Pretty good hitting out there." His mouth quirks up at the corner, ironic with understatement, and a little grudging because things are the way they are between them, and maybe there's some admiration too because Derek will always love the game even if he doesn't love Alex anymore. And the thing is: it's okay. It really is. Alex claps Derek on the back, the way he'd do with some stranger at a celebrity golf tournament. "I'm just glad to be helping the team." From the car, he calls Cynthia. "Hey, babe, the guys want to go out for a drink. Celebrate. You know. The homerun thing." Alex ducks his head a little sheepishly. He can talk about his records without the least embarrassment to everyone but his wife. "I told them we had plans for dinner…" "Go on, sweetie. We can have dinner tomorrow. You can't disappoint the guys." He hears the smile in her voice. She's always encouraging him to make friends on the team. "Have fun." Alex takes the Third Avenue bridge into Manhattan, the West Side highway downtown. On an industrial-looking block by the river is a building like a fortress, blocky and made of gray stone with seemingly no way inside. Alex slows down, pulls into the entrance to a belowground parking garage you'd never notice if you didn't know it was there. A valet nods as Alex gets out and hands over the keys. "Good evening, Mr. Rodriguez." Inside, a hostess in a red halter dress greets him with a glass of his favorite Scotch. "Talia will be right with you." Alex takes a seat in the private lounge, leans back into the dark, rich scent of expensive leather and sips his drink. It's not long before Talia joins him, her hips swaying as she walks over to him, her breasts brushing his arm as she bends down to kiss him. She's wearing something black and low-cut and expensive, all the New York sophistication that money can buy. But if Alex squints, he can see the ghost of blue frosted eye shadow and a Tasty Freeze uniform. Maybe that's why this is so therapeutic. There's never any lurking fear that despite all the evidence to the contrary she's secretly, intangibly better than he is. Talia takes his hand and leads him down the hall to their usual room. "Make yourself comfortable," she tells him with a wink and heads into the bathroom. He takes off his clothes and lies face down on the bed and closes his eyes. After a while, the mattress dips beneath Talia's weight, and she fastens a blindfold in place. There's a soft noise as she opens the cap of the massage oil bottle, and then she's digging into his muscles, pressing hard with her thumbs. Her hands are large for a woman's, strong and capable, not like Derek's of course, but close enough that Alex can pretend. He relaxes into the touch. "You were amazing out there tonight," Talia breathes against the back of his neck. "This whole season. I'm so proud of you." Alex closes his eyes tighter, imagines another voice. Talia works her hands lower, flirts with the dimple at the top of his ass, a tease, just like someone else Alex knows. She runs one finger along his crease, and he spreads his legs wider. "I miss the way it was when we were kids," her voice is a soft, low purr. "The way we used to talk, the way we laughed. I miss you." She presses her finger against his hole, into his body, and he moans. "You're so beautiful," she whispers. "I've never wanted anybody the way I want you." She crooks her finger, finds the sweet spot, and Alex moans louder. He's hard, making a mess of the sheets, and he pushes his hips into the mattress, trying to get some friction. "I may not say it," Talia tells him, "but you have to know I think about it. You break the homerun record, and I pass Pete Rose, and the two of us will go down in Yankees history together, our names in one breath, forever, until the end of time. You have to know how much I want that." Talia mouths kisses across his shoulder blade and adds another finger. The fullness feels so good that Alex clenches his hands around the pillow and murmurs, "Please." She bites his neck. "I'm going to fuck you. I'm going to make you feel so good." She pulls away, and there's the rustling of the harness, the click of snaps. Alex sucks in his breath like he's just run a hundred laps around the stadium. His heart is pounding so hard he can taste it in the back of his throat. Talia puts a hand on his back, guides him so his knees are pulled up under him and he's spread open wide. He whimpers at the blunt touch of the fake dick against his hole. "Just breathe, baby. You know how much you love it when I fuck you. I'm going to take good care of you." The pressure builds and builds as the dick breaches his body. Alex moans out loud. "Alex," she murmurs, and the mix of pleasure and pain makes it that much easier to hear the word lower and smoother and achingly familiar. "Please!" he gasps, trembling. "I forgive you," she croons to him, pressing deeper into his body. "And I want you back. I want you so much." She pulls out and pushes back in, and he bites his lip hard against the desperate, trembling urge to call out for what he wants. Talia fucks him steadily, those square, capable hands gripping his hips. "Just let go," she coaxes him. "Let go. Let me take care of you. Let me love you." Alex makes a half-strangled noise in the back of his throat. He just can't help it. Talia rubs her hand over his back. "I do, you know. I love you, Alex. I always have. Always will." The word he's been choking back since the first touch rises up insistently in his throat, and he fights it back, shoves it down, because this little sublimation ritual of his may be kind of pathetic, but he does still have some pride left. "Come on, come on," Talia urges him. Alex clings to his willpower by his fingernails. "Say it. You know you need to." She brushes a kiss against the back of his neck. "Tell me what you want." "Oh, God." Alex shakes like he's going to fly apart. "Derek!" Just saying the word hurts him, and Talia is right. That's exactly what he needs. Now that he's given in to it, he can't stop. He chants Derek's name brokenly, and Talia goes on murmuring encouragement and fucking him. Alex gets his hand on his dick, working himself frantically, and then he's coming. Coming apart. Afterwards, Alex gulps down air, shaky and overwhelmed. Talia pulls out of him gently, takes off the blindfold, pretends not to notice what a wreck he is. She's dependable that way. Never asks him why he doesn't just hire a man for the job. Saves him from having to offer up some ridiculous bullshit. It's not guys. It's just Derek. Saves him from having to admit the pitiful truth. That would feel too much like cheating. Talia goes to the bathroom and comes back with a washcloth. She cleans him up and pulls the sheet up over him. "You want to chill out for a while?" She brushes her hand across his forehead, almost motherly. He nods, wordless, because his throat feels frozen. "Okay, baby." Talia kisses his cheek. She starts for the door, and who knows what makes her hesitate, but when she turns back around, Alex can tell that her perfect professionalism is going to falter for once. She's going to say something he really doesn't want to hear. "Why don't you just tell him?" she asks. He gives a little shrug. Here is one truth he has no intention of blurting out. That he has told Derek, so many times. In the car on his way home, Alex feels bottomed out, empty, calm. He thinks "Derek" as a test, and there's no dull ache in the pit of his stomach. He pictures Derek's face, his body, the way he charges the ball on a softly hit grounder. There's no sense of being haunted by the ghost of things that used to be his. Alex takes a breath and lets it out. All he ever needed was an outlet, it seems. The kink in Alex's plan is that it works maybe too well. Day after day, he breezes past Derek in the locker room with a carefree smile and a light heart. No more chasing after him like some kind of chump, hoping against hope for some little crumb of…something. Derek may be his grand slam to win the World Series, but Talia is his respectable double to the gap in right center. You take what you can get. Alex has made his peace that. Only Derek, the fucker, picks now to suddenly start giving him the time of day again. Alex doesn't even realize it's happening at first. Nice suit. It's new, right?, Derek remarks one morning when they run into each other as they're walking into the stadium. Derek has never really cared that much about clothes, to the point that he can barely dress himself really, but Alex doesn't think too much about it. A few days later, they're out in the field, going over how they're going to play the next pitch, and Derek stands so close it's as if he wants to be number 13. Alex writes it off as Derek just being keyed up about how much the team has been sucking lately. But then, Derek starts sitting next to Alex on the bench, including him in those bright smiles—well, when there's something to smile about. He even manages to high-five Alex after he's hit a homerun without getting that constipated look that says he's only doing it because his parents raised him right. Finally, during batting practice one day, Alex finds himself clustered around the cage, waiting his turn to hit, laughing his ass off as Derek tells a story about Larry Bowa involving a bag of skittles, a trip with his grandchildren to the petting zoo, and a llama with a sweet tooth. No one makes fun of his teammates quite as hysterically as Derek does. And somehow, Alex ends up with his hand on Derek's arm, so far into Derek's space it's as if he wants to be number 2, and Derek isn't pulling away. He's leaning in, and Alex can feel Derek's breath against his cheek, and he can't seem to stop staring at Derek's mouth. He knows that mouth. He's had that mouth. He stares even harder, and Derek doesn't miss it. There's a spark in his eyes that says he knows exactly what Alex is thinking, and still, he doesn't look away. Alex imagines Derek's mouth on his, so vividly he can feel it, and something shivers through him, sharp and electric. It's hope. Fuck. The last damned thing he needs. Almost immediately, he goes into a slump. The ball just seems to appear out of nowhere, like he should have a seeing eye dog up there at the plate with him. Hard liners, that only a few weeks ago would have landed safely on the outfield grass, get snagged by the second baseman. Long fly balls die on the warning track. The sports pages fill up with speculation that his hot start was just an April fluke. In Toronto, he makes a frantic call to Talia, "I need a house call. Or a hotel call. Whatever. It's an emergency." "Sure, baby. No problem," she tells him. "I'll catch a flight and call you when I get in. You can tell me where to meet you." After the game, he gets a text from her that says she's at the airport. He texts her back to meet him at this strip club he knows. He went 0 for 4 tonight, and he needs to get rid of the bitter buzz in his blood before he can sink into the comfort Talia has to offer. Outside the club, they run into each other, and Alex follows her inside. After a few drinks, some fine-looking dancers and Talia's hand getting frisky under the table, he's ready to take her back to his room. The next day, Alex gives her a huge tip and sends her back to the airport in a limo. It's only after breakfast that he sees the cover of the Daily News, a huge picture of him and Talia and the screaming headline: Stray-Rod. He grabs up the paper and throws money at the newsstand guy, tears it open, and things go from bad to worse. A-Rod likes the she-male, muscular type, he reads. Not even true. Talia is petite and curvy. Which fills him with the paranoid terror that somehow, someone knows what he was doing with her. That Derek might know. He stands on that Toronto street corner for who knows how long, as close to hyperventilating as he's ever been in his life. His phone rings, and he checks it absently. It's Cynthia, a reminder that he has more than one thing to worry about. "Hey, babe," he tries to sound breezy. There's silence on the other end of the line, icy and cutting. "It's not what you think," he says feebly. "Just tell me the truth, Alex. Who is that woman? What does she mean to you?" "Nothing." But his voice cracks, because denying Talia cuts too close to denying Derek. "Yeah?" she says stonily. "Well, maybe that's what you'll find when you get home." The phone goes dead in his ear. She doesn't mean it, Alex tells himself. Although to be safe, he makes a note to buy her something nice, smooth the way a little. He figures one of the Virgin Islands should just about do it. He spends the rest of the morning on damage control, getting advice from his PR people, talking to the media waiting for him at the ballpark. He swears he can see smug enjoyment in their faces, another chance to tear him down, how they love that, but he swallows down the anger, keeps his tone even, makes sure his "I'm sincerely sorry" expression is firmly plastered on. With each successive question, the knot in his stomach tightens a little more. I'm not going to comment on my personal life, he tells them. But I can say that this will in no way be a distraction for the team. I would never allow that to happen. He feels the sweat on the back of his neck and hopes that no one notices. It's like waiting to be punched, the way he's braced for someone to ask: So, is it true that the woman in the picture is actually a call girl you've hired to help you work out your demons where Derek Jeter is concerned? We've heard reports that a strap-on is involved. Would you care to confirm or deny that? No one does ask, though, and the press conference finally ends, and for a moment, Alex feels almost lucky. The last obstacle to get past is Derek. Alex trudges into the locker room, none too eager to face him. He can just imagine the look Derek will give him. You're not just embarrassing yourself when you do shit like this, you know. You're embarrassing the team. Or if Derek does somehow know the real story…well, that will be really ugly. Alex prepares his side of the argument, even if it's not entirely fair. None of this would have happened if you'd just forgiven me. It was a stupid, dumb-ass mistake, and I don't know why I said it, and I've been begging you for years. Alex changes into his uniform, his eyes down, making it clear he's not in the mood, and everyone keeps their distance. Everyone but Derek. He stops at Alex's locker on his way out to the field. Alex goes tense, waiting for it, the jaw-punch of Derek's disapproval, his own hands curled into fists around his glove. But Derek just claps him on the back. "Hit one out of here tonight, huh?" He jogs off, and Alex stands there, staring after him. Did Derek Jeter, Mr. Perfection himself, just give Alex a pass? Apparently Derek can be something of a wild card too. And just like that, all the tension of the morning flows out of Alex. This whole thing will blow over in a couple of days, he thinks, and Cynthia will forgive me, and it'll all be fine. Derek has always had the ability to make things better. Alex thinks back to when they were close and he'd call Derek with some head trip he was doing on himself, and Derek would say just the right thing to talk him down. Memories of those good old days swamp him with nostalgia, with tenderness, with the absolute certainty that there will never be anyone else like Derek for him. Just like that, the familiar dull ache returns to the pit of his stomach, more insistent than ever, as if it has no intention of going anywhere anytime soon. Alex sighs with resignation. Apparently, Talia just lost her job. He can only hope his batting average doesn't suffer too much. 4. Alex ducks his head around the wall of the shower. "If I'd been there, I would have stopped him." "Mmm-hmm," Derek says absently. He has no idea what Alex is talking about and doesn't stop soaping up long enough to ask. He's the last one to hit the showers, none too happy that reporters kept him jibber-jabbering about the painfully obvious for so long. Alex will get to the point eventually, he figures. "One punch. I would have laid him right out." Alex comes closer, right up to the edge of the shower spray. Derek shakes his head. "Berg's been telling his story, huh?" After Alex left the game, his quad acting up on him again, Ensberg had come in, just in time to play offensive lineman to some deranged fan who came charging onto the field to chat with Derek. He'd been ridiculously pleased with himself about it, so Derek hadn't bothered to point out that everyone in this city wanted a piece of him, that they had for years and years, and he'd never had any trouble taking care of himself. "I would have thrown myself right in front of that guy, kept him off you," Alex insists. "Uh-huh." Derek doesn't remind Alex just how well he's fared in fistfights in the past. It's the thought that counts, after all. "He'd have been one sorry psycho." Alex nods with certainty. "Did he say anything to you?" Derek shrugs. "Something about me being cute." Sometimes, winding Alex up is just too much fun to resist. As expected, Alex's expression darkens considerably. "Should'a been me out there," he mutters. Derek turns to him, some little teasing comment in mind, but the look on Alex's face chases it away. It's the same look he gets when he goes up to the plate with the bases loaded, intense and determined and like nothing else in the world matters. That's really kind of…sweet. Kind of hot, too. That's what Derek's dick seems to think, anyway. "You'd do that for me, Alex?" Derek drops his voice down, low and intimate. "Fight off the crazies?" Alex's eyes get big and round at the sight of Derek's hardening cock. "Yeah, yeah," he whispers urgently. Their honeymoon period has been going on for months now, and they've sworn to keep this, them, out of the locker room. Derek's never been one for recklessness. Still, they're not technically doing anything, not even touching each other. He rubs his hand over his belly. "What else would you do for me?" "Anything." Alex licks his lips. "Everything." "Yeah?" Derek traces a finger along the length of his erection. Alex nods, staring like he's mesmerized. "I got your back, no matter what. I'd protect you." There's urgent sincerity in Alex's voice, and it's clear that in this moment at least, he believes what he's saying, believes it utterly. Something sharper stirs beneath Derek's playfulness, something implacable and possessive, a part of him that wants Alex to prove it and prove it and go on proving it. He palms his hard-on, pushing into his fist, an invitation to continue. "I'd hit one out for you, take an error for you, win a championship for you." Alex's voice grows more feverish the more carried away he gets. "I'd get down on my knees, right here, blow you in front of everybody." Derek tightens his grip on his dick, bites his lip to hold back the pleasure noises he wants to make. Alex inches closer, moisture catching on his eyelashes, like maybe sacrificing his Armani to the shower is something else he's willing to do for Derek. Derek shifts a little closer, like maybe forgetting to be careful for once in his life is something he's willing to do for Alex. His hand works faster, harder on his dick, and he's leaning forward for a kiss, and he's going to come, going to come… "Hey Jetes, tell Alex how I saved you from that nut job," Berg's voice booms off the tiles. "He doesn't want to believe me." Derek just manages to whirl around in time, coming against the wall, as Berg rounds the corner into the shower. "My hero," Derek says over his shoulder, sarcastic and breathless. "Guy didn't have a chance," Berg blusters on. "Good thing I was out there, huh?" Neither Derek or Alex says anything. Coming down from an orgasm makes Derek even more laconic than usual. Alex can't concentrate for shit when he's turned on and left hanging. Berg, a late addition to the clue bus, finally seems to sense that there's some kind of vibe in the air. "Oh, hey, am I interrupting?" He looks from Derek to Alex and misinterprets what he sees. "'Man, sorry! I totally didn't mean it was good that Alex wasn't out there today. 'Cause, you know, it so wasn't." He shifts his weight awkwardly, a blush creeping up his cheeks. "You're gonna be back in the lineup before you know it, A." Derek turns off the water and wraps a towel around his waist. "Yeah, I'm sure Alex is going to be getting some action real soon." His mouth curves up in a teasing smile. Berg grins, not getting it. Alex blinks, his expression dazed, as if Derek just reached into his pants and squeezed his dick. Derek walks off smiling. He can feel Alex eyeing his ass all the way to his locker, the sensation like hands, hot through the terrycloth of the towel. Yep, winding Alex up is all kinds of entertaining. 5. Traffic on 95 is snarl-free for once, and Alex navigates on autopilot, staring at the road ahead without paying much attention to it. Beside him, Cynthia is talking about plans for decorating the nursery. Alex nods at random intervals, not really listening, but the steady flow of her voice is easy, soothing. Whatever she wants to do with the baby's room is fine with him. The phone rings, and he answers. "Hey." The word jolts in his ear, familiar and unexpected. There was a time back in the day when Derek called all the time just to check in, and then for years they hardly talked at all, and then a few months ago, around the time he re-signed with the Yankees, the ice finally seemed to thaw, although Alex still couldn't say why exactly. All he knows is: Derek has started calling again. Alex takes a breath. "Hey." There's a pause and a rustling noise, as if Derek is getting comfortable, stretching out on that big leather sofa of his, Alex imagines, in no hurry to get to the point of the conversation. DJ has never had a problem with silences. That's all Alex. At last Derek says, "So. What're you up to?" "Just going out to dinner. This place Cynthia read about." "Yeah?" It's completely inflectionless, pure Derek, the way he always sounds whenever Cynthia's name comes up. "Been busy?" Alex asks. "Oh. You know. A little of this, a little of that," Derek says, a mischievous spark in his voice that makes Alex reflexively clench with jealousy, and then Derek asks, "You up to anything this weekend?" "Got this Men's Vogue thing on Saturday," Alex says and adds, completely unnecessarily, "They're coming to the house." "Mmm." There's silence again, and Alex fights off the urge to fill it with babble. "Well," Derek says at last. "See ya." "Yeah. Sure. See ya." When Alex hangs up, Cynthia asks, "Who was it?" "Just Derek." The words stick in his throat, a contradiction in terms, like saying just everything. Cynthia doesn't seem to notice. She goes on talking about the baby's room. Alex takes the exit for the restaurant, but all he sees is Derek. After the travesty of the post-season, after the mess of the negotiation, the fuck-up of the announcement being made during the World Series, after Alex had finally gotten it all straightened out, he called Derek to confess his sins. He's never been much good at admitting when he's wrong, not even as a kid, so it's funny, not in the ha-ha way, that for years now his conversations with Derek have consisted largely of: "I'm sorry." This one was no exception. He didn't even manage to say hello before blurting out, "I'm sorry I sucked against Cleveland, okay? And I'm sorry about the thing with the announcement. And the whole negotiation thing. Not that I appreciated that comment about the Steinbrenners always meaning what they say. What kind of bullshit was that? But. Anyway. I fucked up. And— I wish I hadn't." He was out of breath by the time he'd finished, and he gulped down some air. Derek took his time answering, as always. "I didn't do any better in the playoffs than you did." Something relented in Derek's voice, completely unexpectedly, something that had been strained for so long now that Alex barely remembered it any different, and then Derek turned dryly humorous, "We both really sucked." Alex laughed, loud and genuine and right from the gut, such a relief. "About the contract thing— I never wanted—" "I'm glad it turned out okay," Derek said. "I'm— It's good you're coming back. We're a better team with you." No matter how bad things ever got between them, Derek always managed to say the right thing when the situation called for it—nice play and congratulations on the MVP and I hope you and Cynthia will be happy. Always polite, that DJ, even in his hatred. But this, now, was different. There was something real in Derek's voice, no mistaking it, and Alex had the giddy rush of being allowed behind a door that was mostly kept locked, the way he always used to feel when they were close. Yearning hit him hard, and for a long moment, he couldn't catch his breath. "So," he said finally, licking his lips. "I guess I'll see you in spring training?" "Hey, you never know," Derek said with that familiar amusement in his voice, "you might see me before then." It's not quite nine on Saturday morning when the Men's Vogue people show up at the door. Alex lets them in and plasters on a welcoming smile and offers them coffee. Cynthia has reminded him at least three times to do that. "It'll seem hospitable," she said, as if it matters what these people think of them. After coffee is doled out, Cynthia says brightly, "How about a tour of the house?" The magazine people jump at the chance, no surprise there, and Alex trails along after the group, playing host with all the charm he can muster. He shows off his awards and the big screen TV and family photos from his childhood, framed and displayed on a shelf. Sometimes, it seems perfectly natural that strangers want to hear all about the minutiae of his life, and then there are times like this. When the tour is over, they get down to business. The magazine people bring in their equipment and decide they'll do the pictures first, followed by the interview. Cynthia points them to rooms where they can set up. The stylist spirits her away to do her hair and makeup. One of the assistants tells Alex, "They've got wardrobe in there." She points to a spare bedroom. Alex nods absently. "Thanks." He heads into the room and stops in his tracks. There's a rack of clothes, bags with sweaters and shoes, a basket of sewing supplies. And Derek. "So, you need help getting dressed now, huh?" Derek smirks. "How about this?" He pulls a crisp, white shirt from the rack, throws it onto the bed. Alex is too surprised to say anything. He closes the door and moves further into the room, closer to Derek, until they're in reaching distance of each other. Derek has this little half smile, and he watches Alex steadily, not looking away, hardly even blinking. It reminds Alex of the first time they kissed, only the expression in Derek's eyes is more inquisitive than challenging. Whatever Derek sees, it must be some form of "yes," because he hooks his hand around Alex's neck and pulls him in. The kiss is soft, restrained, a test of the waters, and when Derek pulls away, his eyebrow is raised like a question mark. Alex can feel Derek's breath against his lips. Stopping this right now would be the wise thing to do, with a house full of reporters and his wife two rooms away and the door not even locked. No one has ever accused Alex of being any too wise, though. He lunges at Derek, tangling up his hands in Derek's shirt, kissing frantically, deeply, until his lungs burn. Derek's hands move over him proprietarily, and he cups Alex's jaw, kissing back just as fiercely. Alex's mouth is tingling when they finally break away from each other, and he's already hard. Belatedly, it occurs to him to ask, "What are you doing here?" Derek shrugs. "Somebody has to get you ready for your photo shoot." "Funny." Alex can't help grinning, though, big and wide. He doesn't even care that he probably looks like a fool. Apparently, Derek isn't kidding about playing wardrobe assistant. He picks up the shirt from the bed. "I like white on you." His voice drops lower. "Like the way it looks against your skin." He reaches underneath Alex's shirt, hands settling at his waist, thumbs stroking in circles, making Alex shiver. It almost feels like Alex is in a trance as he lifts his arms, letting Derek strip off his shirt. Derek lays his palms flat against Alex's belly, gliding them slowly up his skin. Alex's chest rises and falls sharply. Derek scratches at a nipple, traces the hollow beneath Alex's collarbone with his thumb. Then he takes a step back. "Now for that shirt." "Bastard," Alex breathes out. DJ grins. Always the tease. He slides the shirt onto Alex's shoulders, leaves it hanging open. "Nice look." The soft touch of cotton feels incendiary on Alex's skin. Or maybe that's just the way Derek is looking at him. "I don't think they're going to want you wearing jeans." He slips his fingers beneath Alex's waistband, toys with the button. His gaze flicks up from Alex's cock to his face, another question. Alex nods. Derek pops the button, lowers the zipper. The noise sounds huge in the quiet room. He skims the jeans down Alex's legs. Alex holds onto Derek's shoulder as he steps out of them. "Black silk, huh?" Derek fondles Alex's hip through the fabric of his underwear, grinning. Alex's brain isn't exactly up to making snappy comebacks right now, and there's not much of a chance anyway as Derek quickly sinks to his knees. He slides the underwear down Alex's legs. Derek rubs his cheek, stubble rough, against Alex's thigh, his hair just barely brushing Alex's cock. Teasing him again, and Alex curls his fingers into Derek's shoulders and tugs impatiently. Derek smiles and bends his head and then it's all hot and tight and wet around Alex's cock. He feels vaguely sorry for all the people who have never had Derek Jeter's mouth on them. He hates the guts of everyone who has. Derek pulls back, just long enough to whisper, "You gonna think about me when they're taking your picture?" Alex moans, and Derek grips his hips, works magic with his tongue. You gonna think about me? Every touch of Derek's mouth seems to repeat the question. Alex digs his fingers into Derek's arms, thrusts into his mouth. "Derek!" he gasps. He comes so hard the edges of his vision go dark. Afterwards, Derek cleans him up with tissues and pulls his underwear back up. "Somebody's gonna come looking for you." He grabs the first pair of pants off the rack. Alex puts them on, and Derek buttons up the shirt. He looks into Alex's eyes for a moment, kisses him, and then he's moving away, putting distance between them. Alex doesn't understand why until the door swings open, and Cynthia comes in. Her forehead creases at the sight of Derek. "Oh. I didn't realize—" Derek ducks his head and smiles endearingly. "I should have called first, but I was in the neighborhood, and wanted to surprise Alex." He reaches for a bouquet of flowers that Alex hadn't even noticed. "Congratulations, by the way." Cynthia is no more immune to Derek's charm than Alex has ever been, and surprise transforms into a bright smile as she takes the flowers. "It's great you could stop by. I know Alex is glad to see you." She shoots a pleased glance Alex's way. She understands how much he's missed Derek, if not exactly why. "We just have this interview to do, and then how about lunch?" Derek shakes his head. "I gotta get going. But thanks." Cynthia wrings a promise out of him to come back the next time he's in town and have dinner. Alex walks him out. They pause at the door, but even Alex isn't reckless enough to risk a kiss now. Derek smiles crookedly. "See ya at spring training." It sounds remarkably like forgiveness. The interview comes out at the end of March, and as soon as it hits the newsstands, Alex's friends call him up to rib him about it. That picture. Pappi. You thinking dirty thoughts or what? Alex just laughs it off, but he keeps a copy of the magazine in his nightstand drawer. When he's alone, sometimes he'll take it out, stare at himself, at the way Derek makes him look. It's the last days of spring training, and Alex is almost sorry. Everything has been so free and easy between him and Derek, like it was when they were kids. He doesn't want the pressures of the regular season to change that. The locker room rings with the familiar chaos of guys talking, music blasting, friendly teasing. Alex ties up his cleats and heads out to the field. Derek is already standing at the railing of the dugout, staring out at the grass like he's meditating. Alex goes to join him. "Hey." DJ nods, and Alex hooks his arms over the railing, looks out at the horizon, trying to see what Derek sees, but the world will never have quite the same shape for him. "You ever think about how long we'll have this?" Derek asks almost wistfully. Alex shrugs. "The rest of our careers, anyway." Derek turns to Alex, his smile quick and pleased, and there's something in his eyes that Alex recognizes, because he's had the same thought himself, so many times, a vision of their numbers painted on the wall at the stadium, copper plagues side by side in Cooperstown. Derek will never admit it, of course, because he's...Derek. That doesn't mean he doesn't want it just as much. You break the homerun record, and I pass Pete Rose, and the two of us will go down in Yankees history together, our names in one breath, forever, until the end of time. Derek bumps Alex's shoulder playfully. "So. I saw the magazine." His smile gets wider. "You thinking about me?" Play it cool, play it cool, Alex tells himself, but it's like he's missing the gene for that. The undeniable truth just comes bubbling out of him. "I'm always thinking about you."

Sanzo smelled a rat as soon as he entered the common area of their suite of rooms. Instead of Hakkai standing at the counter chopping up vegetables even Sanzo couldn't name, cutting up bits of meat to make the meal palatable to Gojyo and Goku, and stirring whatever was simmering in the pot, he found...nothing. At any rate, he found nothing simmering on the stove and a few used but empty pots and pans stacked on top of each other in the sink. He smelled food, though. It smelled like ramen in chicken broth, Chinese cabbage (though where Hakkai had found Chinese cabbage now that they were in India, Sanzo didn't know), and bits of pork. The rectangular table at which the four of them usually ate had been swapped with the round table at which he drank his morning coffee and read whichever newspaper he could get his hands on. Two chairs sat opposite each other at the small round table; the other three chairs were grouped around the larger rectangular table. The round table sported a blue and white checked tablecloth and a candle flickering inside a hurricane lamp. Two bowls were set out, both with ramen in them, along with ceramic spoons and wooden chopsticks. He could see the leafy green of the cabbage and bits of meat he assumed was the pork he'd smelled. A large jar of mayonnaise, complete with a handmade label that proclaimed in wobbly characters "Property of Sanzo – Hands Off", sat next to one of the bowls. He heard the shuffling of feet coming from one of the bedrooms. His original thought was mistaken. He hadn't smelled a rat. This caper had 'monkey' written all over it. As if on cue, Goku appeared in the doorway of the nearer bedroom. "Where the fuck is everyone else?" The stupid idiot grinned mindlessly. "Out," he said. Sanzo's eyes narrowed. "I can see that, moron. Out where?" "I dunno. Hakkai said something about going to a restaurant nearby and then out drinking." "So, what, are they on a date?" "Hmm," Goku said, sitting down and stirring the ramen in the bowl. "I guess. Maybe." He looked up. "What does it matter? We're here, and I made dinner." "I saw, monkey brains." Sanzo looked down at the bowl at what was obviously his place, considering Goku was sitting in the other seat, and said, "I hope I won't get food poisoning from this," before he too sat down. "Whaddya mean?" Goku asked indignantly. "Hakkai showed me how to make ramen. It ain't so hard." "Isn't," Sanzo automatically corrected him with a growl. "Just because the idiot kappa uses bad grammar doesn't mean you should." Goku's face brightened. "Right! Just like you say that just because you swear like a longshoreman doesn't mean I should!" Sanzo smacked his forehead with his hand and shook his head from side to side. When he removed his hand, he said, "So what's the occasion? Did Hakkai and Gojyo go out because you wanted to make dinner for me, or did you make dinner for us because Hakkai and Gojyo were going out?" A faint blush spread over Goku's cheeks, but he didn't say anything. That meant Hakkai and Gojyo made themselves scarce because Goku wanted to have dinner alone with him, which meant... Damn. Sanzo had noticed the besotted look on the boy's face: the way he watched him from behind when they were riding in Jeep, the way he kept an eye on him during battles, the way his eyes searched his face when they were eating, or talking, or just sitting quietly together, but he'd hoped it didn't mean anything, really. He'd hoped he'd never need to think seriously about this. He pushed the thought away. There was time enough to think about that later. For now he just wanted to get through dinner. So he asked the most obvious question: "How are you going to keep your greedy stomach happy with so little food?" It didn't occur to him to wonder how he kept his own stomach happy with so little food. He happened to have as little an appetite for food as Goku had a ravenous one, possibly from years of the austere diet of vegetables, bean curd, and rice that was the norm at Buddhist monasteries. Living in the temple with him hadn't stopped Goku's appetite from being uncontrollable, but then again, most likely Goku hadn't lived at a Buddhist monastery as a child. He just happened to wind up at one because Sanzo, and not some other fool, had set him free. Goku slurped his broth and smiled. "I'm fine, really, Sanzo!" Sanzo had to look away; the way Goku's tongue darted out to lick droplets of broth from the corners of his mouth and the slurping noises he was making were doing funny things to his insides. Sanzo spooned some mayonnaise into the ramen broth and stirred. Uncomfortable thoughts kept intruding as Sanzo lifted his spoon from the bowl to his mouth, drinking in the broth and sucking down the nearly-soggy noodles while he wondered how much of Goku's devotion was merely due to his having rescued the monkey from imprisonment in that craggy cave. Could anything Goku wanted of him truly be considered fully consensual, considering how much Goku might feel he owed him? Then his traitorous hormones, the ones whose existence he usually denied and kept so well in check that no one suspected he harbored them, reminded him that Goku was an adult now. He'd grown up a great deal already during this journey, both emotionally and physically. He no longer looked like a boy, but like the young man he was. He also remembered learning that a pretty youkai girl liked Goku well enough to kiss him before she went to her certain death. Knowing he could attract someone like that – knowing that he could live a normal life away from the unwelcoming monastery and the monks who had shunned him – why did Goku still want to be with him? Didn't it all come down to attachment? He'd released him from that cruel prison and Goku felt he owed him. Goku practically worshipped him. Sanzo knew how much he didn't deserve Goku's worship or devotion. It was dangerous to be so attached to someone. Nothing in this world was permanent. Besides, what was so great about him anyway? Anyone could have freed Goku. The fact that he was the one who did it merely testified to the power of suspicion and taboo. Goku's voice brought him back to reality. "Hakkai bought a cake for dessert," he said happily. "I know how much ya like sweets. Mind ya, it'll be too much for both of us, but Hakkai and Gojyo can have some later too." Once more, Sanzo was confused by Goku's atypical lack of appetite. Goku had finished his entire bowl of ramen, but hadn't had seconds. Not that Sanzo could see any seconds for him to have. He was tempted to feel Goku's forehead to see if he was feverish - that might explain the unusual behavior - but he decided to wait until after dessert. Maybe Goku's appetite would return once he got a whiff of the cake. Beaming as widely as if he'd baked the cake himself, Goku brought the box with the cake in it to the table, opened it, and pulled out the cake. It bore chocolate frosting, a curlicue white border, and pink flowers. Pretty girly, Sanzo thought, but it the cake tasted good, he wasn't going to complain about it. "What flavor is it?" he asked. "It's yellow cake with strawberry filling," Goku responded. He retrieved a knife and began cutting slices of cake to put on plates he'd brought to the table while Sanzo was still absorbed in his thoughts. Goku slid a plate with a generous slice of cake toward Sanzo, who grunted his thanks. He used his chopsticks to slice and pick up a chunk of cake. As he chewed, he observed that the light, moist cake nicely offset the richness of the frosting and the sweetness of the filling. When he looked up, he saw Goku smirking. What the fuck was the matter with him? He watched, transfixed, as Goku brought a bite-sized piece of rich moist cake to his lips and shoved it in his mouth. Some of the frosting clung to his lips; his tongue darted out and swiped at it entirely too lasciviously for it to be an accident. Between the smirk and the way in which Goku luxuriated in licking the frosting from his lips, Sanzo realized that this was show was for his benefit. Fuck, was Goku trying to iseduce/i him? He'd realized Goku had arranged this so they could be alone together, but he hadn't grasped how serious and determined Goku was to make something happen between them. Sanzo almost choked with rage at the thought that the perverted kappa might have encouraged Goku to engage in this suggestive and lewd display. Sanzo was certain that Gojyo knew that Goku's hormones had gone into overdrive. Since he wasn't youkai, Sanzo's sense of smell wasn't as acute as the others' were, but even he could detect the residual scent of arousal resulting from self-pleasuring when he roomed with Goku. He also knew that Goku had a crush on him. It couldn't be more, couldn't really be love. He had reached out to a miserable and lonely kid and freed him, and in return, the kid worshiped and adored him. He'd tried to impress on Goku that he was just a man, not some god, and didn't deserve or need his devotion. Goku should be building his own life, one separate and apart from Sanzo's. With these thought echoing in his mind, Sanzo set his chopsticks down and pushed his chair back so that it made an angry scraping noise. As he stood up, Goku looked at him, startled. The startled look turned pleading when Goku realized he was about to march off to their shared room in a huff. Goku scrambled out of his chair and held Sanzo's shoulders down, crying, "Uwaaah! Sanzo! Don't leave yet!" Sanzo struggled to keep his balance. Goku was inhumanly strong and was doing his best to push him back down into his chair. "Get your hands off me, monkey!" he snarled. "Make me!" Goku challenged him. Since he was the kind of person who refused to back down when challenged, no matter how foolishly, Sanzo resisted the short yet muscular arms holding him in place. He could probably break Goku's hold if he bit him, but he wasn't ready to engage in quite that level of brutality yet. He tried sweeping Goku's legs out from underneath him with his foot instead... ...slipped, and wound up landing in a heap on the floor on top of Goku. Smooth. "Ow!" Goku yelled, rubbing his knee, which he'd bumped when he fell. "What did ya do that for, droopy eyes?" But Sanzo wasn't paying attention. Instead, he was looking toward his groin, horrified. Goku tried to sit up, but couldn't, because the weight of Sanzo's body kept him pinned to the floor. The movement, though, was enough to force Sanzo to shift around slightly. Goku must have felt something prodding his leg, because he looked in the same direction as Sanzo with an expression of trepidation mixed with avidity. "What are you looking at, monkey?" Sanzo spat out before his brain caught up with his words. Goku goggled. "Uh – uh—" Sanzo did what was, in retrospect, a truly stupid thing. In order to distract Goku from what was going on 'down there', he pressed his lips against Goku's. Goku's eyes opened even wider than usual. "Mmmph," he said before mashing his lips against Sanzo's. Goku seemed exceptionally eager, almost as if Sanzo was finally responding to him the way he'd long hoped he would. Damn stupid monkey. As they pressed their lips together, Sanzo realized the flaw in his impulsive action: neither of them knew how to do this properly. Goku's chin poked his jaw and their teeth were in the way somehow. Goku tried to help by tilting his head to the side a little, but Sanzo grabbed the sides of his face and wouldn't let go, so Goku parted his lips slightly instead. Sanzo took advantage of the narrow opening to propel his tongue into Goku's mouth. The sensation went straight to Goku's dick and encouraged him to open his mouth wider, his moans echoing into their conjoined mouths. Sanzo's tongue skimmed lightly over Goku's as they sealed their lips together and Sanzo nearly sucked the air out of Goku, whose tongue curled up to meet Sanzo's, his eyelids fluttering closed as he surrendered to the sensory overload he was experiencing. The tips of their tongues pressed and danced against each other in a tangle of lust, want, and need until Goku broke away so he could breathe and swallow the saliva that had collected at the back of his mouth. Sanzo only gave him a few seconds to swallow and gasp for air before zeroing in on his mouth again. This time, he tilted slightly to the right so his nose slid into place to the side of Goku's nose rather than bumping against it like it had before. This kissing thing was already beginning to feel comfortable, almost familiar. Sanzo shivered, not just with desire, but also with fear. He couldn't fully acknowledge it even to himself, but the thought of becoming comfortable with kissing Goku – with kissing ianyone/i - scared him. Each kiss, each touch, annihilated a little more of his concept of muichimotsu, which consisted of wanting nothing and needing no one, just as nothing and no one wanted or needed him. He had invested so much of himself in it that he wasn't sure what he would be like without it; he wasn't even sure that his self-image could survive intact in its absence. Goku, unaware that their actions were tearing Sanzo's self-concept, not to mention his self-control, to shreds, threaded his fingers through Sanzo's golden strands as he rocked himself upward, seeking some friction to assuage his aching arousal. Sanzo took the hint and ground his pelvis against Goku's, nevertheless careful not to press so hard as to crush the slighter body underneath his. When Goku pulled away, he was moaning and panting and soundlessly mouthing Sanzo's name. Now Sanzo wanted to know what his name would sound like on Goku's lips as he came. Damn. The perverted kappa was affecting him too. But even that thought wasn't enough to dissuade Sanzo from pushing his torso away from Goku's and opening and adjusting enough clothing to insinuate his hand inside of Goku's boxers. Goku shivered a little at being exposed to the cool air like that, but soon the warmth of Sanzo's hand around his cock banished any discomfort. As Sanzo slid his hand along Goku's length, using the liquid dribbling from the head as lubricant and sensing the soft skin glide underneath his fingers, Goku arched back, exposing his neck in all its tawny glory. Sanzo slid his other hand around Goku's neck and began kissing and nipping his way down to Goku's collarbone. Goku squirmed. Sanzo lifted his head to ask, "What's the matter with you, monkey?" "Ya got my pants pulled down, but you're still clothed and I'm not doin' nothin' for ya!" Uncharacteristically, Sanzo ignored Goku's atrocious grammar. "Fine," he said, and sat up, removing his hand. "Happy now?" Goku looked up at him, irritation darkening his face. "Of course not," he grumbled. "I'd rather ya were still touchin' me, but I wanna touch ya too." Sanzo crossed his arms and suppressed the desire to laugh while Goku's cock twitched and bobbed. "Nothing's stopping you from touching me," he said. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than small, eager hands were untying the sash holding his robe closed and pulling it off. Sanzo reached up, removed the sutra from his shoulders, and carefully rolled it up before placing it on the table. It would be better to store it in its customary spot among his belongings, but now that he'd gone this far, he didn't want to break things off, nor did he relish trying to walk to the room with a hard on. In the meantime, Goku worked at unfastening Sanzo's jeans without much success, possibly because Sanzo's erection pulled them tight around his crotch. Sanzo growled and batted Goku's hands away while he yanked the zipper down. Goku watched, fascinated, as Sanzo's cock poked out; he was a bit taken aback to see that Sanzo wore no underwear. No wonder Sanzo wanted to unzip his pants by himself. It would be painful if any sensitive parts got caught in those metal teeth. Sanzo used so much force to pop the button on his jeans open that he scraped his thumb. He hissed and sucked at it until he heard Goku's quick intake of breath. Goku's eyes were half-lidded and no longer golden, but dark and burning with longing and desire. Sanzo paused, doubts flooding in again. He'd been Goku's authority figure for a long time. Was he exploiting his hold over Goku to satisfy his own needs? Was it even wise to take this step? He held Goku's chin in his hand. "Are you okay with this?" he asked. Goku chuckled with amused surprise. "Do ya have ta ask?" he responded as he lunged forward, covering Sanzo's mouth with his own. "Mmmph," Sanzo said as he broke away, placing his hands on either side of Goku's torso to prevent him from doing that again until after he was finished speaking. "Look at me," he said when Goku refused to meet his eyes. Once Goku looked at him again, he said, "I have to make sure you're not doing this because you think you owe me something." Goku frowned. "'M not a kid, Sanzo," he said patiently, "I know what I want." The remainder of the thought - I want you - hung in the air between them, unspoken. Goku continued, "An' I know ya want it too." He knew Sanzo wouldn't offer him any reassurance or confirmation, but that didn't mean he was wrong, just that he had to use his intuition, not Sanzo's own words, to figure out how Sanzo felt. This time, it was Sanzo who lunged forward, sucking Goku's tongue into his mouth and angling his head for maximum effect, as Goku gripped his waistband and yanked his jeans down. Goku feasted his eyes on Sanzo's now freed dick in all its swollen, empurpled glory. He reached out and traced the vein on the underside, causing Sanzo to tilt his head back, moaning. Sanzo lay on top of him again, slightly off to one side, so their dicks were next to each other, and brushed his cock against Goku's. Goku wrapped his hand around both cocks. In response, Sanzo placed his hand on top of Goku's. They slid their hands in tandem, using the precum to allow them to maneuver without the friction of skin rubbing against skin causing a burn. So absorbed were they that Sanzo's knees digging into Goku's shin, Goku's chin pressing against Sanzo's shoulder, and the roughness of the carpet against the exposed sliver of skin at Goku's waist barely registered. Quiet pants and murmurs of encouragement – "feels so good, Sanzo" and "fuck, yes" – filled the room. Goku's eyes were mostly shut as he concentrated on the sheer tactile bliss of having his hand wrapped around both their dicks while Sanzo's hand held his; Sanzo's eyes were nearly all the way open so he could watch the expression on Goku's face. Sanzo reflected that Goku was inexpressibly cute, though Sanzo would cut his tongue out first before he'd ever breathe a word of that to Goku. The cheeky monkey had more than enough self-confidence as it was. It felt strange to Sanzo to have another hand wedged between his hand and his dick. Admittedly, Goku's dick was nestled right next to his, and it must feel strange to Goku as well, but Sanzo was not accustomed to adjusting the rhythm and manner in which he got himself off to someone else's. There were moments when he wanted nothing more than to grab Goku's hand and take over, but the impulse faded away when he realized that what Goku was doing, while different from the way he would do it, felt just as good. In some ways it felt even better, not just because they were doing it together, but also because it was new and fresh, not something he'd experienced with the hard slide of his hand over his dick for so many years now. Goku's voice became louder as their joined hands grazed their dicks' sensitive spots. His moans and pants changed to cries, his face became flushed, and Sanzo could sense the tension building in his body, signaling his impending orgasm. The corners of Sanzo's mouth quirked up slightly at the thought that he had brought Goku to this point. Sanzo had just enough time to complete this thought before the sticky warmth of Goku's come gushed over both their hands and Goku's strangled cry of "San-zo!" reverberated around the room. Since he wasn't yet distracted by his own orgasm, Sanzo was coherent enough to keep Goku's hand occupied while his spasms overcame him. They only halted once Goku's spasms shuddered to a stop. Wondering if the whole inn had heard Goku's cry, Sanzo mused he had never seen Goku's face like that before; now that he'd seen it, he wanted to see it again, knowing that it was a face reserved solely for him. Goku flexed his hand slightly to signal to Sanzo to loosen his grip so he could let go of his own dick and concentrate on Sanzo's. After wishing he had something to wipe his hand with, Sanzo placed his hand loosely on top of Goku's and let Goku take the lead in rubbing, gliding, and slapping against his own length, Goku's spend lubricating their strokes. Sanzo could feel his oncoming orgasm coiling in his guts and groin. The moment Goku touched him again, he grunted and came, his come mingling with Goku's. Goku rolled with him when Sanzo flopped over and lay on his back and continued to work through Sanzo's orgasm like Sanzo had done for him. Sanzo was happy that Goku let go once Sanzo stopped writhing, thereby sparing him the embarrassment of having to ask Goku to remove his hand now that the stimulation was not only no longer needed, but slightly painful. "That was awesome!" Goku exclaimed. Sanzo wondered if 'awesome' was the only interjection Goku knew, as he used it so often. He had to agree with the sentiment, even though it wasn't the word he'd use. Not quite everything had landed on their hands; a few drops had dribbled onto the floor. Goku's eyebrows drew together in a frown and he scrambled to his feet while trying not to dirty the carpet any further despite the drops that gravity was coaxing down his thighs. With his other hand, Goku pawed through the drawer for clean napkins. He dabbed at himself with one, dampened a few more with water from the sink, and brought them over to Sanzo, who held out his hand. "No," Goku said. "I'll wipe ya down." "I'm perfectly capable—" Sanzo began. Sanzo had never heard such a feral growl from Goku before except when he'd been in his youkai form. "This is somethin' I wanna do fer ya! Lettin' me take care of ya is what people like us do!" "People like us? What kind of people, exactly?" Goku replied, "Lovers. Those kind of people." While Sanzo badly wanted to argue with Goku over the term – he hadn't begun dinner with the intent of making Goku his lover; there had been no penetration and thus, according to some, possibly including himself, no sex; and he still wasn't sure this wasn't a mistake – he found that he couldn't. Even if he wasn't willing to admit it to himself, it was essentially true. It was pointless to argue with the emotionally intuitive Goku over such things, because events inevitably proved Goku right and Sanzo wrong. But it would be as big a shock to Goku as it would be to him for him to suddenly turn soft now. So Sanzo replied, "Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself there, monkey? Don't be so-" He paused, realizing that he was about to make a horrible pun. Goku paused in his ablutions, puzzled. "Don't be so what, Sanzo?" "Never mind." Goku rocked back and forth, making Sanzo fear for the carpet again. "What is it, Sanzo?" he said, sporting his best pleading puppy dog look. Damn, he knew that Sanzo found it next to impossible to withstand if he kept it up long enough. "Oh, for fuck's sake! Don't be so cocksure, monkey." After a second of incomprehension, Goku began guffawing, rolling and shaking until tears streamed down his face. Sanzo got up and stalked off toward the room they were sharing with as much dignity as he could muster while naked and stinking of semen, thankful that the curtains were closed. He heard Goku scramble to his feet and run after him. "Sanzo!" he panted between what had now subsided to bursts of raucous laughter and tackled Sanzo from behind, enfolding him in a crushing hug, his renewed erection poking Sanzo in the thigh. "Goku?" Sanzo asked. "Yes," Goku replied, his voice muffled because his head was burrowed against Sanzo's neck and shoulder. "Get the cake." Seemingly unimpeded by his hard on, and needing no additional encouragement to resume their long-delayed interrupted dessert, Goku ran off to retrieve the slices of cake. Sanzo supposed now that his appetite for sex was partially slaked, his appetite for food was ascendant. Sanzo strode back into the main room and retrieved their clothes, which he dropped in a heap on the floor of the bedroom. Sanzo wondered whether it would be better for him to at least put his jeans back on for now to forestall any further monkey business. What they'd done boiled down to mutual masturbation. It didn't have to mean anything more than mutual release; at the temple, novices did it all the time without going further. It was unhelpful, though, to let his mind wander down these byways. He knew that what had happened meant more than that to Goku, and truthfully, it meant more to him, too. He wasn't sure he'd be able to leave matters where they'd left off, especially if Goku was his usual cheerfully persistent self. Goku appeared and thrust a plate of cake in Sanzo's face. Sanzo took it and said, "Am I supposed to eat it with my hands? Typical, idiot." Maybe he could discourage Goku by being harsh. Goku shrugged. "I can go get the chopsticks if ya want, but it seemed silly considerin' how little is left." Sanzo had eaten maybe a third of the cake before his attempt at a swift departure, so he didn't consider how much remained at all little, but from Goku's perspective it probably was a small piece of cake indeed. Sanzo arched an eyebrow. He wasn't going to give up on insults so quickly, but if the past were any guide, insults wouldn't disturb Goku's equanimity. Sanzo snarled, "Get the fucking chopsticks, then." Goku hurried off to do his bidding. "Here!" he said as he thrust the chopsticks at Sanzo, who took them with ill-grace and barked, "Close the fucking door, monkey! Do you want Gojyo and Hakkai to walk in and see naked monkey running about?" Goku grinned and looked down at his erection. "I guess not," he said, and shut the door slightly too enthusiastically. The ensuing thud reverberated. Sanzo rolled his eyes. "You're as careful as a herd of elephants," he said. Goku started to sit down next to Sanzo, but was pinned by a gimlet eye and sat on his own bed instead. Between large mouthfuls of cake – Sanzo noted with satisfaction that Goku was no longer eating the cake with salaciously seductive intent – he asked, "You mad at me, Sanzo?" "Mmmph," Sanzo said, his mouth occupied with chewing the cake too, but he also didn't want to answer. He wanted to arrange his turbulent thoughts into some logical and persuasive form before saying anything to Goku. He averted his eyes; if he looked at Goku, his eyes would inevitably be drawn to Goku's arousal. He didn't want to encourage Goku to think he wanted to continue, nor did he want to dwell on it himself. There were limits to his ability to resist monkey love, but he'd had a momentary lapse of reason, that's all. "Ya don't regret what we just did, do ya?" Sanzo choked on his mouthful of cake. He should have known that the idiot would see right through him, as if he were completely transparent. He sometimes thought Goku understood him better than he understood himself. "Not regret, monkey – what's done is done – but we—" Sanzo found his hands held in a bruising grip, Goku's lips on his, preventing him from saying anything more. Shit, the kid could be damn sneaky when he wanted to be. It was fucking annoying. He yielded momentarily. His lungs, scarred from years of cigarette smoking, began to sear from lack of oxygen. Sanzo broke the kiss and stared at Goku's blackened pupils. "I can't—" Goku stared back, acceptance and love and fucking understanding etched on his features. Sanzo found that annoying too. "It's okay, Sanzo. I want this, and you do too. Yer jus' overthinkin' it." With that, he swooped back in. It felt fucking amazing, and Sanzo felt his own arousal stir. Once that happened and Goku noticed, which would be any second now, continued denial would be impossible to maintain with any credibility. Sanzo pictured Goku laughing in his face as he tried to deny what was so evident. Maybe he'd trust the monkey's instincts for once, despite feeling that he was rushing into something he wasn't sure he was ready for. Not only did Sanzo let himself be kissed, but he kissed back also. The tip of his tongue darted into Goku's mouth, where it caressed Goku's tongue, which in turn tried to capture his. He soon abandoned this contact for the more pleasant pursuit of pressing their puckered lips together while the suction slowly robbed them of air and conscious thought became near impossible. Goku sat down on Sanzo's lap, straddling him, Sanzo's erection sandwiched between his cheeks. This opened up whole new vistas of discomfort. Even though he enjoyed the physical contact and wasn't going to fight it anymore, Sanzo wasn't sure either of them were ready for that, at least not right now. Goku seemed to have realized this too, because he began delightedly rocking back and forth, trapping and rubbing the head of Sanzo's erection against the contours of his ass. "Goku—" Sanzo said warningly. Goku broke the kiss and grinned. "Feels good, right?" "Nah, it—" He then undercut his words by emitting a loud moan. Several loud moans, in fact. Goku chuckled and wiggled his ass some more. "Told ya!" he crowed. Sanzo spared a quick curse for whatever gods had unleashed this insatiable, cheerful, totally irritating monkey on him and gave himself up to the sensations Goku's actions were causing: the feeling of skin on skin, the warmth, the closeness - all those things he'd told himself he despised and had denied himself for so long. There would be time enough to object if Goku wanted to go that far, but Sanzo hoped he wouldn't. He palmed Goku's erection, curled his fingers around it, and began pumping, thumbing the slit and using the pre-cum to coat his fingers. Goku continued to wriggle on his lap like a wind-up toy gone haywire, driving him to higher and higher levels of arousal. "Stop," Sanzo growled. The amount of stimulation was escalating to the knife edge of pain. Goku stopped after one more bounce. He leaned back to look searchingly at Sanzo's face while holding onto Sanzo's shoulders to keep himself from tumbling backward. "Ya okay?" he asked. "Ah ah," Sanzo panted. "I am now." Before Goku's actions could rob him of his resolve again, he said, "It's not a good idea to go any further." "What?" "It'll probably hurt." Goku laughed. "Oh, ya mean puttin' it inside me? I can probably talk ya through it. I've heard Gojyo and Hakkai talkin' 'bout it." Sanzo mind went to a Very Bad Place. He'd ventilate Gojyo's brain this time for sure for talking about such things within earshot of the monkey. Maybe he should put Hakkai in his gun's sights too. "We're not going there," Sanzo said. "Says who?" Goku said defiantly. "Why are you making decisions for both of us?" He cocked his head, then added, "Unless you don't want to go there. Is that it?" Sanzo nodded, grateful he didn't have to say the words himself. "I can live with that for now," Goku said, and resumed bouncing. "Careful," Sanzo warned him. He hoped Goku would figure out what he meant without his having to say it out loud. "'kay!" Goku said, slowing down and making his movements less forceful. Sanzo resumed pumping Goku's cock in earnest. Goku's face was flushed and his boyish features were scrunched up in a grimace, his eyes shut. His pants and moans increased in frequency and volume. Sanzo realized that there was an upside to Goku's noisiness; he'd never known how much gratifying it was to hear sounds of pleasure one's own efforts had produced. As they rocked, panting with exertion and lust, Goku wiggled his ass while Sanzo's cock caressed and slipped in and out of his cleft. The head of Sanzo's cock nudged something soft, warm, and fucking amazing. Stimulation was overwhelming his senses; his strokes became sloppy and unpredictable and his breathing became ragged. His abdominal muscles clenched as pressure built in his groin and balls as he hurtled toward orgasm and come coated Goku's ass. A few drops rolled to the floor. Sanzo continued to work Goku's cock as he tried to calm down after his climax. He felt Goku tense and knew he was close. A couple more strokes did the trick; Goku came, semen spattering both their abdomens. They remained in an embrace long after the shuddering ceased. Goku waited for the come to dry so he wouldn't drip when he got up. He gingerly slid off of Sanzo's lap, poked his head out the door to make sure the coast was clear, and retrieved damp washcloths from the bathroom to clean themselves with. "That was great," Goku said contentedly. Sanzo pulled back the covers and settled into bed; he didn't comment when Goku joined him and curled up next to him. "Go to sleep, monkey," Sanzo said. "I'm tired." Goku saw the lines of tiredness, and the perspiration, but he also saw a small smile. He really hoped that Sanzo would remain okay with this, because it was amazing! Next time around, he wanted to find out if Sanzos really did taste awesome. He still felt a little wistful that they didn't go all the way, but there was no point in pushing Sanzo further than he was willing to go. He flung an arm over Sanzo's shoulder and a leg over the leg closest to him. His lover looked beautiful and serene in the dim light the lamp produced. Goku reached over, turned the light off, and fell asleep. * * * Goku awoke first. He couldn't help but grin while he watched Sanzo, curled up next to him like a large sleeping cat. Sanzo was finally his as much as he was Sanzo's. It felt really, really good. He stumbled out of the bedroom, wiping the sleep out of his eyes. Hakkai was sitting at the rectangular table, drinking tea and reading the newspaper. "Uh," Goku said. The prior night's activities had turned his brain so mushy that he was having a hard time forming words. Hakkai could tell how things had gone from the smile on Goku's face, the dazed look in his eyes, and the smell of sex, but he felt the need to confirm his conclusion. "So, did everything go well?" he asked. "Oh, yeah!" Goku said. "We had a great—" "That's good," Hakkai interjected apologetically. "I just wanted to make sure." He didn't need or want the details, although he suspected that Gojyo might try to coax them out of Goku when he wasn't around. "Where's Gojyo?" "Still in bed. He's a bit worse for wear from all the alcohol he drank last night," Hakkai said with the serenity of a man who could hold his liquor. At Goku's look of concern, he added, "I'm sure he'll get over it soon. It's not the first time he's had a hangover. We were happy to stay out late to help you out." Actually, Hakkai thought, it helped everyone out. Sanzo so he could get laid and be with someone who cared about him and wanted to be with him. Him and Gojyo so they didn't have to put up with whatever portion of Sanzo's surliness was due to unacknowledged sexual frustration. And Goku, of course, so he could finally get what he'd been craving for months that the monk had been pretending not to notice because he found denial so much more comfortable than confronting his long-held assumptions. "I'm gonna go take a shower," Goku announced. Hakkai waved a hand to indicate that was fine by him and went back to his drinking his tea and reading the newspaper. Sanzo emerged from the bedroom while Goku was still in the shower. Hakkai had to stifle a laugh at how tousled his hair was and how he too stank of sweat and semen along with the pungent aroma of cigarettes that always clung to his skin. Apparently he didn't do a good enough job, because Sanzo snarled, "What the fuck are you grinning at?" Schooling his features, Hakkai replied airily, "Nothing. I have no idea what you're talking about." "Hn." Sanzo looked at Hakkai's mug, then over at the counter, and concluded no one had made any coffee yet. He let out a long-suffering sigh and headed for the cupboards. As Sanzo stood there trying to remember how much coffee to put in, Hakkai finished the section of the paper he knew Sanzo liked to read first and laid it at Sanzo's place. When Sanzo began swearing and asking him irritated questions about how to use the coffee maker, Hakkai realized that no matter how much had changed, some things would always remain the same.

It's the fifth time in twenty minutes that Adam catches Kris looking at his hands. Adam schools his expression, trying to keep it neutral; he wants to smile. He feels guilty, kind of. Except not really, because Kris has been upping the ante on the teasing so much recently, it seems only fair. Adam doesn't think it has anything to do with him, the way Kris's eyes catch and fixate on his gloves; he's pretty sure it's something to do with the way his fingers extend, naked, out of the tight-fitting black leather. Kris has been full of surprises since the first day they met, and Adam figured out a while ago that Kris wasn't totally vanilla. Still, it's a little...a little intimate, knowing something about Kris that he didn't necessarily want to know. Adam can't completely figure it out. Kris just laughs at Adam's leather pants, so it's not leather in and of itself. He does look at Adam's rings and fingernails sometimes, but not with the same intensity as this. Adam ducks his head to hide a smile, because Kris is staring again, open-mouthed. Adam extends his hands experimentally, wiggles his fingers slowly like he's stretching. "Kris!" Adam looks around. There's a stagehand staring at them, looking irritated. A lot of other people seem to be waiting, and Adam realizes that he and Kris have been kind of in their own world. Kris jumps guiltily, flushes a little, darts a quick glance at Adam. Adam smirks at him and Kris's cheeks flare redder. Kris rolls his eyes, though, and smiles sheepishly, so they're good. They don't talk about it. Adam experiments, trying different types of hand accessories. Regular gloves will catch Kris's eye for a while, but not hold it. The cock ring hand-wrap thing made Kris laugh -- "Only you, Adam. Only you." -- but his eyes do linger on the part around Adam's wrist, and when Adam plays with it, acting like he's adjusting it, Kris's breathing speeds up a little. Onstage, Kris gets more daring, to the point where he's mimicking blow jobs, face turned away from the camera. Normally Adam can completely separate their joking around from reality, but when Kris actually goes to his knees, he has to work a little harder. Okay, a lot harder. When Adam spots the accessories store in Minneapolis, he briefly debates, then decides, fuck it, the guy deserves it. He drags Kris in and heads straight for the gloves. "I don't think--" Kris starts, darting glances towards the door. "Just a few minutes," Adam says, slipping some yellow fingerless gloves on. "It's fun!" Kris makes a little sound. Kris's eyes are fixed on Adam's hands. His chest is rising and falling quicker than normal. "So it's something about the fingerless," Adam says quietly. Kris startles and his eyes fly open wide. "I--" He presses his lips together like he's pissed and turns to leave. Adam grabs him by the wrist. "No, Kris, sorry, that wasn't what I--" "You've been messing with me for weeks." Kris's voice is tight. "No, I--" Kris raises an eyebrow at him. "Yeah, okay, yeah I have. It's just interesting, okay?" "Interesting!" Kris shakes his head. "It's not like you to laugh at people." The hurt in Kris's voice makes Adam's chest tight. What had he been doing? "I don't--I don't know what I was doing," he admits. "I wasn't making fun of you, I swear. Are you kidding? Jesus, I get whips on stage!" "Then what is it." Kris's voice is flat. Now it's Adam's turn to blush and turn away, because he's just realized what it is, and it's embarrassing as shit, after all this time, that he's maybe actually crushing on Kris. He's a little angry at Kris for messing with him, too, even though his rational self knows he's brought a lot of it on himself. Jesus. "Oh," Kris says. "Oh." "I'm so embarrassed," Adam says, starting to strip off the gloves. "You keep talking about it, though, all the Kradam stuff, and playing to it, and--" "Oh, shit," Kris says, grabbing Adam's arm. "I thought that was okay. I thought it was a way to make it all okay, I didn't mean--" "I know that!" Adam's voice comes out angrier than he meant it to, and Kris's eyebrows rise. "Adam, listen to me." Kris's voice is very serious now. "I'm sorry, man." Adam takes a breath, blows it out. "It's okay. I'm sorry about the glove thing." Kris darts a glance to Adam's hands. "Now that's embarrassing." "No. Everyone's hot-wired a little different. Different strokes and all that. You've got a thing for these." Adam waves the gloves around. "That's kind of awesome, actually. I hope Katy knows." Kris bites his lip and looks away. "Don't stop wearing them." Kris is looking at his feet now, but Adam can tell he means it. "That wouldn't be being a very good friend, now would it, Kristopher?" Kris looks at him and smiles a real smile, finally. "I want you to wear your stupid sexy weird gloves, okay?" Adam grins at him. He feels better than he has in a long time. "Okay, if you're sure. Don't stop teasing me in public, then." Kris looks skeptical. "I mean it." Adam looks him in the eye. He does mean it, too. "It's cool. It is funny, seriously." Kris nods slowly. "I feel like we should shakes hands or something," Adam jokes. "Only if you're not wearing those gloves," Kris says, and Adam laughs. It's liberating having talked about it. Adam's still careful in public, because the last thing either of them need is people deciding he's preying on Kris -- being gay kind of sucks for that. Kris teases Adam in all the ways he used to, plus more; the fans are delighted when Kris stays on his knees for an entire thirty seconds during Don't Stop Believing, then licks his lips a few times for good measure. Three concerts before the last, Adam pulls on new gloves for his set. He can feel Kris's eyes on him, darts a quick glance to the dressing room mirror to confirm it. Adam had these gloves made. They're black leather, supple and shinier than his last ones, with strips of blue interwoven in the lacing. Where his fingers extend beyond the leather, and at the wrist, there's a criss-cross of lacing, showing pale skin framed by blue-black. Instead of ending at the base of his palms, the lacings go up his wrists, forming an intricate pattern of cross-hatched leather straps. Kris stares, open-mouthed and not even trying to hide it, as Adam puts them on. "Hey," he says softly in Kris's direction. "I need a little help tying these. Do you think...?" Kris swallows and nods, comes over to where Adam's sitting. He ties the laces with hands that are trembling slightly. Adam can't help but stare at Kris's mouth, hanging open and slack. He's horrified to find his hand reaching for Kris's face, brushing lightly on his cheek. Damn it, it's getting to him, thinking about how close they are to their final concert, and not being together all the time any more. Kris's eyes close and he leans into Adam's palm. Adam's breath catches in his throat. He thinks he knows what Kris wants to do: he wants to open his mouth, mouth the leather, lick the place where Adam's fingers and the gloves meet. No. Kris can't want that. And what the hell was Adam thinking, buying these and dangling them in front of Kris like this? Adam pulls his hand back and takes a breath. Kris opens his eyes and meets Adam's. There's something new there, something Adam's only seen hints of. Kris whispers, voice raspy, "Katy wants us to. One time. If we can promise her neither of us or Drake will be hurt." "What!" Adam feels like he can't breathe. Kris stands up. "You heard me." "You can't just say things like that!" Kris presses his lips together. "I wasn't sure whether I was going to say anything. Forget it, man. I didn't think you'd want to." He walks away. "Get ready. We've got a show to do." "You can't--" But apparently Kris can, because Adam's left speechless and alone in the dressing room. Kris can't have--There's no way that... Adam takes a few minutes to breathe. His heart is beating fast. This suddenly got serious, really fucking fast. Kris has to be joking, fucking with him, right? He knows Kris isn't, though. There'd been that look in his eyes... Adam has to make a decision, he knows that. One way or another, this crap has to end; it's getting dangerous. He flips open his phone and calls Drake. It takes a while to get it out and his voice is a little shaky, but when he does, Drake laughs. "Baby, you get a chance at that, you have to take it. But you have to tell me all about it after." "I just--" "I know. Look, anyone with a brain knows you two are crazy about each other. But it's just not going to happen, the two of you, so if you can get this, one time, I'm happy for you. I mean, I'll probably get insecure and needy for a while, but I'm sure you can make it up to me..." "You're amazing," Adam sighs. "I don't know, though. My friendship with him is really important. I think this could fuck it up." "Yeah. But I don't think he'd suggest it if he hadn't thought that through. I mean, he's Kris, you know?" Adam smiles. Drake is something else. "Love you." "Back at you. Go get yourself some of that. Seriously. Maybe it'll make up for when I, you know, in Louisiana, that time?" "Hey, no biggie, we were just fuck buddies then, anyway. But okay, I'll think about it. And thank you, sweetie. I owe you." "Mmmhmm. I'll keep that in mind next time one of those Hollywood studs corners me at some party." Usually Adam changes to his denim costume for the group numbers at the end of the concert, but tonight he stays in black leather and the gloves. Kris takes one look at him and turns away, obviously trying hard to not stare at Adam during the ending of Hey, Jude. Then they're below the stage, getting ready to get on the lift. There aren't any people around. Kris doesn't look at Adam. "You're not even going to look at me?" Adam's surprised at how needy his voice sounds. "Afraid of what will happen," Kris says softly. That's when Adam realizes that my god, this might really be going to happen. "Oh." He looks down at his hands, then at Kris's back. Kris is standing a few feet away from him, turned away. Adam takes two steps forward and raises his hand to the back of Kris's neck, right where the short hairs from his latest haircut make little bristles, and brushes it with the back of his gloved hand. Kris sighs and leans back. Adam flips his hand and brings his palm slowly around Kris's head to his cheek. Kris leans into it, turning his head a little, mouth almost touching the glove. "Oh, god," Adam breathes, instantly hard. He takes another step forward so he's flush against Kris's back. "Wait, it's not fair. How about for you, is there something--?" Adam thinks he knows what Kris is trying to ask. "Your mouth," he says into Kris's ear. "If I were to let myself think about anything like that, which I don't, your mouth." "Let yourself," Kris opens his lips and breathes onto the glove. Adam feels moist warmth through the leather. "And I'll let myself think about..." "About?" Adam decides, fuck it and presses himself hard into the slope of Kris's back where it meets his ass. "Hands," Kris gasps, then fucking licks at the space where Adam's fingers protrude from the gloves. Adam groans. "Fingers, I could. Kris, have you ever--" "Want everything." Kris sounds drunk. He opens his mouth and licks, tongue strong and steady, on Adam's fingers. Adam's knees feel weak. "Oh, fuck." "Thirty seconds!" a tech stage-whispers into their earpieces. "Shit." Kris sounds choked. "Yeah, shit," Adam echoes, stepping back and adjusting himself as best he can. Kris breathes hard for a moment, then turns towards Adam. Thank fuck, there's a grin threatening to pull up the corners of his mouth. He's trying to pull his shirt down over his pants, but it's not long enough. "Looks like you've got a little problem." Adam stoops and steps onto the lift. "Yeah, well, you've got a big one," Kris deadpans as he steps in beside him. "Kristopher Allen!" Adam's still laughing when they get on stage, but they manage to pull off their parts just fine. This time, during the section of Don't Stop Believing when they always goof around, Adam goes down to two knees for a full minute and gestures with the hand he's not holding the mic in. He pulls out all the stops; does what he thinks of as Ring of Fire Hands, makes the beckoning hand at Kris, manages a sort of jerking off motion. Kris's eyes are riveted on Adam's gloved hand, but both of them sing flawlessly. Kris escapes offstage before Adam, so he doesn't see him until the Meet & Greet. Adam slips off one glove so he can shake hands and sign things, but keeps the other on. By unspoken agreement, they stay as far from each other as they can. Thankfully, the venue's not allowing them to meet with fans at the barricades tonight, and they've got a hotel night. Now that they're finally free of obligations, doubts are starting to creep into Adam's head. Mistake, mistake, mistake, he thinks, as he opens the door to his room, plus, Kris probably was just fucking with him. "Got an extra key card, let myself in." Kris's voice echoes weirdly in Adam's room. He sounds nervous. Holy shit. Adam can't talk; his throat feels all tight. "I don't know--." His voice sounds all high and stupid. "Yeah." Adam can hear Kris walking over to him in the dark. "I don't want anything to screw it up, being friends. Really important." Adam breathes out in relief. "Exactly what I was thinking." "Of course," Kris says, and Adam laughs, because that's their joke, that despite their differences, they pretty much always think the same thing about just about everything. Adam's relief is changing into something else, something that feels like regret. There's silence for a while, then Kris takes a step closer. Adam swears he can feel the heat radiating off Kris from where he's standing. "Of course, there's always the chance that--No, forget it." Adam swallows. "That we'd just be closer?" "Plus," Kris adds, and his voice is definitely sounding a little rough. Adam reaches out and touches Kris's forearm with his gloved hand. "It could be really hot," Adam finishes. "Exactly," Kris sighs, moving all the way into Adam's space. Adam reaches out and slides his gloved palm up Kris's forearm, over his biceps, up his neck to his cheek. Adam's eyes have adjusted to almost-dark: there's a faint light coming from the bathroom. He sees Kris close his eyes. "Your call," Adam whispers. "We won't be able to go back if we do. Drake says yes, unequivocal. Katy really okay?" Kris opens his eyes. "Talked to her this afternoon," Kris says into the leather of Adam's glove, then mouths his knuckle. "She wants a blow by blow, but yeah." Adam breathes out hard, feeling the heat of Kris's mouth on his skin. "Fuck." "Okay then," Kris breathes, then laps at the spaces where Adam's skin pokes out from the leather. Adam's fascinated, rooted in place. Kris's tongue is precise, warm, wet. Kris darts a glance at Adam over his hand, then slides his tongue up Adam's middle finger, achingly slowly, to the tip. Adam holds his breath. He can't believe it, but Kris opens his mouth, slides it down his finger softly, just a little, lips slightly distended. "Jesus." Adam's so hard he hurts. He wants Kris's mouth so badly, but doesn't know what he's allowed, doesn't know if he wants to ask and find out where the limits are. "Adam..." Kris sounds wrecked, and his eyes are huge, pupils dilated. He looks on the edge of panic, though, and Adam realizes he's let Kris do everything so far, be vulnerable, but he hasn't shown anything of his own secrets. "Kris," Adam says, and he doesn't think anyone could miss how he feels about Kris; he can hear it himself in the way he says his name. He brings his fingers to Kris's mouth, traces a wet line across Kris's lower lip. "Can I? I want to kiss you?" Kris smiles, at first small, then bigger. "Yeah, that'll work." If he's scared or shy about it, he doesn't let on, but moves a little closer to Adam and looks up at him, trusting and open. Adam smiles back, and brings his gloved hands to either side of Kris's face. Kris's eyes start to close -- it's like an automatic reaction to the gloves, Adam thinks -- so Adam says, "Open your eyes. Just for now?" Kris does, but doesn't say anything more, raised up on his toes. Adam strokes Kris's face, runs his thumbs over Kris's cheeks. Kris keeps his eyes open, though, and Adam distantly wonders what else Kris would do if Adam asked him. His thoughts fall away, though, because he's feeling Kris's breath on his face, then pressing his lips softly to Kris's, gentle. Kris sighs and opens up so easily, and it all feels so natural, Kris moving closer to him, right up against his body, Kris tentatively pushing a little tongue into Adam's mouth. The gloves are kind of frustrating, because he can't feel Kris's face with his palms, but he remembers what got them here and moves his hands experimentally on Kris's cheeks, swipes a thumb near their mouths. Kris's breath hitches. Adam takes one hand off Kris's face, reaches around instinctively for Kris's ass, presses him in hard against him. Kris moans into Adam's mouth and gives him more tongue. Adam brings the heel of his thumb over to Kris's mouth, pulls off for a second. Kris mouths at the glove, panting. Christ. Kris's lips are red, glossy with spit from Adam's mouth. "Holy shit," Adam breaths. "Kris." "Yeah," Kris pants. "I knew it. I knew if we ever." Kris shakes his head, then licks up Adam's hand, over the lacing and down his fingers, sucks three in before Adam even realizes what's happening. Adam's knees seriously buckle, and since he's half-supporting Kris as it is, they almost fall. Kris's mouth, around his fingers, Jesus. "We should--" "Bed--" They half-drag each other over to the king sized bed dominating the room, and then they're lying side by side and Kris has Adam's hands at his mouth, licking and sucking his fingers, sometimes three at a time, sometimes one. Adam hasn't come in his pants since he was twenty, but this is getting damned problematic. "Whoa, whoa, god, I'm going to come if you keep this up," Adam says, and hardly recognizes his voice. "What do you want? I mean, this is going to be your one gay night, right? I'll do anything you want." "Anything?" Kris asks. "I mean, not that I necessarily, but you--" Adam laughs. "Are you asking if I bottom, Kristopher? Because of course I do. It's just not my usual. It all depends. Just like with you breeder types." "Offensive!" Kris teases a little breathlessly, and Adam laughs. "Offensive assumptions," Adam teases back. "I don't know." Kris strokes tentatively at Adam's face. "We've got, like, twelve hours 'til bus call. No appearances, interviews. Katy said--." He looks away, then looks back shyly. "She said take all that time, if we want." Half a day with Kris is more than Adam can think about without wanting to cry or something, so he tries to focus on the feel of Kris's fingers, callused from the guitar, stroking in his hair. "I mean, I don't know that you would want--" Adam growls and rolls over on top of Kris, running one gloved hand over his biceps and bringing the other gently over his mouth. Kris's eyes go wide, but his pupils dilate, and Adam can feel him hardening under him. "I want," he says, "everything you'll give me." He rubs his gloved palm softly over Kris's lips and lowers his voice to a whisper. "And to give you everything you'll take." Kris's eyes are dark, and he groans, licking at the glove. "And I've been trying to think," Adam adds, working on Kris's belt buckle with his free hand as Kris gropes for Adam's, "of all the things we can do with these gloves in bed, 'cause I'm thinking," he unzips Kris's jeans just as Kris successfully opens Adam's belt, "I'm thinking there's a lot we can use them for." "Holy shit," Kris pants, flexing up and bracing a leg, then flipping Adam onto his back -- Kris is tiny but really strong, which Adam has to admit he's noticed before tonight; Kris's biceps are amazing, and the lines of muscle in his back-- "Focus," Kris says. Adam grins up at him and lets it grow predatory. "Oh, I'll be focused." "I'm not scared," Kris responds, in a perfect imitation of Adam. "You should be." Adam flips them again, simultaneously yanking Kris's jeans and briefs down and running his gloved hand over Kris's thighs. The leather contrasts beautifully with Kris's skin. Adam's seen Kris naked before, of course, but never fully hard. Kris is beautiful, and if Adam isn't careful, he's going to say something sappy, so instead he just runs a finger over Kris's cock, tauntingly slow. Kris is up on his elbows to watch, and Adam brings his other hand to Kris's mouth. Sure enough, Kris mouths at the leather of the glove, breathing hard. Adam bends over and licks Kris's cock softly, over and over, up and around, until Kris is panting, "Adam, Adam, come on." "Look." Kris does, and Adam fists Kris's cock, making sure Kris can see the glove. He strips his cock once, twice. Kris groans. "No, it'll all be over." "I think," Adam says, teasing at the head of Kris's cock with his tongue. "That we're both a bit worked up. I think if you come once, then we can relax and I can take my time with you. Get a little creative, maybe." "Oh, god," Kris says. "Just feel." Adam ducks his head and takes Kris into his mouth, going down almost all the way. Kris's thighs tense under his hand; this isn't going to take long. Kris is chanting, "Shit, shit, shit," and Adam can tell he's right on the edge. Just when it counts, he brings his free hand to Kris's face again, runs his palm lightly over Kris's lips, comes off just to say, "You can bite," then takes Kris all the way down again, relishing the way his cock fills him up, leaks salty flavor into the back of his throat. He's always loved sucking cock; he can lose himself in it, and it's amazing feeling Kris come apart under his mouth. "Oh, god." Kris does bite, first softly, then harder -- that's going to bruise up but Adam could give a fuck -- and Adam doesn't stop, just keeps sucking and swallowing, relentless around Kris, milking him for everything. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," Kris pants, voice raspy and full, then arches under Adam's hands and comes into his mouth. It's so fucking sexy, the little noises Kris is making, the way his body's shaking. Adam swallows, swallows again, squeezing himself to keep himself from coming; as it is, he's been humping Kris's leg without realizing it. He can't believe this is happening, Kris's hot body underneath him, the taste of Kris in his mouth... "C'mere, I can't--" Kris's hand reaches for Adam, and Adam crawls up Kris's body. Kris's hair is plastered on his forehead, pupils still blown, lips swollen. He yanks Adam down and kisses him hard for a long time, then flips Adam in one of those stealth moves he's good at. His mouth is everywhere, kissing and sucking a slow but steady path downward, and then Adam suddenly realizes that Kris is licking at him, and remembers-- "Hey, you don't have to--" "Want to." Kris's eyes sparkle at him. "Full meal deal. Tell me if I bite your dick off or anything." Adam laughs, but it turns into a moan, because holy god, Kris's lips are around his cock, a little clumsy, and he's only making it partway down, but it still feels like the best thing in the universe. He'd watch, because, well, Kris's mouth, but he doesn't want Kris to feel-- "Here." Kris is grinning at him and hands him two pillows. "If it's a mouth thing, don't you want to see this? I mean, I don't know what I'm doing, but--" Adam grabs Kris behind the neck and pulls him up for a smoldering kiss. Eventually Kris pulls off and Adam props himself up on the pillows. Kris's mouth is stretched around him, lips red. Adam reaches down, feels his cock through Kris's cheek with his fingers, then rubs the glove against Kris's face. Kris moans and takes him deeper, and Adam's going to come, he's seriously going to come in Kris's--"Kris, no, off, wait--" "Wha--?" Kris's eyes are wide. "Not safe. Just--" Kris narrows his eyes at Adam, but pulls off, brings his hand to Adam's cock, thank god, and strips it pretty damn expertly, just on the edge of too tight. He bends to lick a wicked stripe down the vein in the side, squeezes again, and-- "Oh, fuck!." Adam comes, blindingly hard, arching up off the bed and groaning. Kris eases him through it, wrenching another spasm from him when he smooths his hand through Adam's come and slides it down his cock. Adam melts into the bed, Kris's breath warm on his hip, his hair tickling his leg. Kris crawls back up and kisses Adam, softly this time, gentle presses of his lips. Adam feels boneless, like his body is pushing him into the mattress. Kris collapses on top of him, Adam's arms go automatically around him, they both sigh, and then there's silence. After a while, Kris murmurs, "I wanted to feel it, you know, in my mouth. What was up with that? I'm not doing this so you can treat me like some, I don't know, virginal--" Adam squeezes him and for some reason his eyes sting. "Not that. Just, Drake and I haven't been exclusive long enough. I'm not going to risk--" "That should be my choice." Kris's hands are in Adam's hair, fingers gently carding. "You're pretty opinionated for someone who hasn't done this before." "Mmmhmm. I have another opinion, wanna hear it?" "Always." Adam lets his hands smooth over the planes of Kris's back, his perfect skin, down over the bend where back meets ass, then, daring, over Kris's butt. Kris sighs and wiggles a little. "Mmmm." "Yeah?" This feels more intimate, this gentle touching, than what they've already done. "It's not really a secret. I've said it a lot on t.v. and in interviews and stuff, but--" Adam's throat feels tight and his hands still. "I love you," Kris says into Adam's shoulder, then lifts up on his elbows and strokes Adam's hair off his face. "I mean, you know that, but I wanted to say it. I mean the real you, you know? I think you need--" Kris cuts himself off, like he's used up his quotient of words or something. "It's okay, you can say," Adam says softly, voice choked, because, wow, how did he deserve this friend? "You're going to need people in your life who love the real you. You have some others, but, you're going to need that, to balance against where you're going." Kris lowers himself back down, snuggles in against Adam's chest. "Where I'm going?" "Superstar. No doubt." The easy confidence makes Adam smile. He's really kind of thinking that's going to happen, too, but he's not counting on it. He closes his eyes and presses Kris tighter to him. "If that happens, and I'm leaving that to the Universe, I'm going to need someone who'll always be straight with me. Even my family, they don't completely get it. And Drake's too nice." "Yeah. I will come and personally fuck you up if you turn into an asshole. Or if you create a ranch with a zoo in it." "Ooooh, Kristopher getting all down and dirty with the language!" Kris squirms on top of Adam. "Considering the circumstances, I don't think it's the words I say that are making me down and dirty." Adam laughs out loud. "True that." He takes a breath, lets it out. It's really quiet. He finds Kris's ear with his mouth and whispers his truth. "I love you, too, Kristopher Allen." "Yeah." Kris's voice is gentle. They just lie there for a while. This really should all be so weird, but somehow, it isn't. Adam thought he'd experienced most everything you could, living pretty intensely ever since he got his gay shit together, but he'd been wrong; he couldn't even have imagined something like this, loving two guys in such similar but different ways. It was just like, love wasn't a zero sum game. He's believed that for a long time, but he hadn't really experienced it. He squeezes Kris tighter and kisses his hair. After a while Kris gets up and comes back with a washcloth and sponges Adam off. He bites his lip, concentrating, seemingly fascinated with the springy red hairs littering Adam's thighs and belly. Adam can't help but react, and suddenly he wants to see Kris like he was again; passionate, wrecked. He drags Kris up to his mouth and they kiss for endless minutes, Kris growing hard against his side. Adam remembers the glove thing and pulls one off, pushes Kris down on the bed and trails the glove over his legs, shin to thigh, over and over, until Kris is panting, rock-hard. "Please," he finally says. "Please. Adam." "What do you want?" Adam trails the glove softly over Kris's cock, drawing a gasp, then brings it down around his balls, wraps them in it lightly. Kris looks amazing; hard red cock, balls encased in leather. Daring, Adam licks at the inner edge of Kris's thighs, and Kris spreads them wider, legs opening like it comes naturally. Fuck. Adam keeps licking, tasting fresh soap all the way down behind Kris's balls, and he wonders what would happen if he licks right behind them, right where-- "Uhhhh..." Kris's groan is gutteral, harsh, a sound Adam hasn't heard from him yet. Acting on instinct, Adam tightens the glove around Kris's balls a little. Another groan, and Kris's legs spread further apart. "Fuck," Adam whispers into the soap-scented skin of Kris's ass, licking once experimentally to see-- "Ohhh." Well, that's pretty far from a no, so Adam licks again, gentle swipes, then presses harder. When he remembers, he tightens and then loosens the glove around Kris's balls, drawing a groan every time. Kris's own musk is starting to come through, and Adam loves this, feels like he could do this all day, though his cock is literally hurting he's so hard. Kris is saying something, has been for a while, Adam guesses, by the desperation in his voice. He focuses to hear it: "Adam, come on, come on." Kris's voice is somehow hoarse and whiny at the same time, and something sharp twists in Adam's belly. Yeah, he wants it. He's wanted it for a very long time. He slithers up Kris, dragging the glove up Kris's body. When he gets to Kris's nipples, he licks, then slides the glove experimentally over Kris's skin. Another groan, so Adam tries it again, this time letting the leather catch and pull. Kris writhes. "God, god, holy--". Adam's going to have fantasy material for years from this, because if Kris is this sensitive, the things he could do to him, Jesus. "Asshole." Kris's impressive arm muscles flex as he drags Adam bodily up. Adam turns his face away, because he isn't sure Kris is ready for where Adam's mouth has been, but Kris forces his head down into a bruising kiss. "Would you fuck me now," he pants, "asshole." "Since you ask so nicely," Adam smirks, but his hands tremble as he reaches for lube, a condom. He reaches to prep Kris, then pauses. "I think I'm forgetting something," he says airily, and showily pulls the glove back on his hand. He dribbles lube on his fingers -- it's going to ruin the leather, but that's not something he's worrying about, needless to say -- just to see Kris's pupils dilate, then says, "Watch." He makes sure Kris can see his gloved hand, working him open, slowly and carefully. The flush moves from Kris's cheeks to his neck and chest, and Adam doesn't know if he can stand it any longer. "Can I do three?" he finally asks, voice breathy. Kris nods frantically. Adam grabs Kris's hand, squeezes, and Kris squeezes back. Still here. Still okay. Three fingers are hard, and then suddenly not; Kris opens up beautifully around them. Adam's suddenly frantic, desperate. He smooths the condom on with shaking hands, Kris's eyes riveted on his gloves. He's almost starting to feel like the gloves are more important than-- "Adam." Kris reaches for Adam's face, strokes his cheek a little. Adam clears his throat. "You sure? I mean, it's kind of a big deal?" Kris grinds up against him, unmistakable. "It'll be easier on your stomach. Or your side, even better." Kris shakes his head. "Like this." Adam thinks about insisting, but Kris has that stubborn look in his eyes that he sometimes gets. "Tell me if it hurts." Adam makes sure his voice conveys how seriously he means that. Kris nods, bites his lip and Adam slips in, pushes a little. Kris gasps, throwing his head back; the veins on his neck are so hot, Adam wants to lick them forever. "Okay," Kris says after a while, and Adam pushes again, deeper, stays there until Kris signals him to move by canting his hips a little more. Adam pulls out slowly, pushes in, then does it again. Kris pants, then growls, "More." It's the familiar tight-hot-slide, and Kris is getting into it, hips lifting into Adam. Adam shifts a little and, bingo, Kris moans. "Holy. That must be--" "Prostate. God's gift to many men." Adam gasps, because Kris is getting positively greedy now, rocking up into him, hands on Adam's hips pulling him into him harder; he's going to have bruises tomorrow. Kris is biting his lip, and as beautiful as that look is on him, Adam wonders... "Here." Adam slips the glove off that isn't covered with lube, rubs it over Kris's face, bends down and kisses him softly before running it over his lips. "You want to bite on it?" Kris's eyes look frantic, but he opens his mouth, breathing hard. It's all too much, too hot, so Adam accelerates the pace, getting Kris right to the edge, then reaches with his one gloved hand to stroke him in time with his thrusts, waiting, waiting... Kris goes rigid, all the muscles of his thighs and stomach tensing, throws his head back and comes, biting hard on the glove in his mouth, sounds escaping around the leather, guttural and harsh. He pulls Kris's legs up a little higher and pumps frantically, once, twice, and then everything blanks out for a while on a thrilling wave of pleasure. He collapses on top of Kris, then forces himself to pull out gently, roll off and strip off the condom, throw it into the trash can at the side of the bed. He collapses on his side, curled around Kris. He has just enough awareness to feel Kris's hands, stroking gently in his hair, before sleep pulls him down hard. He wakes hours later, ravenous. There's a faint light coming from the curtained windows. Kris is carrying a tray to the bed; it's loaded with breakfast. "What--?" "Ordered room service. Figured we needed it." "Oh." Adam feels weirdly shy, or something close to it, and the way Kris isn't meeting his eyes makes him think Kris is feeling the same thing. "What do we have?" "We have," Kris brings the tray to the bed, still not looking at Adam, sits and puts the tray between them. He's wearing a t-shirt and boxers, but Adam's naked under the sheet. "Eggs, bacon, tofu scramble for the woo-woo Californian, something called 'various pastries,' and a ton of coffee and juice." "What time is it? Do I want to know?" Adam pulls the sheet up a little so it's around his waist. "Ten." Kris darts a glance under his lashes at Adam. "Bus call at one." Adam sips greedily at the coffee. "Okay." There's silence for a while. Kris butters some toast and Adam pushes the tofu around on his plate. "Adam..." Adam looks up at Kris, who's pressing his lips together. "I think." Kris picks up the tray and sets it on the bedside table. "I think we started off this morning wrong." "What do you mean?" "Come here." Kris tugs on Adam's hand, no longer gloved -- he'd taken it off last night right as he fell asleep. Adam sputters and manages to set his coffee down as Kris pulls him towards his side of the bed. Adam lies there stiffly. The enormity of what they've done, what he's done, is crashing in on him. He can feel himself shaking a little, embarrassingly; he's the one who should be together about this. "Adam," Kris says. "Adam." He wraps his arms and legs around Adam and holds on. "Come on. It's okay. Everyone was cool with this. We're both going to be cool with this. We're not gonna let it be any other way." "Did I hurt you?" Adam asks into Kris's shoulder. "No. Are you kidding? I'm not going to be sitting more than I have to today, but I'm fine. You, though. Let me see that." Kris pulls Adam's hand to him. There's a bruise blackening the heel of Adam's hand. "That looks nasty." Adam shakes his head. "A little ache, maybe, that's all." "Still." Kris looks shy again, but he pulls Adam's hand to his lips and kisses the bruise softly. His cheeks are pink. "Kris," Adam says, heart full. "Kris." Then they're kissing, soft and sweet, hands curling around each other's ears. They pull back, and Adam feels okay for the first time since he woke up. He's been meaning to ask something, though. He reaches out and touches the small cross Kris wears around his neck. "Are you--I mean, I want you to be okay, to not--" Kris covers Adam's hand with his, presses a little. "At peace with it. Mainly." Kris smiles at him. "I don't understand everything, but I just--I don't know how to explain it, but it feels right, you know?" Adam knows. He smiles. Kris smiles back. "Dude, let's eat." "Smashing idea." They eat and eat, devouring everything on the tray. Adam has six cups of coffee and Kris has four. There's jam everywhere, and eggs, and sugar, but they just laugh. "I'm disgusting." Adam sits up. "The shower is calling my name." "Me, too." Kris smiles at him. "You called it first. Go ahead." Adam smirks at Kris. "Don't you do double showers in Conway?" "Hicksville. Never heard of that." Kris stands up and runs toward the bathroom. "I call the controls." "You can't call the controls. What does that even mean?" Adam laughs, racing after him. The shower's huge, hot and steamy. Adam grabs the soap and lathers Kris up, chest first, then turns him and does his back. His hands slow when he soaps Kris's ass, sliding softly over slick skin; he leans forward to pepper kisses on Kris's neck. Kris grabs the soap from him and does Adam, and it feels so good Adam's practically purring, Kris's strong hands smoothing over the planes of his back, then down his spine. When Kris starts washing his butt, Adam sighs. Kris makes a little inquisitive sound and Adam leans forward on his elbows on the wall of the shower. "Hot," Kris murmurs into his ear, fingers sliding down Adam's crack to circle behind his balls, then back. Adam arches into it, silently giving permission. Kris crowds up behind him, but his fingers are gentle, exploring. "Mmmhmm." Adam reaches a hand for his half-hard cock, but Kris slaps it away. "Kris! I thought you were the nice one." Kris laughs, then licks Adam's ear as he slides two thick fingers into him. "Depends on your definition of nice." "God." Adam doesn't talk for a while, silently directing Kris in what he's doing, until Kris doesn't need directing any more, and Adam's writhing, desperate for friction on his cock. "Kris, come on." "Okay, okay, come here, this isn't gonna work right here." Kris puts an arm around Adam and pulls him toward the bed. It's totally a mess but Adam's not caring about anything right now except Kris's hands, firm on his body, pressing him down into the sheets, then pushing into him with lubed fingers. "Don't need all that. Just fuck me." Kris gasps, maybe desperate himself. There's the rip of the wrapper, some motion, and Adam just breathes into the pillow. Kris pushes Adam on his side and lies behind him, damp and warm. He shoves one of Adam's legs up. "Sure?" "Ha!" Kris snorts and grabs Adam's hips, breaches him. It's been a while since Adam's been on this end of it, so there's the relative novelty, on top of the fact that it's Kris. "God." Adam feels the surge of emotion he always gets in this position; different from the sense of protectiveness and care and control when he tops, this is more like...more like.... He doesn't know what it's like, but he fumbles for Kris's hand behind him. Kris grabs it right away and squeezes, and Adam feels the connection, same as always. "Adam," Kris says, voice thick, and kisses Adam's shoulder blades. Adam suddenly sees his gloves, discarded last night, in a little pile on the nightstand. "Oh. The gloves. You want--" "It's not about any damn gloves." Kris cuts him off, hands digging tighter into Adam's hips. Suddenly Adam doesn't want tender; he wants this to burn into his bones so he can carry it around with him. He rolls onto his stomach, then pushes up slowly partway to his knees, Kris staying with him the whole time. "Do me," he says. "Do it hard. I want you to." Kris gasps out a harsh breath, but maybe understands what Adam means, because he doesn't protest, just squeezes Adam's hand harder, then turns it over and presses it into the sheets, shoves hard into Adam, over and over, just what Adam wants. Adam's desperate for pressure on his aching cock, puts his weight on one hand to reach for it with the other, but Kris stops him again. "No. I wanna." "Then hurry the fuck up, honey, because I'm dying here." Kris snorts and shifts Adam's hips, fucking into him almost viciously. Adam moans and keeps on moaning, because Kris's really got the hang of this now, setting a smooth rhythm, ending each stroke with a little twist. There's sweat dripping into Adam's eyes, and points of ache where Kris's hands are gripping him; another set of bruises, he reflects vaguely. "Now I'm gonna touch you," Kris practically growls, reaching around and fisting him loosely. Adam groans, almost collapsing; Kris's hand is not quite tight enough, not quite. "Kris, come on." Kris laughs breathlessly behind him. "Kind of like seeing you like this." "Jesus," Adam hisses. "Who knew. Sadist." "Mmm. You look so..." Kris tightens his hand a little and Adam groans. "And you sound so...god," Kris voice breaks a little. Adam closes his eyes, gives into it, just feels Kris everywhere, in him and behind him and around him, filling him up and surrounding him. He doesn't usually like to give up so much control, but with Kris, somehow this works, and it's beyond hot; their bodies are moving in perfect sync. Kris hits a particularly great spot and Adam has to press his forehead down into the bed. The new angle spikes a hot twist of fire up his spine, and he barely recognizes the sounds coming out of his mouth. Kris groans and fucks into him even harder. "Adam, fuck, oh my god." Adam feels it start in his toes and his back, curling him up from the inside. He doesn't want it to be over, and he hovers on the edge, on the edge... "For me," Kris whispers, hoarse and choked, and Adam comes, blindingly hard. It rocks him so intensely his hips start to collapse onto the bed, but strong hands haul him back up. Kris rocks into him again, and again, and then he's biting Adam's back, moaning. Adam feels the surge even through the condom, and then he collapses, Kris on top of him. They lie there, just panting, for a long time. "Wow." Kris breathes into the skin of Adam's neck. "Yeah, wow." Adam feels like he'll never move again. And actually, he'd really rather not; he'd like to stay here pretty much forever. Kris slips out and pads to the bathroom, comes back after a while with a cloth and sponges Adam off. "Mmmm. We can sleep all day now, right?" Adam murmurs, trying to ignore the way his chest feels tight. "Yeah right. Just tell 19 to piss off, sounds about right." "How much time?" Kris sighs. "Half an hour. We've gotta go." "Yeah." Adam rolls over, looks at Kris. Kris looks... like himself, actually. He's definitely glowing a little, but his eyes look at little sad. Adam blows out a puff of air. "Now for the hard part, I guess." "Yeah because that was all so easy," Kris deadpans, mouth curling up a little. "I'm thinking maybe we both need showers again." "That is a good thought, my friend." Kris looks away. "Listen, Adam, there's something else. I don't know, I mean, it probably doesn't even--" Adam pokes Kris in the stomach. "I had my tongue in impossible places on your body. I think you can tell me, whatever it is." Kris rolls his eyes. "It's just. Katy actually said, well, once a year. She said, once a year, for a night." Kris raises his eyes to Adam's. "You know, if we wanted. So long as we don't get hurt. Either of us." Adam sees the question in Kris's eyes and shakes his head. "You have to ask, whether I want that?" "Well, I--," Kris looks away, then meets Adam's eyes and smiles, "No, actually, no. You?" Adam reaches for Kris's hand, pulls it to his mouth and kisses it. "No." He searches Kris's face, sees his answer. "No." Kris strokes Adam's face and Adam leans into it. "Your wife is amazing," Adam manages to say against the sudden tightness in his throat. "Tell me about it. Drake, too. He's a sweetheart. He's good for you, I think?" "Yeah. Keeps me grounded, but knows how to have fun." "Yep." They shower separately for strategic reasons. Adam goes first, of course, so he has time for makeup, and they both throw their stuff into suitcases and then it's time. They stand at the door and survey the room together. The bed's a wreck, smeared with lube and come and littered with crumbs. "Uh," Kris says. "Oh well. They already call me a diva, anyway," Adam mock-sighs. "It'll just add to my rock star persona." Kris laughs. "Oh, man. I can just imagine the stories that could come out of this. Hopefully the maids have better things to do than talk to TMZ." "Oops! Almost forgot these," Adam says with a grin, swooping up the gloves, now decidedly worse for wear. "Disgusting. What are you going to do with them?" "Souvenir, maybe?" Adam winks at Kris and Kris blushes, then rolls his eyes and takes the one that's least gross. "Just add it to your Idol Champion Conquests Scrapbook," Adam deadpans. Kris hits him, glances at his watch and takes a deep breath. "Well." "Yeah. Well." Adam smiles at Kris, and Kris smiles back. They keep smiling at each other for a long time, and if anyone's eyes are a little damp, neither of them say anything. Their hug right before they leave is almost exactly like their hugs have always been, warm and tight and full of love. There is something extra there; Adam can feel it, their hearts weaving together, warm and strong. Though maybe, Adam reflects, whatever it is isn't so new after all. Maybe, it's been there all along. When they walk out, they do it together. ~ ~ ~ Adam braces for things to get weird, but they never do. The rest of the tour is awesome, and he and Kris goof around exactly as much as they would have if nothing had happened. They're as comfortable inside each other's personal space as always, and they hug freely. Adam has to breathe a little deeply before he sees Katy for the first time, but she acts totally normal, and if anything, more affectionate with him than ever. The ache in his heart is exactly the same as it would have been, saying goodbye to Kris at the end of the tour. The sense of something missing is just like it would have been; pretty damn bad. (Of course it's ridiculous, because they're going to see each in LA all the time, and they text and call every day, but.) It takes him a while to talk about it with Drake, but when he does, he thinks he pretty much manages to say just enough, but not too much. "So, she said we could do it once a year..." Adam hears his voice trail off. Drake's pretty quiet. "But I mean, I don't know whether--" Drake presses a sweet kiss on his lips until he's quiet. "Of course you will. I just want champagne and caviar every other night of the year to make up for it." Adam laughs; the In & Out Burger wrappers are still littering the coffee table. Drake loves junk food. "You're high maintenance, but you're the best, baby." "I don't know about that." Drake reaches for his laptop. "Look what the Allens just sent us. I think Katy might take the prize." He flips the screen so Adam can see. "Holy shit," Adam says. It's a photo of Katy and Kris. The caption reads, Hi! Thought you might appreciate my outfit. More seriously, I love you, Adam. I mean it. You too, D. Katy. Kris looks a little shell shocked, smiling tentatively into the camera, cheeks pink, arm around Katy. Katy's wearing awesome black boots and a mini and a tight fitting top, but what draws Adam's eyes immediately are what are on her hands: kick-ass fingerless black leather gloves. "You don't think they'd ever, you know. Together, with us? I mean, I know you'd want your alone time with him and all that, but I mean, on top of that?" Adam laughs. "Seriously! That lady might be the death of us all, though." He leans back, looks at the photo some more. "Well, until last week, I would have said no chance, but now... I suppose never say never." "Mmmhmm. Pretty sure I'm not Kris's type, though." Drake's eyes sparkle at Adam. "True." Adam grins. "But I'm pretty sure you're Katy's." Later that night, Adam gets a single text from Kris: and in the end, the love you take... Adam's eyes mist and it's a while before he can send one back. He types and erases a bunch of things, because he figures he's got one shot, at least for now; he doesn't think they'll be talking about it again for about a year. He finally thinks he has it, and presses send, smiling in the dark. Yeah. Not a zero sum game. Equal to the love you make. And a little leather never hurts, either. <333 The End

Title: For the Love of Harry Author: Sev1970/MK Malfoy Date Written: 03-16-2005 Pairings: Harry/Draco, Harry/Ron, Harry/Ron/Draco Summary: When Draco pushes him away, Harry finds solace in Ron, but knows he'll never be over Draco. Ron figures out what to do about it. Threesome! No HBP Spoilers! Warning: Rimming, and language Word Count: 10,000 Rating: R Notes: Thanks to Magdelena for betaing this for me! Disclaimer: I do not own any of this. It all belongs to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Warner Bros, and any other entities involved, but not me! ~*~ For the Love of Harry ~*~ Hands trembling, Harry turned the page. He had put this off as long as he could. It's not that he didn't want to read it – he did – he just didn't want to remember; thinking about those days so long ago was difficult. He – they – had been so happy. They had been as happy as they could be for many years. Now all Harry had were the memories, and he could easily get lost in them and return to that time in his mind if he allowed himself that escape. That is why he had yet to read the sheaf of parchment that had been in his desk drawer for months. He hadn't wanted to relive those blissful days, but now he was ready… or he thought he was – he knew he wasn't, but he would have to be. He knew that the words on the pages would more often than not morph into images of his own thoughts, and that he would read what he wanted to read, but still, he would do this. His entire body now shaking, he turned the page again and briefly closed his eyes as he took a shallow breath. Eyes once again open, he willed the tears away and allowed a slight smile to grace his face. This would be good; remembering for a few hours how happy he had been would do him more good than all the potions and fresh air would do him in a lifetime. He looked at the first word, and a tear fell: There are seconds, moments, days, and years that we spend pursuing avenues other than those we originally planned, but many of us follow these unforeseen duties because we love. Love is a powerful lure: it binds us forever to what we care for, and it causes us to do things we would never do otherwise. The following story is a tale of such a love. My grandfather told it to me a few years before he died. The memories flooded back as Harry continued reading the words on the page. "How'd he take it?" Ron asked as he Summoned the biscuits that were on the bar. As he waited for the probable evasive answer, he studied Harry and wondered how long he would mope around the house – it would be a long while if that pouty frown and shaking hands were any indication. Ron took a bite and wondered if this would mean that he and… er no, he would not go there, at least not yet. "Well?" he asked, his mouth full. "He seemed fine, but he didn't want to talk about it, so I left," was Harry's much-too-calm response, but he glared at Ron, as if daring him to continue with another question. Ron wasn't one to catch on to these signals, however, so Harry knew the questions would continue. He increased his glare and could only hope that this grilling would not take too long. Ron merely grinned in return. Harry shook his head. It was a back and forth game of seeing who could stare down the other the longest. Harry was good… very good at this game, but Ron was better, and he always won. "I don't want to talk about it." "You're such a prat. You know I think you made a huge mistake, Harry." "Yes, Ron, I am well aware that you and everyone else think I am making a mistake, but do you know what? I don't care what any of you think. Draco's the one who pushed me away, but is anyone upset with him? Oh hell no. It's always my fault, isn't it?" "No, Harry, but you know good and well why Draco pushed you away. He is scared of you getting hurt because of him. You know how I feel about him, so this isn't for my benefit that I'm saying this. I have known you for almost ten years, and when you and Draco are together, the two of you are happier than any other two people I've ever seen, with the exception of my parents. I don't think you realize what being apart is going to do to you and him." Was Ron serious? Harry wanted to laugh. "Shut it, Ron. He is the one who closed the door on us. He is the one who stopped responding to me. He is the one who couldn't handle it. So what if he loves me, and so what if I love him: He all but kicked me out of his life months ago. So yeah, I was the one who was man enough to put a proper end to it. You don't know how hard it was for me night after night to go through the motions: to sleep by his side, trying to touch him and get him to touch me back. You don't know how cold and impersonal he was on the rare occasions when we made l— no, when we buggered each other, so how dare you say I am a prat. Damn it, Ron, I have feelings, and wants, and needs, and if he isn't going to give me what I need or want, I'll find someone else who will." Harry stomped off into the other room. Two hours later, after he had been out and about, and had a bit of fun, Ron returned and found Harry sitting on his bed, his fists balled up in his lap, looking at the wall. Ron rolled his eyes. Yes, Harry would definitely be moping for more than a while. Perhaps it was time for Ron to make a move, in more ways than one. He sat beside Harry and stared at the same wall that seemed to have Harry entranced: It was quite plain, other than a small hole in the upper-left corner – Bill had done that one night when he'd been using the room (He never had explained how it had happened, just that it had, and Ron had an idea that he didn't really want to know.). "I'm sorry, Harry. I just don't like seeing you so torn up." "Save your apologies; they aren't necessary or wanted," Harry replied, his voice raspy. Continuing to look at the wall, and wishing he could carve out a door and crawl through it, Ron sighed. Why did he have to be best mates with someone who was so very dramatic? "You know, Harry, a part of me was applauding your decision to end things with Draco because I've missed us – you and me hanging out together – but, looking at you now, I was wrong to think that way." "We'll be able to spend more time together now; there's no doubt about that. Er unless you, too, think you will put me in danger," was Harry's snide reply. Ron, unable to face the answerless wall any longer, turned and faced Harry, and saw the hurt: It made him angry. Harry deserved so much more than this: He deserved to love and to be loved completely, regardless of what extraneous situations were present. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was still out there and was still looking for Harry, but that shouldn't prevent him from living life to the fullest. Ron had always been protective of Harry and had the idea that this would always be his role – he was destined to be Harry's protector. It was not at all the role he wished to have, but he'd take it. Harry sighed. "I guess you feel the same way; why is everyone so bloody careful around me? I am not a damned angel that needs to be coddled and carried around." Ron wanted to shake some sense into Harry. "Not to be flippant or anything, Harry, but I hardly think I'm anything anyone is after. Why would they be after me? No, I think if you hang around with me, it won't put you in any more danger. Remember, I'm just a Weasley." Harry turned to look at his best friend, and studied him a few seconds before speaking. "Yeah, just a Weasley who happens to be my best mate. Perhaps I'm not in danger from being your friend, but you are most definitely in more danger hanging around me." And that was the entire problem, wasn't it? Ron wasn't sure what to say. "Yeah, and? I could care less about that. You and I have done okay this far. I think we'll be able to make it, Harry." Ron was a few seconds away from walking away… from it all. Honestly, how had Harry ever made it through Hogwarts and all of his trials, being such a strong-willed student, yet left Hogwarts to become someone who seemingly had lost his confidence? It made no sense, and made Ron want to tell Harry to buck up or find another place to live. That would never happen in a million years, however. Ron needed Harry just as much as Harry needed him. Harry stood and leaned against the wall, then shrugged his shoulders as he let out a small sound, akin to a laugh, but it was anything but. "Too bad Draco wasn't of the same belief. Merlin, Ron, I loved him. How could he do this to me? I don't know how I can ever get over him." "He's scared, Harry, and unfortunately, you got hurt because of it, and there isn't much to be done for it. He'll figure it out soon enough I'm sure and he'll come crawling back to you, begging you to give him another chance." Harry smiled and shook his head very matter-of-factly. As much as he wanted Ron to be right, he couldn't afford for that to happen. "I hope he doesn't, because I can't allow him to get to me again. Walking out of that room tonight was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. I gave him everything that was me, and he just threw it back in my face. Two years we were together. Why now? What happened that made him fear for me so much? And if he did fear for my life, don't you think he would want to protect me and not push me away? Yeah, I know why he did it, but it still hurts." Ron shook his head as he looked out the window at the moonless night. "I wish I could tell you, but I can't. Who knows what Draco was or is thinking? I can tell you what I do know, though. You deserve to be cherished and protected." Harry laughed aloud. "I find it quite amusing that everyone else thinks I am so strong and brave. It is as if everyone thinks I am the answer to all of their problems. I hate that burden, Ron, and I hate that others feel like they have to cower in my presence. That is why I loved Draco so much. He allowed me to be who I wanted to be. I didn't have to be strong with him. He took care of me, but never made me feel as though I couldn't take care of myself. He understood that I needed someone to hold me and to keep me safe. I am this bigger than life figure to everyone it seems, Ron, but, really, I'm just scared Harry. I don't know what is going to happen any more than they do. All I am asking is for a little happiness. Is that too much for me to ask?" Ron walked to his bed and pulled back his covers as he got ready to get into bed. "No, that's not too much to ask, Harry. You deserve to be happy." Harry gathered the clothes he needed and went to the bathroom. After showering, he returned to the room he and Ron had shared for the past two years, and grinned. Ron was asleep, and the duvet had already been thrown off the bed, leaving a scantily clad body sprawled out across the bed. Harry put out the torches that lit the room and climbed into his bed, exhausted. Within minutes, he was asleep. He dreamed of two well-toned bodies pressing into each other, blond and brunet-haired bodies rolling around and arching into each other in a slow dance. He could hear the screams coming from both of them, and could see the look of passion in each of their eyes. He heard his dream-self professing his love for the blond, and then he heard the blond professing his love for the brunet. Then he heard them both screaming as they orgasmed. Then he saw the two sitting in front of the fire, the blond straddling the brunet, pushing himself in and out of the other. He could see the smaller man throw his head back and yell, but couldn't hear what was being said. Soon after, he watched as the blond began shaking and then collapsed against the other. Harry woke up breathing heavily when he felt a hand shaking him, and opened his eyes to see a worried Ron looking at him. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you, Ron." "'s okay. Are you all right? You are soaking wet, and burning up." Harry nodded. "Yeah, I'll be fine. It was just a bad dream." "You really loved him, didn't you?" Ron said with a frown. "You know I did. It hurts so badly. I know I did the right thing, but I am so used to sleeping in his arms. He made me feel so protected. Even when he had already physically stopped being with me, he still held me if I asked him to. It's just going to take a while to get used to sleeping on my own again, but I'll adjust." Ron shook his head and sat down by Harry. "If you need arms to fall asleep in, you can always use mine." Harry smiled weakly, but knew he had to say no. Ron was his best friend, and he knew the redhead would do anything for him, as he was doing now, but Harry was so desolate, and starved for affection, that he was unsure if he could resist the temptation to think of Ron as Draco. "Ron, it's not a good idea. I miss him so much, and all I want is to feel like he is here with me. It'll just be harder if you try to comfort me." "Yeah, you're right. But my offer stands." "Thanks, you're a good friend." Watching Ron get into his own bed, Harry put out the fire before closing his eyes and quickly falling asleep. Harry awoke the next morning in a somewhat good mood, and was preparing breakfast when he heard Ron walking into the kitchen. After most everything had been levitated to the table, he turned around and nearly dropped the bowl he was carrying. Ron was dressed in lilac robes and a purple cloak, which was clasped in front with a silver Gryffin, and his hair, which was down to his shoulders, was pulled back into a neat ponytail at the nape of his neck. "Where are you off to this morning looking all dapper?" was his guarded response to being absolutely shocked. Ron, who normally walked around in boxers, jeans, and shirts with holes in them, looked amazing. Harry had to turn his head so he wouldn't continue to stare. Ron rolled his eyes. "It seems as though Mum thinks I need to have a proper wizarding portrait made. Ever since you gave her and dad that picture of you last Christmas, she has been on me about getting one of myself taken. So, I am going to do that this morning so she'll quit her fussing. I feel like an overdressed little girl." Ron blushed. Harry raised his eyebrows as he again looked at Ron. "Well my friend, you certainly don't look like a little girl. I'd say you look very much like Ronald Weasley, and you look very smart and handsome." Harry meant it, and smiled. "Why thank you, Harry," Ron exaggerated as he bowed mockingly. Grabbing a piece of toast, the redhead started to walk out, and then turned back to Harry. "You wanna go out tonight? A few of us were planning on going to London." Harry thought about it and was ready to say no, but seeing the look in Ron's eyes, he nodded. "Okay, sure, that would be nice. Thanks, Ron." "Anytime, Harry." Harry spent all day cleaning the small house he and Ron shared. He had spent so little time there recently, and Ron was not much for housecleaning. The small cottage was nothing much to look at, but it was theirs. Ron made a modest income working at the Ministry, but the youngest Weasley son was still by no means rolling in money. Harry had enough money to be comfortable for the rest of his life, but he found that he preferred living in this small place, a place Ron felt that he was able to equally contribute to. They had thought about moving into 12 Grimmauld Place, but Harry could not stand the memories that the his godfather's family home evoked, so he had sold it as soon as the Order moved headquarters, and he and Ron had found this place after leaving Hogwarts. Harry walked into their bedroom and couldn't help but smirk. His bed was neatly made, with not a thing out of place. Looking over to Ron's side, the bed was unmade, sheets, duvet, and pillow all on the floor, with clothes piled up on the bed. Harry shook his head and began putting everything in its place. Hearing a knock on the door, Harry checked the wards and found Draco standing outside. Shaking his head and taking a deep breath, he lowered the wards and opened the door, allowing a sullen Draco inside. "You look about as good as I feel." "You left your broom; I was passing by so I thought I'd drop it off." Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Okay, so you dropped it off. Thanks. I'd invite you in for tea and biscuits but I'm kind of busy right now." "Oh," said Draco, hurt evident. "I'll just be on my way then. Bye, Harry." "Bye, Draco." Harry re-warded the house and watched Draco as he walked away. Shaking his head, Harry refused to let Draco consume his every moment, but he knew that would be harder to do than to say. He had lived and breathed Draco Malfoy for two years, and was addicted to him; there was no other word for it. The blond was intoxicating, and Harry knew he needed help to get over him. Trying to get his mind off his now non-existent love life, Harry returned to his cleaning, and by the time Ron returned that evening, the house was spotless. "How did the pictures turn out?" "Have a look," Ron handed over the pictures to Harry with a shrug. "Eh, they're okay, I guess, according to Ginny and Dean, anyway." Ron rolled his eyes. Harry picked one of them up and laughed. "Can you ever be serious?" "You want serious; here is serious." Ron went through the stack and handed one of the pictures to Harry. "Warning you now… way too serious in that one, but you know Mum will love it, so Ginny made me be serious." Harry studied the picture of Ron waving to his mum and dad every few seconds, and then looked at Ron. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I've never seen you look so at peace. I guess I think of you as always cutting up or laughing, but this makes you look… I don't know, er regal or smart I guess." "Merlin, you sound like Ginny now, Harry." Harry shook his head. "All I'm saying is if you presented yourself like this, you would have the guys falling all over you." "Yeah, Gin said the same thing. I just don't want to have to be something I'm not, Harry. Yeah, that picture shows how handsome I can look, and shows me being calm, but that's not who I am." "You know," Harry said grinning, "I just might be a bit jealous if you suddenly had men throwing themselves at you. Don't get me wrong: I want you to be happy, but I don't know, I think I've always thought of you and me as being together. Not really, but I don't know, sometimes I wonder why we never got together." Ron sat down at the table, poured a cup of tea, and grabbed a biscuit. "We have had this discussion before; you know why, Harry." Harry hated to be reminded. "Yeah, and see how wonderful that turned out? I give up the chance to become involved with my best friend, who knows my every want and need, all for someone who I think I always knew would break my heart. I was such a git." Ron swallowed his mouthful and shook his head. "Nah…you were in love; it happens. Anyway, what the two of you had was real; I saw it. I envied Draco so much, because he had a part of you I never would." Harry took a seat beside Ron and poured himself a cup of tea as he looked pensively at his best friend, contemplating what he had just said and heard. Everything was so confusing, but he knew Ron was genuine, and would never hurt him. They had been best friends for eight years, and during that time, the two had experienced both good and bad times. Ron's jealousy flared easily, and on more than one occasion had almost ended their friendship. They would inevitably get over their differences, but they had always had to work at their relationship. It wasn't until their seventh year that both seemed to grow up and accept the other for who and what they were. Now, Harry was beginning to see Ron in a different light, and he wasn't completely comfortable with what he was beginning to realize, but he wasn't going to ignore it. He had thought about he and Ron being more than friends, many times, but never seriously. Now, however, Harry knew it might be time to give the idea some serious thought. No one could make Harry madder, then Ron, but then no one could make him laugh like Ron, either. Harry knew that his best friend would do anything for him. ~*~ The next week went by without much going on. Ron would leave early in the morning and return for supper. He had agreed to be the new Quidditch Coach at Hogwarts when term began, and had been getting the brooms and everything else in order. Harry went with him a couple of times to help, and had enjoyed it; he was bored and needed something to do. Harry was an Auror, but for the past year, he had been inactive. It was part of the grand plan to lull Voldemort into a false sense of security. The Order was trying to throw him and his followers off balance. Harry had loved his job; it kept him busy, and that is how he and Draco had discovered their feelings for one another. Draco was what they called a Fidelius Auror. No one, not even Harry, was fully aware of what Draco did, but the two had been training for their current positions since the summer after fifth year, and had gone through their training in under half the time it usually took for a person to be certified as an Auror. Without his Auror activities, Harry was quickly finding himself becoming restless. He couldn't even get another job because he was officially still an Auror. With all of his free time, Harry had continued thinking about what Ron and he had talked about that night regarding the two of them. Nothing further on the subject had been mentioned, however. Ron was clearly trying to keep Harry's mind off Draco, and on more fun things. They had met Ginny, Dean, Hermione, Seamus, Neville, and Luna in Hogsmeade the last few evenings, and caught up on what was going on in everyone's lives. Everyone was busy it seemed, except Harry, and he felt as if he had nothing to contribute to their conversations, but Hermione always managed to make him smile. If she sensed he was becoming maudlin, she took him for a walk, and the two talked about their school days, about Seamus, and about Draco. "Harry, what is it? You seem different tonight." Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing, Hermione. I guess I just have a lot on my mind." "No, it's more than that, and you know it. I can't believe you finally see it. Oh, Harry, I know you are probably confused about this, but I think you and Ron would be great together." Harry snapped his head around to meet Hermione's smiling face, and visibly slumped his shoulders. How had she known and how had she figured it out? "How did you know?" "Other than the fact that neither of you has said much of anything tonight, and other than the fact that you both keep looking at each other when you think the other isn't looking? Absolutely nothing," said a smiling Hermione. "I don't know what to do, Hermione. I know I'm not over Draco, and I don't know that I ever will be, but I can't deny that I am starting to have these feeling for Ron. Yeah, we have toyed with the idea in the past, but this is different. I don't know how, but it is." "I can tell. He feels the same way about you, Harry, but he won't do anything about it, not now at least. You just broke up with Draco, who, might I remind you, was up until recently, the love of your life. I don't think Ron wants to hurt you, or get hurt himself." "I know. Thanks, Hermione." A few nights later, after Ron and Harry had got ready for bed, the two were drinking tea in the kitchen, not saying much, but both not wanting to be the first to leave. Harry looked at Ron, and with a determined look on his face, set down his cup and took the cup from Ron's hand and placed it by his, then stood up and sat in Ron's lap, facing him. Ron was still chewing his last bite of biscuit, but as soon as it was swallowed, Harry claimed Ron's mouth in a deep kiss. Both men were moaning into each other's mouths, and Harry was pressing himself into Ron more and more, trying to get as much of his best friend as he could. Ron finally managed to break them apart. "Bedroom?" Harry nodded and wrapped his arms and legs around Ron, who carried him to their bedroom and dropped him on his bed before retrieving his wand and enlarging his own bed into a queen sized one. Picking up Harry once more, Ron slowly placed him on the now enlarged bed, then climbed on top of him and began kissing him. After about five minutes, he slowly rolled off Harry, and the two lay facing each other. "Harry, is this what you really want? I'm so scared of hurting you. I don't want to take advantage of you being so lonely right now. Maybe we should wait a while." Harry shook his head. "Ron, I am scared as hell. I never imagined that you and I would ever be like this, but I have never felt the way I feel about you right now. You know me, and know I don't jump into these situations carelessly. I need you, and more importantly, I want you, Ron." Ron sighed, then smiled as he caressed Harry's face. "I want you too, more than anything. I just don't want you to regret this. I don't think I could live with myself if I upset you." Harry let a small laugh escape. "Ron, was it not I who straddled your lap in the breakfast room? As I said, you know I don't enter into these kinds of situations without much thought. I know what I want, Ron. I want you to hold me. I need to know that my best friend is now someone I can love. I already love you, and as weird as it sounds, I think I always loved you and knew that I wanted to be with you. Then Draco and I happened, and he consumed my life. I had forgotten how special you are to me, and I don't want to ever forget that again." Ron nodded his agreement. Harry then kissed Ron lightly before laying his head on Ron's chest. "I think we are both slightly overdressed; we need to get out of these clothes." Ron found his wand and with a few words, both of them were naked, and moaning at the sensual feel of skin meeting skin. They both remained quiet as they explored each other's bodies, kissing, nipping and sucking, as they learned each other's erogenous zones. They began a slow grind, and began increasing their movements; both engorged cocks frantically rubbing against the other, sending wave upon wave of euphoria through each of the men. Both men tensed and came about the same time, spraying their stomachs with semen. Ron murmured a cleaning charm, and the two fell asleep shortly thereafter. Waking up to sunshine streaming through the window, Harry rubbed his eyes as he tried sitting up. Feeling something on his chest, Harry looked to his left and smiled, remembering how wonderful it had felt to finally be in Ron's arms. Kissing the redhead, Harry lifted Ron's head and slowly extricated himself from the bed, hoping not to wake him. He quickly found his dressing gown and went to make coffee. After two cups, the now grinning young man stealthily made his way back into the bed, and noticed Ron hadn't moved a bit from the position Harry had left him. Rolling his eyes, Harry began kissing Ron's bare neck and chest, and made his way down to the man's mound of red hair. Harry looked up. Still, there was no movement. Let's see if you can sleep through this. Harry ghosted his mouth over Ron's cock, which was not hard by any means, but it wasn't quite flaccid either. Harry grinned wickedly at the thoughts he was having. He wanted to get Ron hard. He had just wrapped his hand around the two sacs and had begun gently squeezing them, when Ron moaned loudly. Harry continued applying pressure, and then took his other hand and allowed his fingers to find the man's opening. Harry then let go of Ron's hardening cock and crawled to the very end of the bed, so that he was facing Ron. He lowered himself and lifted the long legs, just enough so he could have easy access to Ron's opening, knowing that either this, or what he was about to do, would surely bring Ron from his sleep. Harry leaned down in between Ron's legs and tasted Ron with his tongue. After licking Ron for a few seconds, getting the man somewhat lubricated, Harry began pushing his tongue in, and with each thrust, it went deeper. Harry parted Ron's legs a little more and found himself pressed into Ron's arse, fucking his best friend with his tongue as he played with the now hard cock. He knew his sleeping friend couldn't possibly be asleep any longer, and he knew Ron had probably been awake for some time. Sitting up, Harry crawled up Ron's body and kissed the inviting lips. When he opened his eyes, Ron was smiling at him. "I see it wasn't a dream, after all." Harry shook his head. "Are you happy about that?" "Oh yes, I am quite happy," Ron said as he began playing with Harry's nipples. "I have to admit I thought you would wake up this morning and regret what happened." "I don't regret anything that has ever happened to me, Ron, and I certainly do not regret this." The two men engaged in more kissing and grinding, and eventually brought each other to orgasm again, and again, and again. They spent most of the day in bed, learning each other's bodies. Neither of them were quite ready to completely give themselves to each other, and both realized it might be a while. Harry had just gotten out of a serious relationship, and Ron was the one who was now involved with a potentially rebounding Harry. Both were in total agreement that they wanted this to happen, but they were both mature enough to understand that sometimes things didn't work out, as people wanted them to. ~*~ The two ordered, and as they waited for their food, they shared intimate touches under and above the table. The waiter brought them a bottle of wine, and the two toasted their one-month anniversary before starting on their meal. "…Yeah, mine is good, too. After we eat, would you like to-" Ron stopped when he watched Harry's face pale. "What is wrong?" Looking to his right, he suddenly knew what had distracted Harry. Draco Malfoy was standing across the room, a beautiful girl draped on his arm. Ron glanced at Harry, and his heart sank. Ron knew Harry was still in love with Malfoy. "Harry, mate, you know she is just for looks. Why don't you go talk to him? I'll keep her company." Harry jerked his head around. "No. I promised myself I wouldn't do this, and I won't. He'll not ever be able to hurt me again." Draco and the girl left, and shortly after, Harry and Ron finished their meal. "Ron, I know we were going to see "Private Lives," but would you mind if we just went home? Or if you want to go see it, please do, but I just don't feel up to it." Ron stood up and held out his hand to Harry, who took it and stood up. "We'll go see "Private Lives" another night, Harry." The two walked a few blocks and then Apparated to their house. Harry took off his cloak as he sat on the sofa, and he was soon joined by Ron, who handed him a glass of wine. Ron put his arm around Harry, and helped the smaller man into his lap, where he laid Harry's head on his chest. The two said nothing for a long time, just sat on the sofa, giving and receiving comfort. When Ron heard steady breathing, he carried Harry into their bedroom and laid him on their enlarged bed after removing his clothes. Ron tucked him in and kissed him lightly on the forehead, then whispered so he wouldn't wake the peaceful looking Harry. "I love you, Harry," before crawling into bed himself. Sleep evaded him; the image of Harry's crest-fallen face at seeing Malfoy kept repeating itself in his mind. Ron knew without a doubt that Harry still loved Draco, but he also knew Harry had been hurt badly, and would never give Draco another chance. He didn't know what to do. He wanted so badly for Harry to want him, only him, but he knew that wasn't the way it was, or ever would be. Draco would always be there in the background. A few days later, Ron left early to go help get the castle ready for the upcoming term, and Harry decided to go into Hogsmeade to get some supplies Ron needed. Walking into the Owl Emporium, Harry came face to face with Draco, and froze. "Hi, Harry." "Draco." "What are you doing here?" "Just getting a few things Ron needs." "Oh. Can we talk?" "What is there to talk about?" "Please? This won't take long, I promise." "And we both know how you keep your promises, don't we?" Harry was bitter, and wanted nothing more than to spit in the blond's face. He had been in love with this man, ready to commit the rest of his life to him, and all of it had been a lie. Draco had ripped his heart out, and now he wanted to talk? "Harry, I really need to talk to you. It is important." Harry shook his head. "You have a buggered up idea of what is important don't you? Okay fine, I'll give you ten minutes, but not here. Let's go." Both knew where 'let's go' meant. They had begun seeing each other secretly at the cave where Sirius had hidden when in Hogsmeade, and Harry considered it his and Draco's place. He didn't relish having to return to a place that held so many wonderful yet painful memories for him, but he was curious about what Draco had to say. When the two had reached their destination, Harry turned to Draco. "Okay, we're here, now spill." "I was a fool, Harry. I should have never let you go." Harry laughed. "Oh but you did." "I thought I would be protecting you, and I know I am, but I miss you so much, Harry. I haven't been able to eat or sleep hardly since you have gone." Harry willed his voice to remain calm. "Well, that is just too bad, isn't it? Look, Draco, leaving you was the hardest thing I have ever had to do, even harder than watching my godfather disappear and die, or watching a classmate die in front of me. I loved you, Draco. I gave my heart, my soul, and my everything to you, and you thought so much of all of that, didn't you? You threw it all away…you say to protect me. I'm a big boy, Malfoy, and can take care of myself. You once realized that. What happened?" "I was scared, Harry. I knew you loved me, and would do anything for me. I was so scared my father would try to do something to me in order to get to you. I had no choice but to protect you. I loved you, Harry. Merlin help me, but I still love you, and always will." "No, we are not even going to have this conversation. Look, Draco, I have moved on with my life and now know what true love is. You know, I really must thank you, because if it were not for you, Ron and I would have never got together." "Yeah, I saw the two of you the other night in London. I'm glad you are happy, really I am. I guess I really buggered up this time, huh?" Harry wouldn't even meet Draco's eyes. "Yeah, you did, and don't waste your time trying to win me back. You pushed me away, and completely devastated me. I was ready to spend the rest of my life with you. Merlin, Draco, why? Why?? No - I can't do this. I can't." Harry Apparated away from where he was standing and ended up in the sitting room of his house. "Harry? What's wrong?" Harry sat on the sofa and stared ahead, eyes stinging, saying nothing. "Harry, what happened?" Ron knelt before Harry and turned his chin so they were facing each other. "You saw Draco, didn't you?" Harry nodded but still didn't utter a word. "What did he say?" "What do you think?" Harry asked. He quoted Draco mockingly, bitterness in his tone. "He made a mistake, he thought he was protecting me, he loved me, he still loves me. All a bunch of lies." Ron sat down and made Harry look at him. "You are making yourself sick, Harry. Merlin, why don't you accept his apology and go back to him? I know you still love him." Harry seemed to snap out of whatever trance he had been in. Looking into Ron's eyes, Harry wanted to scream at how unfair this entire situation was. "You really do want me to go back to him, don't you? Even if it meant you and I wouldn't be together?" Ron swallowed and forced himself to nod his head. "Yes, Harry. Your happiness means everything to me." Harry sighed and shook his head, not knowing what to do. "And your happiness means everything to me, as well, Ron. My life is certainly screwed up right now, but if there is one thing that I know, without a doubt, it is that I love you, and will never leave you. You have shown me more love than I could ever have hoped for. I love waking up in your arms every morning, and I love falling asleep with you every night. How many people can say they are in love with their best friend? What you and I have is beyond special. It is indescribable, and I wouldn't trade it for anything or anyone." Ron let out a huge breath and smiled as he and Harry hugged. "I love you, too, Harry, more than anything." Suddenly it all fell into place and Ron knew what he needed to do. "I have been doing some thinking, but need to know how you feel about it, okay?" Harry nodded. "What would you think about having someone else join us?" Harry scrunched up his nose and studied Ron closely. "Join us?" "Yes, as in sharing our bed with us?" Harry raised a brow and knew he must look completely gob smacked. "You never seemed the type to do that kind of thing, Ron. Does it turn you on to think of being with two people at once?" Ron smiled as his face turned pink. "Actually, yeah, it does. It has always been a secret fantasy of mine from the time I was in school, but the right situation never presented itself. I think now it has." Harry's eyes widened when he realized what Ron was saying. "Draco?" "Only if you are okay with it, of course. If not, I completely understand." Harry shook his head at Ron. "You never cease to amaze me. I love you, Ron. Draco can share our bed with us if he wants, but only if you are certain this is what YOU want. Don't do this for me, or for Draco." "You are not the only one to have noticed Draco's finer details, Harry. I have often imagined what it would be like to bugger him into the bed. I do want this, Harry, but I think the reason I want this so much, is because I want my home to be filled with love. I love you, and I know you love me. I also know you love Draco, and he loves you. So now, we just need to see how things go between Draco and me. But if he loves you, I am sure I can love him." Harry was sure he must be dreaming, but he knew he wasn't. "You're sure about this, Ron?" "Yes, Harry. I am. I know I hated the ferret in school, but so did you. You are the one who buggered him for two years. I think that alone shows that Draco had to have changed." "Yeah, he did change a lot. So what now?" Harry said in a perplexed voice. He still wasn't sure this was all happening. "Do you want to talk to Draco, or do you want me to? I seriously doubt he'll go for this. I don't think he does the sharing thing very well." Ron shrugged his shoulders. "Well, the offer stands, as long as you want it to, that is. If he doesn't want to be with me and you together, then I'd say he is out of luck, unless you change your mind and decide you want him exclusively." Harry was beginning to warm to the idea, but wasn't ready to give up his exclusivity with Ron, not quite yet. "Ron, this just doesn't feel right. You and I haven't even made love properly yet. I don't want to share you with anyone, at least not until I can have you all to myself." Ron grinned and stood up before kissing Harry chastely on the lips. "I want to be with you, too. I think we have waited long enough, and if we had to wait another night, I just might have to sleep elsewhere. About Draco, don't talk to him until you are ready; this is your decision… it is completely up to you, Harry." Harry couldn't hide the huge grin that he wore for the rest of the day. He had wanted to be with Ron so badly, but the redhead had been taking his time, telling Harry to be sure he was ready for it. Now it seemed, it was time, finally. All during supper, Harry and Ron kept looking at each other longingly, even though they were alone and could walk around naked if they wanted to. Harry thought it was romantic. With Draco, it had all been about the heat of the moment. They had pretty much restricted their romance to the bedroom, and now with Ron, Harry felt like a giddy teenager again, with them grinning at each other, and touching each other every chance they got. After the kitchen was clean, Harry went to take a shower, and was followed by Ron. Not bothering to dress after their showers, the two got into bed, and immediately began kissing. Ron turned Harry over and quickly had the smaller man moaning into his pillow. Harry had never felt so alive. Then he felt Ron breach his opening with a slickened finger, and tried pushing back into the touch, but was stopped by Ron's lean body which was draped over him, adding precious pressure to his already hard erection. After the one finger became two, then three, Harry screamed out. "Please, Ron, I am about to shoot my stuff all over the bed. I want you in me when I do." Harry knew Ron probably wanted to take this nice and slowly, but there would be time for that. He was so hard and wanted Ron so badly that he couldn't be bothered with romantic touches and slow caresses. Ron needed no more persuading and entered Harry with one thrust. The two took little time to climax, and both soon found themselves breathing heavily as they lay in each other's arms as they came down from their orgasmic bliss. Harry smiled sleepily and snuggled into Ron's warm embrace. "You made me feel really special tonight, like it was all for me. Thank you. I will always be here for you, Ron. No matter who else shares our bed; it is always going to be you who is first with me." ~*~ Three Months Later ~*~ "Draco?" Harry watched as the blond entered the room. "Down here." Harry rolled his eyes. "Do you ever make a proper entrance?" Harry stepped out of the fire and smirked at Draco. "That is not my style, I guess. We need to talk." "About?" Harry was apprehensive, and was fervently wishing he hadn't agreed to this, but he knew that he could decide against this at any moment and simply walk away, and things would continue the way they currently were. "This is just a bit awkward, but how do you feel about threesomes?" Draco looked at Harry as if he had lost his mind. "Excuse me?" "You know, three people—" Draco rolled his eyes. "I know what a threesome is, you dolt. Why are you asking me?" "Merlin, you are not going to make this easy, are you? I have come to ask if you would consider perhaps becoming involved with Ron and me?" Draco glared at his former lover. "You? Please, Harry. You would no sooner be involved in a threesome than I would bugger Longbottom." "Oh, I assure you, I am quite serious, Draco. Believe me, if I wasn't, I wouldn't be here right now. Why would I set myself up to be potentially hurt again?" "I don't know. All I know is you would never—oh, it's Weasley." Draco gulped. He knew this had to be Ron's idea, and he knew how much Harry's best friend hated him, or had hated him in the past. Ron Weasley would never want to be in any type of a relationship with him unless it was for Harry, that is. Draco wanted to say no and be done with it, but he couldn't. He looked into Harry's eyes and studied them for a few seconds. "Is this what you want?" Harry couldn't speak, so he nodded. "Weasley's okay with this?" "Yes." "Okay. If this is really what you want, then yes, I am interested." Draco knew he was damned. What he wouldn't do for Harry…. *~* Months later ~*~ The relationship was awkward at first, and Harry was adamant that he wanted the three of them to get to know each other before they engaged in anything sexual. Draco moved in with them, and at first, he occupied Harry's bed and slept alone, but as the weeks wore on, he was invited to share the now larger than king-sized bed with Ron and Harry. Harry slept in the middle, and both Draco and Ron preferred it that way, but they were pleasantly surprised that it didn't take long for the two of them to warm to one other. Both of them loved Harry more than anything, and for Harry, they would make this work. Harry wasn't stupid; he knew he was the reason this was happening, and although he felt guilty at times, he also felt such love and acceptance. He often found himself sandwiched together between his two lovers, and thought there was no better way to wake up than this. Ron and Harry hadn't slowed down when Draco entered their lives; they continued making love to each other, and then after a few weeks, when Draco entered their bed, the blond and Harry began reacquainting themselves with one another, and it wasn't long before Draco was making Harry scream out his name as he orgasmed with Draco buried deeply within him. Harry knew that there was one obstacle keeping the three of them from engaging in what they would become, and it scared him. He was afraid if Ron and Draco were together, they would decide they didn't want him. Harry knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn't help it. Nevertheless, he told Ron that he was ready to see Draco and him together. Harry lay at the end of the bed and tried smiling as Ron prepared Draco, but he couldn't. He wanted to be the one Ron was preparing; he wanted to be the one Ron was going to fuck into the mattress. He remembered Ron saying it had always been a fantasy of his to do this to Draco, and he tried being happy and supportive, but was failing miserably. Finally, Ron took out his fingers and sat back for a few seconds, seeming to think about something. Turning to Harry, he crooked his finger and gave Harry a slight smile. "Do you mind, Harry? Draco, I just don't think I'm ready yet." Draco nodded, and Harry had to close his eyes and compose himself before he could speak. "I don't mind at all, Ron." Then Harry got Ron's attention again and said 'thank you,' in a whisper that only Ron would be able to hear. Ron took Harry and hugged him as he coated his lover's cock with the lubricant. "I hope Draco likes it hard because I plan on giving you the ride of your life tonight." Draco answered, "The harder the better." Harry positioned himself behind Draco, who was propped up, laying his head on his hands, his bum sticking up in the air. Harry grabbed the firm hips and slowly eased his way inside of the once again familiar moist heat that was Draco. After a few seconds, he began slowly thrusting in and out. Then he felt as Ron began preparing him, and since he was riding Draco, Ron's fingers went deeper and deeper with each thrust. Finally, Harry could stand it no more. "Fuck me, Ron, now." Harry slowed down and released a hiss when he was entered in one thrust, but soon resumed his slamming into Draco, which was now twice as hard with Ron slamming into him as well. Ron kept increasing the pace until the three were practically bouncing off the bed after each thrust. Screams could be heard coming from each of them. Ron reached around both of them, grabbed Draco's straining cock, and began pumping it with his thrusts. Ron could barely talk, but he managed to grunt out a few words. "Harry, gonna come hard." And he did. His body ejaculated inside of Harry and his body shook for what seemed like forever. He felt when Harry let go inside of Draco, and then felt Harry buck back into him as Draco released his own seed. Ron eventually forced himself to ease out of Harry, then he gently lifted Harry out and off of Draco, and eased them both up to the head of the bed, placing Harry beside Draco, and himself beside Harry. Ron watched as Harry wrapped his arms and legs around Draco, then did the same to Harry, except his legs wrapped around Harry and Draco, both. It was an odd feeling, but Ron felt more protected and protective than he ever had before. He knew he would do anything for these two men, and he knew they would do the same for him. ~*~ And that is the end of the story I was told ~*~ Harry closed his eyes and shook his head. The memories had been so much clearer than he thought they'd be. He re-opened them and read the notes that followed. If I am fortunate enough in my lifetime to find a love as special and as pure as the love my grandfather, Harry, and Draco shared, I'll be a lucky man, indeed. Their relationship was unconventional, yes, but that matters not at all to me. I would rather a lifetime of unconventionality that made me happy than normalcy that made me sad. My grandfather taught me from an early age that we should not strive to conform to what others think is right. Not that we should intentionally try to prove them wrong, but that we should teach by example that not everything has to be done by the book. I am here because my grandfather did, at some point, have a relationship with a woman. I am most grateful for that, but I know and understand that the loves of his life were Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. My grandmother understands that, and I love her all the more because of it. She was hesitant to talk to me about this, but after much begging, she relented, and I only wish I had permission to tell her story as well. A stronger woman I have never known. Perhaps one day she'll allow me to tell her story as well, but for now my writing days are over, and I will retire to my farm and be happy with my wife and children. Before I go, however, I want to thank Harry, Draco and my grandfather. They are what I aspire to be. The End As Harry closed the thin book, he wiped a tear from his chin and looked toward the window where he heard the birds calling to one another. Draco could have told him what kind of bird it was. The thought sent another tear down Harry's wrinkled face, but then he smiled. He could close his eyes and hear Draco saying: that was an eerie, or that was a gull. Then Ron would inevitably say something such as: show-off! Then Harry would come up to both of them, kiss them, and say something such as: my two favorite boys in the world will never change, and please don't. I love you just the way you are. Placing the book back in the drawer, Harry took out a quill and parchment. He needed to thank Ron's grandson for writing this. It was good to know that the love that Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, and Harry Potter shared would now be documented for eternity. Few people would ever read of the love these three shared, and fewer people would care, but for the one that cared the most, this meant everything. I love you Draco and Ron, and miss you more and more with each passing day. The End

Noise. There was always so much goddamned noise. A horrible, buzzing cacophony slammed against her brain and rattled her bones. Every single time, it was like this: loud and clanging and piercing her head like a sword. It had to be killing her by this point. She felt like she was ready to snap in half. She was shaking. Shaking and screaming and pleading for true unconsciousness. She felt cold Replicator blocks at her back, felt her muscles tensing with blind struggle, heard the words Fifth had spoken to her just before he plunged his hand into her head: “I want to see it again.” He’d been smiling when he said it. His eyes had sparkled, eager and hungry. Bile burned at the back of Sam’s throat. How many more times? How many more times was he going to do this to her? She suddenly became aware of something else: he wasn’t quite there yet. A hard jolt of adrenaline ran through her as she realized Fifth didn’t yet have his usual iron grip on her mind; she was still clinging desperately to the edge of reality. Her chest constricted with hope, then determination, and she increased her efforts to shut him out until her entire body burst with searing pain. And then it was over. Just like that, it was over, and her fight was done. His cage, as she’d taken to calling the hideous sensation of him being in complete control of her head, slammed firmly into place, enclosing every part of her. The buzzing vanished. A chilled quiet settled into her mind as darkness overtook her, and she cursed Fifth for everything he was worth. She felt no reaction from him. She cursed him again and again until she slipped away. --- She came to slowly, her mind sluggish as it throbbed with ghosts of pain. Her eyelids were like lead, simply refusing to open each time she tried, and maybe that wasn’t so bad, because maybe it meant she wouldn’t have to contend with this ungodly agony anymore. Her muscles twitched, and she shivered against cold. Why did it always have to be so cold? A trail of goose bumps flared up along her arms as another shiver worked its way down her back. She instinctively moved to wrap her arms around herself, but her wrists collided with something solid. Trying to move her arms again produced the same result, and it was then that she registered an odd sense of suspension, like she was floating. Her legs didn’t feel right, either, and her attempts to adjust them failed. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t move at all. It hit her with the force of a freight train and her eyes snapped open, every muscle in her body taut with barely-controlled panic. Looking up, she found her arms raised, wrists chained to the wall above her head by thick bands of Replicator blocks. The whole room was covered in them from ceiling to floor, just like the place Fifth was keeping her, but it was bigger and the lights were brighter. Less doom and gloom, more sunshine and flowers. As if more space and clearer lighting were supposed to make this better. She caught sight of herself when she looked at the floor, and her stomach clenched so hard it hurt: she’d been stripped of all her clothing, even her dog tags, and her skin was pale against gray metal. Two rods of Replicator blocks stuck out of the wall, ending as more bands entwined around her bare thighs. They held her still, kept her above the floor, and spread her wide open. A half-crazed laugh escaped her. No wonder she was so fucking cold. Her muscles quivered as she pushed and pulled against the restraints – her punishment, perhaps, for not simply rolling over and giving in to him. She tried to slow her racing heart, tried to keep her breathing even, told herself there was still a way out of this. Not like there’d been a way out of it the previous times, but at least Fifth had the decency to start those off with a little more subtlety. She pushed harder. Not again. She wasn’t going to go through this again. As soon as she thought it, a sudden flash of heat blazed between her legs, expanding and washing over the rest of her body in a fast wave. She went rigid, eyes wide as she sucked in air through clenched teeth. God, not again; she couldn’t take this anymore. He’d push her even farther this time, she knew it. She had to bite back a moan at the next wave. If there was one thing Fifth seemed to enjoy making perfectly clear, it was the fact that he could do anything to her. He could make her feel anything he wanted, and so far, he’d wanted her to feel pleasure. Powerful, just shy of being painful pleasure, pleasure that threatened to consume her or drive her mad or – and she thought this became more and more likely every time – kill her. A third wave slammed her senses, and she failed to suppress a full-body shudder. Memories flooded into her head, and it was hard to tell whether she was naturally recalling them or if Fifth was deliberately shoring them up to stimulate her further. The other times were still so fresh in her mind, as clear and vivid as if they were happening again right now. Her face flushed and she shut her eyes tightly, pulling and jerking against her restraints until her wrists hurt and her thighs were sore. It had been Pete the first time, and she’d bought it for a while and bought the idea of him leading her into a bedroom and pressing his mouth to hers. She’d been overwhelmed with arousal and thought that was a little weird for a simple make out session, and as Pete started peeling clothes off her body, all sorts of little pieces kept neglecting to fall into place: Why were they there? How did they get there? Where in the world was “there”? By the time her eyes fell on a door that lacked a knob and something within her snapped in sudden comprehension, it was way too late; Pete just smiled a smile that wasn’t his and continued to kiss her as she beat her fists against his chest, drove a knee into his gut. He turned her onto her stomach, pinned her to the bed with impossible strength, and all she could do was inhale sharply as he took her from behind. She could still feel the warmth of the sunlight streaming into the room through lacy curtains, could still hear a dog barking somewhere outside, could still experience the building pressure as Not Pete thrust into her over and over again. It should never have felt as good as it did, but it was as if every fantasy Sam had ever had was piled onto that moment and she squirmed at the memory of that avalanche of sensations, so completely overpowering that she could only bury her face in the bed’s comforter and think about anything to hold herself together. She heard the words, “You’re beautiful,” as her body betrayed her. The second time was worse: it was Daniel and Teal’c, at the same time, and she didn’t know how she was going to look them in the eye when (if) she managed to get out of here. She wanted so desperately to believe it was them, that they’d finally come to bring her home, but their eyes were wrong and their smiles were too manufactured and they didn’t stop when she asked them to. They didn’t stop, and she’d had to hold back tears as they held her down and showered her with kisses lacking affection. The taste of salt from Daniel’s hand covering her mouth was still on her tongue and she didn’t understand how Fifth could just take these precious memories of her friends, her family, and twist them into nightmares of beasts who didn’t listen to “no” and “please” and “stop”. Of course, he made her enjoy it again, having found all her little private daydreams about the possibilities of jumping into bed with either of them, what they might do to her, what it might feel like. He found it all and amplified their voices whispering in her ear, their hands on her skin, and he forced her to ride wave after wave of mind-blowing pleasure as that thing wearing Teal’c’s face fucked her into oblivion. She remembered thinking there was nothing she could experience after this that could make her insides churn with more shame. Clearly, she spoke too soon. Every nerve ending in her body was on fire now. Fifth had already turned her into a writhing, trembling mess, and she thought bitterly that it must have been some sort of record. She was aching, sweating, pulsing with the need for release, and every breath she took shuddered in her lungs. “Is it fun for you, seeing this?” she managed to choke out. She was alone in the room, but she felt Fifth all around her, as always. Always looking, always watching. Sam glared at the ceiling. “How many more times are you going to have to see this before you’re satisfied?” There was no answer. She laughed mirthlessly. “Not this time,” she said, lips twisting into a wicked smile. “I’ll kill myself, do you hear me?” She drew in a huge breath, expelling it and her words in a hailstorm of pure rage. “I’d rather be dead than let you do this to me for the rest of my life!” She still felt nothing from him and wondered if he even took her seriously. He was a fool to test her on this. He should damn well know by now just how much she wasn’t kidding. “I’ll find a way to do it,” she muttered. “You’ll never keep me here forever.” With that, she shut her eyes, took a breath, and smashed the back of her head into the wall. It stung, but not enough, so she did it again. At the very least, she hoped to knock herself out of this atrocious illusion, because there was no way, no way in heaven or hell or anywhere else that she was going to come for him again. She bashed her skull in until black spots danced on the edge of her vision, and she was grateful to see them. She felt the room start to melt away under her relentless assault, thought, Thank God, and prepared herself for the final blow that would launch her into blissful unconsciousness. She threw her head back. She sighed with relief. Her head was stopped by something soft. NO. She screamed it at Fifth, wherever he was, and when she opened her eyes- When she opened her eyes, she froze. Her breath caught in her throat and she stared, just stared, as her heart squeezed within her chest and the color drained from her face. “Jesus, Carter. What the hell are you doing?” Her thoughts ground to a halt. His hand was so warm against the back of her head, so impossibly gentle, and his eyes shone with concern. “Sir.” It slipped out of her mouth before she could even think to swallow it. “I’m here, Carter.” He looked so real. He sounded so real. She wanted him to be real. “You… you’re in Antarctica,” she said, her brain finally catching up with her. “You’re in stasis.” Jack (she was too exhausted to think of him as anything else) shook his head. “Not anymore. I’m out, I’m safe.” He smiled at her, and it was so genuine and so him that her chest ached. “You guys really saved my ass.” Her vision tunneled around him while her pulse raced beneath her skin. She thought absently that this was easy, way too easy, but here was Jack just standing in front of her like he hadn’t ever gone into stasis at all. And if anyone could free her from this purgatory… “I missed you,” she blurted. Some distant part of her felt as if she’d suddenly displaced an entire half of her mind and was just wandering around now, trying to figure out where it went. He smiled again, and a mountain of tension lifted from her shoulders. If this was too good to be true, she wasn’t sure if she cared. But that rational voice in the back of her head, the one that flat-out screamed at her now, wouldn’t let up. She winced slightly, shaking her head as if to clear it. “What’s the matter?” Jack asked her, gingerly cupping her face in his hands. They were still warm, but in those first few seconds of contact, they felt unbelievably cold. She looked at him again, really looked at him. His eyes were brown, just like they should be. He wore a uniform, a green one, the same one he’d been wearing when they left him behind. Everything was normal. He was normal. Wasn’t he? “How…” she began, licking her lips as she struggled to put her thoughts back in order. She swallowed, and her throat was dry. “How did you get out?” “Of stasis?” Jack looked at her like she’d just asked him the sum of two plus two. Somehow, his smile wasn’t carrying that same warmth. “You and Daniel and Teal’c came to get me. We were coming back home when that son of a bitch took you.” His eyes hardened for a moment, his back straightened just a bit, and he looked about as guilty as she’d ever seen him. “I’m sorry we didn’t get here sooner, Carter.” She lost a bit of her focus, vision blurring as her eyes fell on his dog tags. There was an answer here. It was right within her reach. All she had to do was grab it. We were coming to get you, she thought. We… Daniel wasn’t even there, it was just me and Teal’c, and… Something almost tangible clicked within her, and it was then that she closed her eyes, letting her head drop. “Carter?” “Don’t,” she muttered. “Don’t play with me like this.” Sam’s whole body tensed while her stomach twisted itself into aching knots. It was almost laughable to think that she’d even for a moment let herself be drawn in by this, lured by a Jack who touched her face and said all the right things and yet failed to give a shit that she was hanging stark naked from a wall right in front of him. There was one reason and one reason only why he was here. And it wasn’t to bring her home. “You’re not real,” she said, raising her head and meeting Jack’s gaze defiantly. “Nice try, Fifth.” Something flashed across his face, something she couldn’t decipher. His smile wavered and Sam went stiff, the weight of what she’d just done catching up with her. He never reacted well to being caught in the act. For a moment, it seemed as if he was going to say something, but he didn’t. His hand drifted up and he placed one finger against the hollow of her throat, suddenly making her very aware of the way her pulse hammered beneath his touch. She swallowed hard, willing herself to keep her eyes on him, as he seemed very intent to keep his eyes on her. She felt him slowly sliding his finger down, hovering around her sternum before finishing its descent. He left a line of tingling flesh down her chest and his finger looped around to skim along the curve of her breast, making her shiver. Around and around he went, taking his time working his way toward her nipple, which was well on its way toward hardening. She couldn’t stop her breath from catching slightly when he finally reached it, and he traced circles around it with agonizing slowness. This was going to happen. Holy shit, this was really going to happen. Sam managed to take a breath. “Do whatever you want,” she said, her eyes still focused on him, her voice hard. “You’ll never break me.” Jack’s finger stilled. “Who said I’m trying to break you?” he quietly asked. His thumb shot up to join his finger and he pinched her, hard. That got a gasp out of her, and a smirk out of him. She was shaking now, despite her mental insistence to herself not to let him see her fear. Her breathing was hard and she was warm, way too warm. Jack leaned in closer to her. She turned away and shut her eyes. “Fifth, please,” she said, trying to ignore Jack’s fingers pulling both nipples now. “Stop, just stop.” “There's a part of you that wants this.” Jack’s voice rumbled way too close to her body. “Otherwise I wouldn't be here.” “No.” She shook her head deliberately. “I let him go.” Jack’s breath puffed hot against her neck. “Did you?” That was the last thing he said before his hand gripped her jaw, lightly at first, then harder as she resisted him. She kept her eyes closed as he forced her to face him and kissed her, tongue darting into her mouth like a snake. It sent a shot of heat straight through her chest and down to her core, and she tried, desperately, to even out her breathing and tried not to think about his hands on her breasts, squeezing them, rolling them- Holy shit. She’d had this fantasy before. Not shackled to a wall and fondled mercilessly, but certainly shoved up against one with Jack’s entire body holding her firmly in place, and she egged him on with a wicked smile as his hand slipped into her pants with delicious ease. Eight years of sexual tension did that to a person’s fantasies, she discovered. It was hard and it was fast and it was one of the best wet dreams she’d ever had. This was going to be slow. Very, very slow. Not to mention absolutely mortifying. She repeated to herself over and over that It’s not really him, it’s not really him, but that didn’t matter when it felt like him, sounded like him, tasted like him, smelled like him. Everything she’d ever known and imagined about Jack O’Neill was right here, right in front of her. His hands were doing everything flawlessly, fingers dancing across her skin in all the right ways and in all the right places. It was too perfect. It was sick. She had no idea what Fifth wanted anymore. If this wasn’t designed to break her, she didn’t know what was. This was a manipulation so deliberate and an invasion so complete, unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Worse than Jolinar, worse than the entity, the sheer power of this horrible violation of her entire self was tearing her apart. He didn’t have the right to make it feel like this. Her blood ran cold at the thought that Fifth could do this to her forever, that he probably had every intention of doing this to her forever. Was this the fate to which she’d be damned for one mistake, one promise she never should have made? She swallowed around the painful lump of tears firmly lodged within her throat. “I truly wanted to help you,” she whispered. “You have to know that. I really-” Her eyes flew open as Jack tightened his grip on her breast and his other hand- oh God, his other hand. It slid along her stomach, traveling south at an excruciatingly slow pace, and she shouldn’t have looked, but she did look just in time to see his hand envelop her, fingers hovering dangerously above her folds. Jack’s eyes were unreadable, but a small smirk still tugged at his lips. She bit back a wealth of noises as he methodically slid a finger inside her, and she impulsively tightened around him. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his finger curling upward, and she jerked as he hit the right spot with frightening ease, rubbing it, teasing it. His lips left soft kisses against her skin with each stroke, and she started to shake for entirely different reasons. Her eyes widened as another finger fought for entrance. When it finally slipped inside, a small, high-pitched grunt escaped her. This was insane; how could she be this far gone already? Her body practically wept for him to finish the job. Her nipples were nothing more than hard points sticking out of her chest, and the depth of her ache was unfathomable. Jack’s fingers started moving back and forth, easing in and out of her slowly, then faster, ratcheting up his pace in unbearable increments until she could only shudder once, uncontrollably, from head to toe. “Sam,” he murmured against her ear in a voice so scorchingly low it threatened to catapult her over the edge right then and there. She managed some sort of incoherent utterance in response. His thumb found her clit and rubbed in tight circles, and she gasped for breath against the torrent of arousal churning within her. She moved on instinct: hips pushing back against the wall, legs shaking as they crushed themselves against their restraints, every part of her trying to get away when there was nowhere to go. Her body had never been so stimulated, so utterly desperate to find release, and her frantic mental repetition of every law of physics she’d ever memorized wasn’t going to hold this off any longer. Her head fell back as her muscles trembled and tightened against her will. Her climax still managed to take her by surprise, and she bucked off the wall, back arched and body shuddering as stars pounded the inside of her eyelids. A ragged, helpless cry left her throat as waves of intense pleasure carried her up and up and up, so high she thought she’d crack under the weight of it, and then sent her plummeting to the drowning depths of powerful aftershocks. She finally slumped against the restraints after what felt like hours, panting and twitching as aftershocks continued to hit her. Heat fizzled under her skin as she tried to blink away the blurred fog in front of her eyes. So much for not coming again. When her vision finally sharpened, she saw Jack off to the side, fiddling with his belt. “No,” Sam said, her voice scratching the inside of her throat. Jack didn’t seem to hear her, or didn’t care. He tossed the belt open, kicked his boots off, and Sam turned away as soon as he stepped out of his pants. It was easy to see where this was going. She didn’t need to watch it. The telltale clink of his dog tags reached her ears before they hovered in front of her face, swinging before her eyes like some sort of hypnotist’s pendulum. Jack tossed them aside without a word, and she watched as they skittered across the floor. Her eyes stayed glued to them even when they stopped moving. “Now we’ve got nothing to worry about,” Jack said before he moved in again, hands on her hips, mouth sucking at her neck, the hair on his chest brushing against her breasts. Her head snapped around to look at him, revulsion spiking in her stomach. No more. She could not, would not take any more of this. “Don’t touch me,” she growled, jerking back against the wall until she could feel the lines and grooves of Replicator blocks jamming into her skin. “Don’t touch me!” Her demand remained unheeded. Jack’s hands slid around to cup her buttocks while he bent to nip at her collarbone. She was dizzy. Dizzy from panic that could no longer be reeled in, dizzy from the exhaustion that threatened to overtake her, and dizzy from the smell of him, so much stronger now and shooting up through her nostrils until her brain swirled with nothing but him. “Relax, Carter.” She wanted to snap back that it was impossible to relax with his rock hard dick pressed up against her, but the words wouldn’t come. Rage built within her chest, red-hot and searing, and her short breaths burned in her lungs. She was hanging on by her fingernails. “Get the hell away from me!” It burst out of her with a power that surprised her, and Jack froze. Sam couldn’t hear anything except the sound of air rushing into her mouth and blood pounding in her ears. There was something tickling the side of her face, and she blinked and realized they were tears, spilling from her eyes in hot cascades. Jack pulled back slightly, his face ashen. He looked so thrown; hurt, even, and his hand reached for her face. He stopped the moment she flinched. She watched him, still inhaling half-adequate breaths and struggling to stay alert as his expression grew serious. His brow furrowed with- was it anger? Worry? She was seconds away from passing out completely; she could barely tell up from down. Sam felt her restraints release, blood instantly flowing back into her numb limbs as she fell, and then Jack was all around her as everything went black. --- She was looking at him through candlelight. “See?” he said between bites of steak. “Told you we didn’t need to go anywhere fancy.” She glanced down at herself and found a dress, sleek and blue and long, with a slit that was way too high and a neckline that was way too low. Nice to know exactly what he thought of her. Jack smiled at her adoringly (adoringly?) from across the table, and she decided to humor him, just this once. She gazed at the plate in front of her, picked up the fork and the knife and cut herself a small piece of steak. It was dry and chewy with an aftertaste like copper. “Good?” he asked her, still smiling. She was way too tired for this shit. A glass of wine stood beside the plate, and without another thought, she snatched it up and threw its contents into his face. As she watched the red liquid drip off his chin, her head exploded with pain, but she thought that it was worth it. --- She caught the scent of wood smoke. A chair creaked under her as she shifted, and when she opened her eyes, she saw water. Blue sky. Sunshine. A lake surrounded by green trees. It was exactly as picturesque as she always imagined it. She let her head rest against the back of the chair while her heart sank to the pit of her stomach. “Hey.” She could hear his smile. “Nice nap?” She registered an odd weight in her hands and looked down to see a fishing rod, and something else. Something on her finger, glinting in the sunlight. Oh, this was low. Jack started to say something else, but she was already pushing herself out of the chair and tossing the rod down onto the dock, taking grim satisfaction in the sound of it clattering against the wood. She then tore the ring off her finger and flung it as far away from her as it would possibly go. It hit the far edge of the lake with a small splash. Before she blacked out again, she caught a glimpse of Jack’s face, red and twisted with fury. --- Her head was killing her. Her mind was a mess. She could feel him screwing around with it in ways he previously hadn’t: fingering the frayed edges of her memories and thoughts, pulling them out like little threads, smoothing them over, and shoving them into places they didn’t belong until she was just barely lucid. She was either going to throw up or die, or both at the same time. He put her inside her vision of the cabin this time, locked her in there, and she grabbed the heaviest lamp she could find and started ramming it into everything that would break. When it suddenly collapsed in her hands into a cascade of tiny metal fragments, she picked up a chair instead, cracked off a leg and swung it like a bat into the panes of every cabinet she saw, every picture frame, some sort of display case. She relished the sound of glass crunching beneath her boots and let out a crazed laugh. She found a closed, fogged-up window in the middle of her rampage and railed on it with her makeshift weapon, not surprised that the hits glanced off it like it was rubber and absolutely furious that it refused to shatter. How long she stood there beating it, she had no idea, but she eventually felt resistance as she tried to swing again. Heavy, powerful resistance. She whirled around to find Fifth standing there, holding the chair leg with one hand, his grip like iron. She wasn’t sure whether she should soak in the triumph that she actually got him to show himself or if she should respond to the stone cold terror freezing her in place. Opting for a cross between the two, she dropped the leg and backed away from him, pressing herself as much as she could into the window. Fifth threw the chair leg down with such force that the broken end lodged itself into the floor like a knife. Sam stared at it and half-stumbled to the side on shaking limbs, but Fifth immediately moved to block her from escaping. This is it, she thought. He’ll kill me right here. He moved closer to her, hand poised and ready to invade her once more and all she could do was stand there and try not to beg for mercy, again. If she was going to die, then she’d die with some shred of dignity. Just before his fingers shoved into her forehead, she caught a glimpse of something on his face, a flicker of fear in his eyes. Like he was scared out of his damn mechanical mind. Taste of your own fucking medicine, she thought as the entire world crashed down upon her. --- “Jack.” She needed him. Craved him. Loved him. And with the way he was kissing her, it was pretty obvious he felt exactly the same way about her. It was still new to them, this whole relationship thing. Little foals walking around on unsteady legs, that’s what they were, but – and she noted this gratefully – at least they were walking. They didn’t go to all the effort to defeat the Goa’uld and eradicate the Replicators for nothing. They’d earned this. She still had to remind herself sometimes that it was okay to enjoy it. It was also okay to enjoy the places his hands were going. It was definitely okay to enjoy that. She leaned against the headboard, sort of, and his arms encircled her back while hers wrapped around his neck, and it was just… nice. It was nice to be held by him, she’d discovered, to just let go and be enveloped by him, by the safety and warmth and comfort his arms provided. It was how she always thought he would be. She ran her nails up his back, slowly and lightly, just enough to get him to groan into her shoulder. It made her laugh and it warmed her, this simple idea that her nails on his skin could get him to react like that. There was a subtle shift toward urgency in his kisses, and his hands pressed a little harder and it was all extremely welcome. Sam responded in kind, bringing his mouth to hers with her hand on the back of his neck, her teeth tugging just a little longer at his bottom lip, legs moving and hips shifting so she could find him and rub against him. His breath caught and she laughed again, soft and low. “Lie down,” he whispered in her ear. She hummed teasingly. “And what if I don’t?” He let his forehead rest against hers, giving her a clear view of the smirk on his lips. “Trust me,” he said. “You’re gonna want to lie down.” He backed off, giving her room to comply, and she did, trying not to grin too eagerly. She was already burning for him, and it would only get better now. Or worse, depending on how one chose to look at it. And she chose better, every time. She settled down onto her back, her head resting on the pillows and she waited, taking a little time to appreciate the view of Jack’s body and watching the way his eyes roamed over hers. It was almost juvenile, the way they leered at each other sometimes, but it did tend to do an excellent job of fanning the flames. He moved back in, rather gracefully under the circumstances, and it didn’t take long for him to be all over her. Her eyelids fluttered shut as his mouth found one breast and his hand found the other and how did he even do that? How could he concentrate enough to do what he was doing with his hand at the exact same time his tongue ran in deliberate circles around her nipple? He began to suck, drawing her even further into his mouth and she exhaled a soft moan, encouraging him with her fingers in his hair, massaging his scalp. She felt the tickling vibration of him voicing his appreciation against her skin and almost shivered. His hands drifted to her thighs, holding them still as he worked his way down. His lips were everywhere and his tongue left hot, wet trails that cooled rapidly and did make her shiver. She wanted badly to spread her legs right now, no more waiting, but his grip was firm and she couldn’t move. She wasn’t going anywhere unless he wanted her to. She felt a rush at the thought and her breathing quickened. He didn’t completely open her knees right away and it drove her crazy, the way he moved so slowly, lips brushing the insides of her thighs until her hands dropped to the sheets and she squeezed a fist in them. She could feel his breaths, wispy against her charged, sensitive skin, and it was almost torturous, having him be so close and yet so very, very far. Then, finally, he was there, hands on her thighs instead of his mouth, and he spread her wide and held her there as he buried his face between her legs. She moaned aloud at the contact, urging her hips forward to meet him. His tongue slid teasingly around her entrance, going everywhere but inside and she breathed out his name, begging him to continue with just that sound. And he did, the tip of his tongue flicking her clit before dipping back down, worming its way in until she could barely see straight. He worked ten kinds of magic and it was almost unreal, the way he just knew exactly where to go, how fast to lick, how hard to suck. Her hips arched further and she moaned again. God, she was getting close. Just a bit more and she’d be ready, so ready to- Suddenly he was gone, and a small sound of surprise slipped out of her at the rush of cool air against wet heat. She wanted to return the favor but he was already up and positioning himself and her heart pounded in her chest watching him move above her. She thought fleetingly that she wanted him around her again, and then there he was, leaning down until his body covered hers. He certainly didn’t need to ask if she was ready, what with her huffing against his ear in short, anticipatory breaths, and she forced her legs even farther apart as he finally slid inside her. Her head spun. He filled her perfectly, every part of him throbbing into every crease and fold of her. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she clung to him, riding his deep, full thrusts. She started bringing her hips down to match his movements, easing them into a rhythm that sent her scrambling for control and oxygen. Lost in a haze of utter bliss and the sound of her own satisfied moans, she could barely hear him grunting against her ear, could barely her name tumbling out of his mouth. An intense shudder worked itself down the entire length of her body, and she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer and closer until she could feel his heartbeat through her chest. “Jack, I need,” she began, a breathless plea. She felt the warmth building, felt her defenses buckling, and he held her tighter, pumped harder. The back of her hand hit the bed with a thump, and she immediately felt his fingers tangle with hers and squeeze. She squeezed in return as they raced toward release. She came hard, muscles clenching and releasing and clenching again, sounds bursting from her throat in fragments. She felt the back of her head hit the pillows, felt Jack bury himself completely, hips quivering against her as he muttered, “God, Sam,” and then let go. Eventually, she felt him softening and exhaled, peaceful and content. He pulled out slowly, melting into the bed next to her before he spooned up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzled his face into her neck and breathed out, the air tickling her skin. She laughed quietly and found one of his hands, let her thumb rub lightly against the back of it. “That help?” he murmured. “With what?” She blinked sleepily. He paused. “Stress,” he finally said. “Sure,” she replied. She felt like she’d missed part of a conversation somewhere. “Good,” he said, and held her tighter. She was so close to sleep, and her muscles felt more relaxed than they had in a long time. “I feel like I’m forgetting something,” she said suddenly, not entirely sure of where it came from. He shifted behind her, “hmm”ed a reply. She kept her eyes closed, but the more she came down from the post-coital high, the more she felt as if she was failing to remember something vitally important. She felt a brief pang of annoyance; whatever it was, she didn’t see why it had to ruin this moment. She adjusted herself before letting out another small sigh. It popped into her head after a few minutes, and she muttered, “Oh,” as her eyes opened in the darkness. “I remembered.” Jack said nothing. His breathing was heavier, like he’d already fallen asleep. “Remind me to call Janet tomorrow,” Sam continued, figuring she was saying it more to herself than to him now. It was odd, somehow, to be thinking of Janet. To be saying her name. She frowned, frustration gnawing at her. She was really forgetting something. “Your hands are freezing,” she said to Jack. “Do you know that?” She heard nothing from him. She really couldn’t remember why she needed to call Janet. And then, out of nowhere, she tasted metal at the back of her throat, around her teeth, on her tongue, and it all hit her in a terrifying, horrible rush. She stiffened, eyes wide and mind reeling with what just happened here. With what she’d just done. She turned around slowly, searching for Jack’s eyes in the dark, trying to cling to the possibility that this could be real for one more second- She couldn’t find his eyes because he no longer had a face. She didn’t hear herself scream, but she felt the sound rip from her lungs just the same. --- He was touching her again. Always touching. Always looking. Always watching. The floor chilled underneath her. She suppressed a shudder and focused on the ceiling, a wall of Replicator blocks and nothing else. She hurt everywhere, and yet, she was so numb. “How do you feel?” Fifth asked her. She could see him smiling out of the corner of her eye. He was stroking her hair, the side of her face. Patterned, mechanical motions that she supposed were meant to emulate tenderness. Why was he even asking? He already knew everything anyway. She’d been cut up, laid out and exposed until there was nothing left. A living autopsy. “I regret that I had to hurt you,” he said, and looked away. His hand stilled. “But I had to make you understand.” He turned back to her, an eager smile on his lips, which was all too familiar by now. “And I think you do.” He resumed stroking her hair. Even if she wanted to say something, she wasn’t sure any words would come. Her mouth was dry, her throat felt sore. “You don’t need to go anywhere,” Fifth continued. “You don’t ever have to feel pain again. All you have to do is stay with me.” Sam blinked once. It was the only kind of flinch she could muster. “You know now that I can give you everything you want. Everything you need.” He leaned in a little closer. “I know you, Samantha.” He’d never said her name before. It sent a new kind of chill down her spine, even after everything else he’d done to her. “You think those men know you, but none of them can ever know you like I do. None of them can ever love you like I do.” She wanted out. Out of here, away from him, for the rest of her life. “None of them can ever please you like I can.” Somebody, please, just get me out. He bent over her, holding her face in his hands. They were ice cold against her face. “Stay with me,” he repeated. She tried to keep her vision defocused as his eyes bore into her. Sam kept herself still, saying nothing, hopefully betraying nothing, least of all not the ways she wanted to scream and keep screaming until she passed out. She wondered briefly how she was ever supposed to go home and be normal after this. Assuming she was ever rescued. She had no idea how long Fifth stared at her like some sort of newly purchased piece of art, but eventually, his gaze softened and he leaned back. He let go of her face and returned again to caressing her cheek. “Of course. You’re exhausted after all that. I admit the limitations of the human body are still unfamiliar, in some ways. But that’s all right.” His smile widened. There was something in his eyes, something she really didn’t want to know about. “We have plenty of time for me to learn the limits of your endurance.” Oh, God. “You can rest,” he said. “I will continue to gather more neutronium. Then we will talk.” We will talk. I had to make you understand. All you have to do is stay with me. Before she realized what she was doing, her arm shot up, slapping his hand away from her. She looked right at him, glaring hard with every ounce of strength she had left. Never. She’d never surrender to him. She’d fight him for the rest of her miserable life if she had to. The realization sank in slowly on Fifth’s face, and he then went from shock to despair to white-hot anger in seconds. He shot to his feet, and everything started spinning. The pain was unbelievable, and Sam heard her voice, strangled and anguished and barely sounding anything like her own. His hand tore out of her like a knife and her body crumpled, back slamming against the floor as sharp, vicious agony roared through her brain. Her hands flew to her forehead and she curled into a shivering ball right in the middle of the dark, frigid room. Fifth’s footsteps echoed against the floor. She heard the slurp of him absorbing himself back into a wall, leaving her alone with nothing but the fresh pain in her head and the dull ache between her legs.

Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard couldn't argue with the convenience of having an intergalactic gate bridge to connect Pegasus and the Milky Way. It meant never running out of critical supplies like popcorn and toilet paper. He could have done without the "convenience" of delivering his status reports in person, however. It was too easy for the SGC to yank him home on whim to make him squirm while they picked apart his mission reports and his command decisions; and yes, he'd approved that requisition for 5000 LED lights knowing full well that the scientists were installing a disco floor down on sub-level three. Community activities were good for morale. He was waiting in an unused office for his latest bitch-out session to commence when Colonel Mitchell of SG-1 blazed past the door. Recognizing John, he slammed on the brakes and pulled a one-eighty. "Hey, Sheppard, you gotta see this." "I don't know. If this is anything like that non-lethal immobilizing weapon you demonstrated for me last time..." A randomly-acquired piece of alien tech, the weapon shot huge gobs of a viscous, mucous-like material that was admittedly effective at incapacitating a target. Mitchell grinned. "You mean the spunk-gun? Oh, man, that thing is gross." And by gross it sounded like he meant totally awesome. "No, nothing like that. Look." He pulled a bundle out from under his arm and unfurled it. "It's Jackson's field coat. Check it out, what do you think?" Someone -- okay, John probably knew who -- had emblazoned a giant, scarlet letter A on a piece of copier paper and taped it to the back of the coat. "Um," he said, entirely unsure what to think. "Get it? You know, like the book." When John's expression remained blank, Mitchell complained, "Geeze man, I thought you were into reading hardcore. Like Russian novels and shit." "Yes, I've read the book -- and by the way, the letter's supposed to go on the front -- but without context I'm afraid it's just not... funny." Colonel Carter must have heard their voices, because she poked her head into the office. "Colonel, I wanted to ask you about- Oh, you didn't. Is that Daniel's coat?" She stepped inside to admire Mitchell's handiwork. "Think he'll get it?" "Of course he will." "I dunno, Sheppard didn't," Mitchell groused, like John was some sort of philistine. Carter began to explain, "The capital letter A is the symbol of an adulterer. See, in Nathaniel Hawthorne's book-" "I've read the damned book! But there's one little flaw in your plan. In order for your prank to make sense, Jackson would have to be married." Mitchell and Carter blinked at each other. "He is." "To the rest of SG-1." No, no, he had to have heard them wrong. "Well, technically," Carter admitted, "it didn't happen all at once. I think Daniel ended up married to General O'Neill twice before he was ever married to me." "But then there was that group thing on P3X-823..." "Oh yeah, that was great." Teal'c had somehow discovered their little gathering. He smoothly entered the fray. "Indeed it was. I particularly enjoyed the cleansing ritual we were encouraged to participate in the following morning." "Look what I made for Daniel," Mitchell showed off his handiwork once more. "He was offworld with SG-5, investigating some ruins they'd found, and they met up with the locals. That two-timing hussy got them invited to some kind of spring equinox fertility celebration thing, and bam!" John wasn't sure what the bam was supposed to represent, because his team had been caught in more than one spring equinox fertility celebration thing, and nothing exciting had ever come of it. Quite the opposite -- the chanting and endless prayers usually put him to sleep. "Maybe he just spectated." "Oh no, I hear he participated. The whole nine yards -- funny smoke, public nudity, inappropriate touching..." "What? So it was like some alien Burning Man thing?" Damn. John wasn't familiar with SG-5, but Jackson totally didn't seem the type to get dragged into something like that. Carter mourned, "I know, can you believe he'd go and do something like that without us?" "Whoa, now hold on-" Mitchell slapped John on the shoulder, hard. "C'mon, you don't have to pretend here, Sheppard. We know you get into some pretty crazy shit out in Pegasus." There might have been a touch of envy in his voice. John protested, "We don't-" Teal'c did that one eyebrow thing at him. "We have all read your mission reports, Colonel Sheppard," he said knowingly. Yeah, so? John was absolutely certain there wasn't any funny stuff in the reports. After all, he'd written them himself. Mostly they ran along the lines of: Made contact with locals, managed to avoid being shot at for once, watched Teyla negotiate to trade medical supplies for root vegetables, came home. But even Carter was watching him expectantly, waiting for him to spill the steamy details. They must have thought John's blank expression was some sort of clever ruse. Mitchell leaned in close and wheedled, "You can tell us... Let's go, off the record. What's the craziest shit you've done offworld?" It was probably a toss-up between rescuing bar patrons from Ronon in a drunken brawl, or rescuing McKay from the jealous husband of the buxom blonde he'd tried to hit on. But a minor altercation wasn't going to win a pissing contest with SG-1, so John said airily, "Well, there was that orgy on M4R-984..." Mitchell snorted. "What, that's it? No, I'm talking the really weird shit." No fucking way. He had to be joking, right? There was no way SG-1 could believe that John's missions routinely included wacky sexual hijinks with the locals. Could they? Why would they? Unless... they were basing their expectations on their own offworld experiences? But that would mean... "You know," Carter said, "Daniel has a theory that the Pegasus galaxy is a lot more uninhibited than the Milky Way." "The Goa'uld have dominated much of this galaxy, imposing their own mores and traditions," Teal'c explained. "Yeah, while Pegasus remained wild," Mitchell leered. "Constantly living under the fear of being wiped out by the Wraith. Might as well embrace every day as if it was your last day alive. And party accordingly." "Daniel's going to be crushed if you disprove his theory," Carter said encouragingly. "Just a hint?" Stunned, John shook his head. Three pairs of eyes were on him, speculating. "Virginal sacrifices?" "What?! No! There's no way I could stand by and let something like that happen!" "Neither could we," Mitchell assured in a hurry. "And let me tell you, those virgins were very grateful for the rescue. Very grateful, if you catch my meaning." Oh, John was afraid he did. "Gender change? Body swapping?" "Ritualistic piercing? Bukkake fest?" Turning red under the scrutiny -- and dear god, but where had Teal'c even learned that word? -- John finally mumbled, "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," and hastily excused himself from the room. ~~~~~ The worst part was, after they'd put the idea in his head, John couldn't let it go, even after he'd gated back home to Atlantis. It was the first thing that sprang to his mind when Stackhouse's team returned from a supposedly routine trading mission with suspicious limps and mellow -- sated? -- expressions. He thought about it while overlooking the plans for Atlantis' latest research outpost, the one on the planet he'd heard the sociologists describe as "like Rio, but friendlier and with less clothing". The irony of it all hit him when Team Sheppard managed to save their own sacrificial victim from a group of wraith worshippers. And oh sure, they guy was grateful for the rescue -- as in, he reminded John a bit too much of Jerry Garcia. But the final straw came when he was reading over Lorne's latest mission report. John usually neglected those for as long as possible, but he'd heard... rumors, mostly. Just those little pokes and gibes the boys would give each other in the locker room after a particularly tiresome or embarrassing mission. Typically accompanied by a good, swift, manly slap on the ass. So, curious as to what had sparked the aforementioned displays of camaraderie, he began perusing the report the second Lorne set it on his desk. His eyes caught the words "initiation rite" and suddenly a few things clicked into place, including the way Lorne was trying to edge for the door. "Hold on, major," he said. "Don't leave just yet. I may have a few questions for you when I'm finished perusing this." "Yes sir," Lorne agreed, creeping back over to John's desk like a condemned man approaching the gallows. John pointed to the relevant spot on the page. "This... initiation rite..." And sure enough, his XO flinched. "What exactly did it entail?" "Oh, you know. The usual, sir," Lorne tried hopefully. "Let's pretend for a moment that I don't. What is 'the usual'?" Lorne cleared his throat gently, while the tips of his ears turned pink. "We were, er, made honorary members of the local village." Was that all? John rolled his eyes. "And I suppose it involved festivities, maybe some mild inebriation...?" "Oh yes, of course," Lorne admitted easily enough. "The, er, interesting part was finding out that it's customary among the villagers to share everything with each other." "Everything? As in...?" "Everything. Sir." Lorne shuffled in place and looked like he desperately wished to be elsewhere. "Sounds very, uh..." No, charming wasn't the word he wanted. Quaint? "Communal?" Lorne suggested. Yes. That. "Major, judging by the gentle wording of this mission report, am I to assume that you've turned in other reports with similar omissions?" Lorne suddenly remembered his backbone. "They aren't omissions, sir. I believe General O'Neill at the SGC referred to it as the strategic deployment of euphemism. Sir." Oh he did, did he? "So you're telling me that all the gate teams do it?" Lorne gave John an expression that stated clearly, Duh. Don't you? "It was determined early on that it would be... expedient to exclude the mention of certain... activities from the official reports. It's not an official recommendation by any means, more of a... precaution for when the Stargate Program is declassified." Prior to coming to Atlantis, Lorne had been in a gate team, at the SGC. It was unsurprising that he'd received the unofficial memo; John was just miffed that no one had ever pulled the military commander of Atlantis aside and handed him a clue. "So when you mention here that you 'sampled the local goods'..." "More like the other way around. It was sort of like being the village bicycle, sir. Everyone wanted a ride." The way he said it didn't make it sound like a bad thing. "And that 'team building exercise' on M4R-375?" "Group marriage ceremony." "A first for you guys?" John asked, his voice going a little high and tight. "No sir. Third. Oh hey, that reminds me, our anniversary is coming up soon. I should do something nice for the team." Third? How in the hell had Lorne's team managed to get hitched offworld three times, when it hadn't happened to John's team even once? "Yeah, you... you do that. So what about the 'cleansing ritual' on M5R-179?" Lorne sort of shrugged. "Whatever was in that smoke was really strong. I remember stripping out of my uniform, and not much after that." "And everyone does this?" "Sir, I've read your mission reports too," Lorne bit down on a grin. "Yes, well..." John couldn't possibly admit that the last "cleansing ritual" his team had encountered had involved some type of diuretic, and dear god, it was so unfair. He'd been pissing his brains out, while Lorne had been gallivanting around, naked and high as a kite. "I suppose... that'll be all, major. Dismissed." "Yes sir." So monumentally unfair. And the group sex thing? What the hell? Mitchell had made it sound like that sort of thing happened to SG-1 all the time. Okay, SG-1 was collectively smoking hot, but John's team wasn't exactly homely in comparison. Hell, they had Teyla and Ronon to balance out McKay! (Besides, John would so tap Rodney's ass over Daniel Jackson's any day of the week, hands down.) But that still didn't explain Lorne's team. Lorne had Parrish dragging their hotness average down! So how come they were getting the come-hither looks from the nubile farmers' daughters (and sons?), while John's team got to barter for damned tava beans with the village high council, who looked like the Pegasus version of ZZ Top, and smelled of unwashed goat? There had to be some sort of galactic conspiracy at play, and John was determined to unravel it. ~~~~~ He didn't find an opportunity to broach the subject with his team until they were already on their next mission. It was another meet and greet; Teyla didn't know anything about the locals, but the information in the Ancient database was promising... (All right, ten thousand years out of date, too, but John preferred to dwell on the positive.) The settlement wasn't far from the gate, and John had chosen to go low-key this time and hoof it in. That normally would have provided Rodney plenty of time to complain, but John preempted him by asking, "So, does any of this seem unfair to you guys?" "Does what seem unfair?" Teyla frowned. "If you're referring to the fact that you're making us walk when we could have flown in comfort, then yes." "No, no, not that. This whole... thing we do." "Seek out new allies against the Wraith?" Teyla asked. "Get shot at," Rodney grumbled. "Complain," Ronon offered, throwing a smirk in Rodney's direction. "Well yes, that too." John tried a different approach. "Okay, how about this? Let's pretend, for a minute, that the village we're about to visit turns out to be friendly and accommodating-" "Oh, like that's ever happened before." John kicked a clod of dirt in Rodney's direction. "I said pretend. So imagine that this village gives us the warmest, most hospitable welcome we could hope for. What, in your opinion, would that entail?" Of the three, Teyla seemed to be the only one giving his question real thought. Ronon mostly looked perplexed, while Rodney huffed, "That's easy. A banquet thrown in our honor, staffed by hot, topless blondes -- oh, and the centerpiece on the table would be made from like a dozen fully-charged ZPMs." "Is that all?" John drawled. "No. Free beer," Ronon suggested. "Why stop there?" Rodney told him. "Unlimited free beer." "Yeah. That." Okay, so maybe McKay was partially on the right track with the topless comment. "I believe this is a good exercise," Telya said finally, in that tone of voice she used when she was imparting advice to idiots. "The... disproportionate amount of hostile greetings we receive has led us to become extremely wary in dealing with other cultures. Perhaps our wariness in turn makes our hosts wary and distrustful, causing negotiations to be difficult all around." John murmured, "A self-fulfilling prophecy." In a strange way, that almost made sense. "What's that?" Rodney explained for Ronon, "It means that we make bad things happen because we expect bad things to happen. Which is complete and utter crap. I mean, seriously, if it was true, I would have been killed, like, a thousand times since coming to this galaxy." "Only reason you haven't been is 'cause you've got us to save yer ass." "Um, excuse me, hello? I'm the man who saves the entire city at least once a day, on average. Before breakfast. And caffeine!" John somehow wedged himself between Ronon and Rodney before the situation could turn ugly. (You'd think it would be the pampered scientist with the penchant for hair-pulling, but oh no.) "Ladies, that's enough. The more I think about it, the more I'm certain Teyla has a valid point." Although she could stand to appear a little less smug about it. "I mean, just look at us! We go marching into these cities-" "Villages," Ronon corrected. "Hovels," Rodney sniffed. "-towns with our big bad technology and our even bigger weapons and our gloomy, suspicious attitudes and we ask for trouble. Hell, that thing Ronon does with a knife when he's bored makes me nervous to be in the same room with him, and he's on my side." John was pretty sure intimidation had something to do with their lack of sexy-fun-time missions. Lorne was a good officer, but not a physically imposing guy. And Parrish, geeze, who could possibly be intimidated by Parrish? Ronon frowned, "Which thing with the knife?" "See, you don't even know because there's more than one!" "So let me get this straight, Sheppard. You want us to march into this town without all the usual chest-beating and posturing-" "Yes." "-and in fact do the opposite by pretending to be bumbling and harmless-" "It's not pretending in your case, McKay," Ronon smirked, then to prove his point easily dodged when Rodney took a swing at him. "-basically relinquishing any reason these guys would have to respect us-" "I do not understand," Teyla said. "Can we not earn their respect by demonstrating our wisdom, knowledge, and compassion?" Three pairs of eyes blinked at her for a moment. "You were saying?" Ronon sighed. "Yes, well, the point is... That is, I'm trying to understand what, exactly, Sheppard thinks will happen if we ditch the badass persona and come across as a bunch of-" "Pussies?" Ronon suggested, doing that thing with his knife. "I was going to say Sociologists." John shot Teyla one of those conspiratorial looks, then squeezed up between Ronon and Rodney. He slung his arms around their shoulders, pulling them in all buddy-buddy like. "Now, it's sort of a working theory," he confided, "and I'd hate to spoil it, but I can guarantee you'll like it." ~~~~~ The power of positive thinking thing totally worked. (Either that or it was the puppy dog eyes, which John had perfected on Elizabeth.) Either way, they were welcomed into the village with far more enthusiasm than they were accustomed to, with the villagers all crowding around saying things like, "We are very pleased that you are here," as if they actually meant it. There was also touching like crazy. John wasn't sure if it counted as inappropriate or not, but everyone seemed to want to touch their biceps and their chests -- though nobody was quite brave enough to feel Teyla up -- and one woman was studying Ronon from all angles as if he was a fine piece of horseflesh she was considering buying at the market. So after the feast of welcome, and the free beer of welcome, when one of the elders pulled John aside to explain that the villagers had come to him with the request that the Atlanteans join them in the time-honored tradition -- and the poor man had the grace to be embarrassed to say it -- of sowing oats, all John could think was: We're in, we're so in. "Oat sowing. Yes. That sounds delightful. I gather it's a... community activity?" "Oh yes," the elder assured. "Everyone participates." "Everyone?" John demanded. Because seriously, some of the elders were a bit past their expiration date, but maybe you got to choose who your sowing partners were. Sowing. Heeee. He loved those quaint agrarian euphemisms for sex. The elder considered. "Well, everyone who is capable. The activity is... physically demanding." "If it isn't, you're doing it wrong," John smirked. The elder began brightly, "Oh, so your people are experienced-" "Completely and totally experienced. In fact..." John leaned in close to whisper, "we might just be able to teach your guys -- and gals! -- a thing or two." "Oh, we would be most appreciative!" the man clapped his hands together in delight. "So you agree to help us plant our crop?" Aw, more of those agrarian euphemisms. John had to try his hand at it. "Well, you know, there's nothing we enjoy more than a good, hard plowing." Complete with fist-ramming gesture for emphasis. "How fortuitous!" the elder exclaimed. "For we have recently lost our oxen to an illness, and our strongest men have been taking turns at the yoke. But the planting is still slow. The season is nearly ended, but with your assistance we may yet finish in time. And for that we are extremely grateful." John could literally feel the smile slide off his face. "Wait. What?" ~~~~~ John couldn't even get drunk on the free beer with the rest of his team, because he had to sneak away in the middle of the night to dial the stargate and radio back to Atlantis. "It's a bit of an emergency," he admitted to Elizabeth, trying to explain the unscheduled check-in. "How bad is it, John?" she asked, ever the paragon of concern. "Should we send back-up?" "Back-up. Yes. That. Marines. Send lots and lots of Marines." ~~~~~ All in all, John considered it a lucky escape... right up until he heard the Marines bragging in the locker room about how very grateful the villagers had been for their assistance -- complete with back slapping and high fives and obvious hickies all around. Still, it proved his theory was sound. Just a bit more patience, and diligence -- maybe a few less agrarian euphemisms -- and it was totally going to pay out big time. ~~~~~ John thought that M4X-294 might be the place where he would get lucky. After all, the village headman had said that Sheppard's team counted as honored guests, and that his wives -- wives, plural! -- had been instructed to service them. Except... it turned out the word was serve, not service. As in, serve John's team supper at the banquet table. And damn it, someone should have warned him that there was some crazy backwater Pegasus version of the lapdance rule in play -- apparently touching of the guests was permitted, but reciprocation was not -- because one teensy weensy cultural misunderstanding later, John found himself pelting for the stargate with half the village guard hot on his heels. "At least they only have pointy sticks," Ronon observed, firing his stunner carelessly behind them without bothering to aim. "Easy for you to say!" Not surprisingly, Rodney had managed to hang on to one of those delicious savory meat pies, and was eating as he ran. "You've never been shot in the ass by Robin Hood and his merry band of alien miscreants." Ronon allowed, "Yeah, that was pretty funny." "Guys, a little less yapping, a little more hustle?" John suggested as a spear hurtled past his shoulder. Only Teyla was silent, but her concentration wasn't for her feet. She kept shooting John these thoughtful, appraising looks that were far more troubling than six large, hirsute guards and an angry husband combined. ~~~~~ On M2R-471, John was sure his luck had changed. The Council of Clerics were adamant that his team would need to undergo a "purification ritual" before they would be allowed to inspect the sacred temple grounds -- the very same sacred temple Rodney was certain was Ancient, and was giving off tantalizing energy readings. Now, purification rituals were a dangerous mixed bag, ranging from leaping through fire while anointed with pigeon blood -- poor Zelenka had been in the infirmary for days, recovering from the shock -- to prolonged fasting and enemas. (Everyone was fairly certain that that's what had happened to Maddox's team on M3X-231, even though they'd purportedly signed a contract to carry the secret with them to the grave.) But John wasn't getting a totally creepy-ass vibe from the locals. In fact, they seemed downright civilized -- decent level of technology, logical system of government, nary a religious whackjob in sight. So he agreed to the ritual, much to Rodney's dismay. "You know, Colonel, the building was only appropriated for use as a temple. It was probably an Ancient meteorological station or something. We're not going to be struck down if we bow out of the ritual nonsense and find a way to sneak inside." "Rodney, just trust me on this one, please?" There was a lot of seismic activity in the area, with the scent of sulphur heavy in the air. Put that together with the mention one of the clerics had made about the cleansing properties of the local hot springs, and John was guessing that his team was about to find themselves in some pretty hot water. "I suppose," Rodney frowned. "It's just that these rituals usually involve so much chanting." Teyla suggested, "You could try to do as I do, Rodney." "What? You've got to be kidding me! You pay attention to all that nonsense!" "You could do what I do," Ronon said. "But... don't you pay attention too? I've watched you. You sit there looking all polite and attentive and I have no idea how you manage it for hours on end." "Dumbass. That's not paying attention. That's sleeping with my eyes open." "Oh. I, er, don't supposed you'd be willing to tell me how you achieve that nifty little trick?" That's when their guide broke away from the cluster of temple officials and returned to inform them, "Preparations are complete. If you would follow me please, I will lead you to the pools where the ceremony is to take place." "Pools. Yes. Excellent. I've always been a firm believer in the cleansing properties of water," John said smoothly. "These wouldn't happen to be naturally occurring pools of heated, therapeutic water that rise up from the ground, would they?" "Why yes," their guide seemed pleased. "Have you encountered such a thing before?" "Oh yes, we have them on my world." Hell, John had even been stationed in Okinawa for a while. "I've, er, enjoyed their relaxing properties before." "Wonderful!" The guide ushered them through a stone doorway, and into what was basically an outdoor bathhouse, screened off from the rest of the city, but open to the sky. The pool was tiled, a long, welcoming shimmer that breathed steam into the air. It was also completely and utterly empty, its surface serene and mirror-smooth. Rodney's eyes just about bugged out of his head. "We get it all to ourselves?" Ronon asked, and even he was staring at the water with longing. "Yes, for the ceremony," their guide said. "Colonel Sheppard, as you are familiar with the cleansing pools, you may proceed while I instruct the others." There was a little platform that looked like a changing area, complete with hooks for clothes and a shelf for shoes. John hopped on up, toeing off his boots. "Instruct us? I think we can figure it out. It's a giant hot tub. We get in, we get hot- er, clean, and we get out." "I think you're forgetting something, Rodney," John smirked, unfastening his belt. He popped the buttons on his fly one-handed while he gestured with the other. "Can't exactly hop in wearing all your gear." Their guide reached for what John had assumed were towels, all stacked up neatly at the other end of the changing platform. He shook it out and held up what looked like the hippie equivalent of a Victorian bathing suit, only baggier and more modest. "Of course not. This is why traditional chond'rias will be provided for you. In a moment I will draw the privacy curtain, and you may take turns changing-" That was about when John's pants hit the ground. Okay, in his enthusiasm, he might have been zoning the guy out a little. He was in the process of shucking his shirt when the guy saw what he was doing and belted out an effeminate shriek, flailing to block out the indecent scenery from his sight. Come to think, Ronon and Rodney and Teyla were all sort of gaping at him, too. John finished yanking the shirt over his head, and rubbed a hand through his hair to more or less put it back into its artful disarray. "Right. Did he just, ah, say something about a privacy curtain?" Teyla was assisting their guide, who was now wearing the chond'ria on his head and staggering about as if drunk. Rodney bit his lip. Ronon pointed to the slot in the wall where the curtain was stored while not in use. "Thank you. And also, what the hell are you all staring at, anyway? 's not like you don't see it every day in the showers." "I do not, John," Teyla reminded him as she led their guide away to a low bench. At John's words, the man let out a low moan. "Well, you heard the guy. Let's get naked... and then get dressed again," John sighed. ~~~~~ Eventually, after being given a strict sermon equating modesty with sanctity, John and his team -- funny bathing suits in place -- were allowed to enter the pool. Of course, they were required to sit at the four cardinal points, so that there was absolutely no risk that inappropriate touching might occur. And accustomed as he was to hot springs, John was surprised to discover the water tepid at best. It would have been quite pleasant on a warm day, but a warm day this was not. In fact, if they were required to stay in much longer, John was afraid that his teeth might start chattering. Rodney's lips were already turning blue, and even Teyla was losing her grip on her serenity. Then the chanting began. ~~~~~ Yeah, John thought it might be in his best interests to avoid his team for a while after that mission. Thankfully, he had an excuse. He was reviewing planetary designations in the Ancient database, trying to find a correlation between some of the Ancient warnings and planets where teams -- but not John's team, oh no, never them -- other teams had encountered sexy-fun times. The Ancients had loved to categorize things. John was sure they'd had some equivalent to designating a planet MA: for mature audiences only. He just had to decipher all the gibberish in the database and figure it out. Then, he was totally going to make sure his team got assigned the naughty planets, even if he had to shift around the duty roster for the next four months to do it. ~~~~~ It turned out that the Ancient phrase which translated loosely to "not for the faint of heart" literally meant "this planet is populated entirely by cockroaches the size of chihuahuas". Meanwhile, John had to grind his teeth and watch Bronson's team limp back, grinning and smug, from the planet John's team was supposed to have visited. John had made them trade at the last minute. And now Bronson was carving another notch into the metaphorical bed post- Well, it wasn't so much metaphorical as they used a door jamb in the locker room, and how in the hell had John never realized what those marks meant before? There were dozens. -while John was twitching at shadows and clutching a bottle of Rodney's homemade insecticide. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair, and all his attempts to make it fair had only served to make it worse, and he totally gave up. Pegasus could go fuck itself, because it sure didn't seem at all interested in his ass. ~~~~~ His team found him sulking in his room, not unlike a moody teenage girl. "Oh my god," Rodney said, pushing his way through the door first, "I didn't realize the need for an intervention was so desperate. Are you really sitting in the dark listening to Morrissey?" John let the lights come up a little bit more, because the last thing he wanted to admit was that they generally matched themselves to his mood. "No. Maybe. Wasn't that door locked?" "Morrissey. Isn't he the guy who prevented Barbara Streisand from taking over your planet?" Ronon asked. Rodney and John both rounded on him at the same time. "What? No!" "The Marines have got you watching South Park again, haven't they?" John groaned. "I told them- Okay, who was it?" Ronon shrugged, clearly unwilling to name his supplier and cut off his flow. Teyla swished her way over and sat next to John on his bed. His teeny, tiny, minuscule little bed. (The Ancients must've had such inadequacy issues to carry it over to their furniture.) She raised her hand, looking for a place to settle it, and she had the option to pick John's thigh, which was right there, but of course being Teyla she curled it into a gentle fist and rested it in her lap. "Enough about Ronon. We are concerned for you, John. You have not been acting as yourself." "Yeah," Rodney spoke up, "what the hell's the matter with you lately? Missions are hard enough without you volunteering us for all kinds of weird stuff. When the aliens ask you to do crazy shit, you're allowed to say no, you know." "Rodney," Teyla chided. "I thought we'd decided to approach this issue in a more diplomatic manner." Rodney pointed at John. "He's military! Diplomacy's wasted on him!" John scooted away, far enough that he could catch Teyla in the same unhappy glare with Rodney and Ronon. "You've all been talking about me behind my back?" "What are you going to do about it, break up with us?" Rodney challenged. Right, like that was even possible. Besides, his team was totally awesome and hot and he wasn't trying to get rid of them; quite the opposite, in fact. He shook his head. "No. It's- It's nothing." Teyla chased after him, shifting down the length of the bed. He might have escaped too, if Ronon hadn't plopped down on his opposite side, preventing further retreat. "I do not believe it is, as you say, nothing. We are here for you. Whatever troubles you, remember that burden's weight is reduced for each additional person who shoulders it." "Actually that's not true," Rodney pointed out. "The total weight remains the same. It's each individual percentage that-" "Yeah, what she said," Ronon cut in, then glared meaningfully at McKay. Sighing, Rodney dropped down on the other side of Teyla. "Yeah, it's like they say. So spit it out, dumbass. I'm wasting time here that I could be using to chastise minions." John hesitated. "I just- There was something I wanted to do. With you all. Or for you, I'm not sure. But that's not true either, because it's really more of a selfish desire, and I- Anyway, it doesn't matter, because the issue I am- was trying to change doesn't even seem to bother you guys, and everything that I did only made it worse." "Oh I'm sure you dropped your pants in front of that horrified cleric on the planet of endless, boring chanting for our benefit," Rodney snorted. "I dunno. That dude was was way more entertaining after he started screaming," Ronon said. "Point." "The point is..." Again, Teyla did that thing where she looked like she wanted to do something else, but settled for a nice, neutral gesture. "We appreciate whatever it was you were trying to do for us-" "Hey, could he be any more vague?" "-but without adequate... information concerning your motives, your actions were simply confusing and frustrating to us. We could have helped you, John, if only we'd had any idea how." She was sincere. Even McKay and Ronon were regarding him with a sort of quiet speculation, like they were both wondering what excuse he was going to muster up this time. "I tried to tell you. I did. It just came out wrong." Like everything else. "You could try again, now," Teyla suggested. "Oh sure, I could, but like I'd ever want to tell my team that I've been trying to drag them into some crazy alien sex ritual because it seems to happen all the time to all the other teams, and I can't understand what they have that we don't -- I mean hello, Parrish? -- so it hardly seems fair that- Er... wait. Erase everything I just said." "Oh no, no no no," Rodney waved his hand. "There are no take-backs." Ronon asked, "So what he's trying to say is, he's offended on our behalf because we aren't getting as much action in the field as some teams?" "If by 'as much' you mean 'any'," Rodney grumbled. Teyla squinted at John for a long moment, then deliberately settled her hand right on his thigh. High, high up... oh yeah, that wasn't a friendly gesture. Or maybe it was too friendly. "Yes, I do believe that is what he is saying." "I don't get it. He turned down all those chances." "I what?" John demanded. "Was it not deliberate?" Teyla asked cautiously. "There were many opportunities we might have had to become... better acquainted with our hosts offworld, but after watching you... politely yet firmly decline them for so long, Ronon and I assumed that you Earthlings were..." "Prudes." "Hey!" Rodney complained, "Canadian here! Don't lump me in with Sheppard!" "...less open to such things," Teyla decided at last. "We took it upon ourselves to gently dissuade our hosts from making such offers, or steering you to select worlds to explore where it would not be an issue, so that you would not have to invent excuses for yourself." Okay, so maybe John had been a tad... oblivious to the possibilities. That was all over now. "Hold on a damned minute. Are you telling me that the reason we haven't been having any fun is that you've been actively discouraging it?" Ronon mused, "I dunno, watching you run away from that pissed-off husband was pretty fun." "I can't believe you guys have been working counterproductive to my efforts!" Rodney threw up his hands. "Whoa, don't throw me in with Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum. I had no idea they were sabotaging our chances to get laid!" "We would not have worked at odds if you had said something, John," Teyla soothed. "Yeah, well... I'm saying something now," he sulked, and hey, did her hand just shift? That was definitely a yes, because there it went again! Any higher and it was going to have to introduce itself. "And we are listening," Teyla assured, "because we are a team and that is what we do for each other." "Okay, yeah, whatever," Rodney snapped his fingers a few times. "Enough of the feel-good crap. If there's not going to be sex, I'm totally out of here. Minions, remember?" "Have to practice sometime," Ronon reasoned. "Wouldn't want our first time to be in front of an audience, and screw up because of nerves or something." Teyla's smile said "possibly", but her hand said "yes, yes definitely". "Oh," Rodney brightened. "Well in that case..." He squirmed around behind them on the impossibly tiny and narrow bed that was never in ten thousand years intended to hold four people, and sort of got his arms around John in a fashion that John didn't realize was meant to immobilize him, until Teyla attacked one half of him and Ronon the other, and inside of five seconds he was somehow flat on his back and naked. They totally had to teach him that trick. Then Rodney was demonstrating for Ronon, "No, see these adjustment tabs on the side of the BDUs? Sheppard has so little in the way of hips that I bet we could pop them open and forget the fly and the pants would fall right off of him," on himself, while Teyla looked on in interest. Then she showed Rodney that the easiest way to defeat the laces on Ronon's vest involved a knife, and every time John tried to get up to join the fun, someone casually pressed him back down and told him to stay put. John wasn't very good at obeying orders. They knew that. When Rodney lost his clothes, he managed to ditch his pants and underwear in one stealthy motion, and John had to prop himself up on an elbow to tease, "Hey McKay, didn't want anyone to see that you still wear Aquaman underoos?" So of course Rodney scoffed, "Um, no, I went commando today, genius," which John admitted was a killer comeback. John still wasn't allowed to help when Teyla requested completely unnecessary assistance with her bra; but Ronon and Rodney were there to catch the bounty that spilled forth. Rodney kneaded one lush, perfect breast with his oh so clever fingers while he dipped into the front of her pants with his other hand, while Ronon teased the other nipple to stiff attention with his tongue. Impatient and hard and more than a little shocked that he was going to get to do the "team bonding" thing with no alien blackmail required, John whined, "Okay, that is totally not fair," and tried to get up, but the three broke apart and were on him again in a flash, each pinning down a different part of his body. And oh hey, there was no way the microscopic bed was going to take this sort of abuse, and he told them as much, but Ronon just rolled his eyes and pointed out, "If we break it you can requisition a larger one," which was a worthy goal even if John didn't know how he was going to explain what had happened. Well, apart from absolutely avoiding the truth, that was. There was still the odd bit of clothing here and there -- a sock, Ronon's wrist bands -- but John didn't mind because all of the goods were on display, and it turned out that Ronon was impressively hung in an uncut, European sort of way; and naturally Teyla didn't shave but he decided he sort of liked that; and Rodney was endowed with girth to make a size-queen weep. (Not that John would know anything about- Okay, that was a lie, a huge, huge lie.) And they wouldn't let him touch. But that was fine, because they were doing a pretty damned efficient job of working him over. Rodney claimed his mouth, tongue thrusting deep and dirty, while someone -- Ronon, probably, unless Teyla had recently grown a beard -- was mouthing their way up the inside of his thigh, nosing his balls aside to lave the sensitive skin behind them. Then Teyla got a knee up on the bed to continue pinning his arm, but she leaned somehow, spread out over him, and caught his cock in her cleavage, squeezing and pressing her breasts together to prevent him from thrusting no matter how badly he wanted to. From the other side of the bed, Rodney leaned down to catch her mouth, while slipped up behind her and slid his fingers up inside her, teasing her until she was shuddering and moaning against Rodney. And John was having serious thoughts about retiring his team from the saving the galaxy gig to get rich shooting their own porn, because damn. John eventually managed to worm a hand free, but only because Rodney was distracted trying to crawl on top of him, riding John like he was one of those coin-op mechanical horses, and that probably contributed to the bed finally breaking. But Ronon was there to break his fall, and he caught Rodney, who provided a soft landing spot for Teyla; John already knew teammates did that kind of thing for each other, but he was hoping their repertoire could expand to include friendly, frequent blow jobs. They were all down in a tangle of limbs, and someone was laughing so hard they were snorting -- he really hoped it wasn't him, but he got the feeling it probably was -- but John didn't care because he touch everything he could reach, now. The folds between Teyla's legs were so wet and silky, and he discovered that he could fit his mouth around more than just the tip of Rodney's cock if he strained his jaw a little, and it was sorta hard to concentrate on that thing Ronon was doing with his tongue because his beard was tickling the hell out of John's stomach. John was squirming and panting, crazed with need. Then Rodney let out a delicious low moan just as Teyla clipped his shoulder with her teeth, and Ronon shifted just so, and John was coming his brains out. Seriously, most amazing orgasm ever. But the best part? He wasn't going to have to write it up in a carefully worded mission report.

Dean wasn't snooping. He wasn't snooping, because it was his hotel room ever since Ruby had insisted that two beds was not enough if Dean was going to complain about her having sex with Sam and that there needed to be walls between them if Dean was just going to whine and moan about the scarring of his eyes—and look, Dean wasn't being unreasonable here. He went to Hell, capital H, and saw and did terrible, terrible things, and even so, there were just some things an older brother shouldn't be subjected to, and one of those was his little brother's naked ass as he was pushing his way into a demon dick-first. No. Just no. Point being, it was his room, and if someone left something in it, then it was free game. An open, engraved motherfucking invitation. Hell, it was practically a gift, and if it had Castiel's name on it, that just told Dean who to send the thank you card. Besides, Castiel was an angel. It wasn't like he had anything majorly private going on, and if he did, it wasn't private-private, it was probably apocalypse-related-private. If it was related to the apocalypse, then it was related to Dean and probably something he needed to know. Decision made and at peace with the rightness of his actions, Dean opened the cover. He stared. He turned the page, then another. He stared some more. "Well. Fuck." On second thought, maybe some things were private after all. — ("Sam?" Castiel asked. "I have a request. Call it a favor." Sam wasn't in a good mood, didn't want to hear it; Dean had been an even bigger asshole than usual, like he hadn't had his pie quota for the day and was taking it out on everyone else in turn. Sam just wanted to take the brief time he had to himself with Dean out grabbing food to pull it together, remind himself that he didn't actually want to kill his brother. Talking with Castiel—"Dean is so awesome we should form a club" Castiel—wasn't likely to help with that. But—call it curiosity, call it intellectual greed, call it whatever you'd like—a part of him wanted to know what it was that Castiel would ask of Sam that he couldn't ask Dean instead. "Sure, fine, whatever. Make it quick." Castiel did. By the time he finished explaining, Sam wasn't in such a bad mood anymore. "Yes," Sam said, smiling so wide he was almost concerned he'd scare Castiel off the whole idea. "Yes, I'll help.") — It was private, Dean acknowledged that now, but somehow he couldn't help himself. "Last night, I had a dream that Dean and I—" skidded up from the page to assault his eyes, and Dean closed them and ground the heel of his palms in until he saw stars. Did angels even dream? Apparently so. Or maybe this could be a return of the prank wars with Sam. Maybe next Dean would find itching powder in his sheets and saran wrap over the toilet bowl. With this soothing thought and after a few deep breaths, Dean found the courage to look at the diary again. "This night . . . when he wrapped his arm around my shoulder I knew he'd be mine soon," said the next page. Their names were written next to a heart in which the not-quite-word "4ever" was inscribed. Another page was dedicated to the sexy quality of Dean's lips, apparently very kissable and described with such disturbing fascination that Dean decided he didn't want this to be a prank after all, because there was no way Dean wanted to think about Sam thinking about his lips. Or maybe Ruby wrote that part. . . . No, still not better. Dean closed the cover, mind budding with plans to exact his revenge on Sam and his demon girlfriend. He'd need to make a run to the local Walmart for duct tape, dishwasher soap, and several jars of marbles, if he could find any. Dean was composing a list of further supplies when he opened the door to Castiel's face. Castiel's voice hinted at concern as he asked, "Is everything all right, Dean?" Dean barely held back an embarrassing startled noise and instead glared. "Don't do that. You don't just lurk outside of people's doors." "I was not lurking," Castiel informed him. "I was preparing to knock. I believe you said something about wanting me to come in by means of the door. Or has this changed in the past hour?" "No," Dean said and cleared his throat. Castiel's eyes were intent, but they were always intent. And it—it certainly didn't have to mean anything when they flitted briefly to rest on Dean's lips before meeting his eyes again. "Knocking—knocking is good." "I'll keep that in mind," Castiel said evenly. Dean kept his hand pressed to the side of the door, impatient, but apparently Castiel was content to wait all night, staring at Dean's face (and lips, oh, God, he'd just looked at Dean's lips again). "Did you need something?" Dean asked, and if Castiel said, "You," Dean was going to— "I'd forgotten something," Castiel said. "When last I was here. A book. It would have my name on the cover?" And just like that, Dean's knees were weak, horror clenching its icy hand around his chest, because this was not a prank, this wasn't Sammy's revenge for stealing the last donut that morning or calling him a pretty pretty princess in front of his demon girlfriend, causing Ruby to laugh and offer to make Sam a crown. The diary, and Castiel's fascination with Dean's lips, and the dream where they—shit. All real. "Have you seen it?" Castiel asked carefully. "I, uh." Dean didn't want to lie, but there was no fucking way he was admitting to laying eyes on the thing. If life had taught him anything, denial was a good substitute for an inability to change reality, and Dean and denial were about to become best friends. "Dunno. Feel free to check the room. Lock up behind you when you're done." Dean slipped between Castiel and the doorjamb, trying not to think of the way his shoulder brushed Castiel's, or how Castiel smelled kind of like burning ozone this close, like he used lightning for cologne. Dean tried not to think of how instead of leaning away, Castiel stayed perfectly still and let Dean touch him. Prank or no, someone was going to suffer with Dean, and as his little brother, it was practically Sam's job description. — ("Glitter," Castiel said doubtfully. "Glitter," Sam confirmed cheerfully. "Oh, and maybe some rainbow stickers. No, definitely some rainbow stickers. See if you can get some unicorns. We need to Lisa Frank this thing up." "Who is Lisa Frank?" Castiel asked as he pasted in a picture of Dean, a blurred close-up that nevertheless caught the vivacity of his smile. "Not so much who, as what. And what Lisa Frank is, is awesome and kind of terrifying." Sam hadn't stopped smiling since they had settled on a plan. "Dean is going to shit a brick." "I don't believe—" Castiel began. "Not literally," Sam said quickly. "Look, trust me. This is a great plan. This is, in fact, the best plan EVER." Sam began to hum as he cut out a few star shapes from the bright pink construction paper scattered over the bed.) — The denial thing would be really helpful if the diary wasn't suddenly making appearances everywhere. In Castiel's hand whenever he appeared, like it was no big deal to lug around a huge-ass book with him that held all his secrets open for anyone to read who could wrest it from his hands. In the Impala's backseat, like he'd been writing quietly back there while they'd crossed over the Indiana-Kentucky state line. On Dean's bedside table, because the only thing better than Castiel watching him sleep was Castiel watching him sleep while waxing poetic about how Dean's hair brushed his forehead in the night. The hair thing was actually in there, because wresting it from Cas's hands wasn't actually necessary, considering he kept leaving the thing behind like the worst "Do you like me, y/n?" letter in history, and Dean was apparently even more susceptible to temptation than his stupid baby brother. "I am the worst role model ever," Dean said, because even if Sam couldn't see Dean flipping furtively through the pages as he went in the gas station to grab some jerky and a couple Cokes, this didn't change the fact that Dean was a complete and total hypocrite when he lectured Sam on resisting temptation. Dean couldn't bring himself to care. On one page, maybe a quarter of the way in, a picture of Dean was pasted in. A heart was drawn around his face, and an arrow pointed at the picture with the words: "My BFF." Dean's introduction of Castiel to the internet was apparently the gift that kept on giving. If the next page had leet speak, Dean was out, done, finished. He was turning in the diary, turning in his brain, and going home, or at least to Bobby's to lock himself in the safe room before it turned out that Castiel had also discovered 4chan. Dean surreptitiously checked Sam's progress—the cashier was ringing up his purchases—and told himself he would read one last page. Just one. And then he'd be done with the thing. Dean and denial, he acknowledged in some distant part of his brain he was trying very hard to ignore, were becoming best friends, but not in the way he'd originally hoped for. — ("What does that even mean?" Castiel asked. "Best Friends Forever," Sam said absently. Ruby was collapsed on the bed beside him, and she still hadn't stopped giggling. Every time she caught her breath, she turned to look at Castiel and started laughing again. Sam suspected it was only a matter of time before she volunteered to help. "Best friends . . . forever," Castiel repeated slowly, then nodded approvingly. He ignored Ruby entirely in favor of inking the letters carefully in.) — Dean had a problem. Dean had a major problem, and he needed help. He could acknowledge that now. "I have a research project for you," Dean told Sam. "An angel research project." "Ask Castiel," Sam replied without looking up from the laptop. "That's kind of not an option," Dean ground out, because it was looking more and more like he might actually have to explain himself. "Why, did you guys break up when I wasn't looking?" Sam asked. His voice was a little strange, off somehow, and he was still glued to the laptop, like whatever he was doing could possibly be more important than Dean's current crisis. He'd better not be watching porn, Dean thought. They had a rule about that now, because the last time they'd had on porn—and never mind that it was Dean, that's not what was important here—Castiel had appeared and then made Dean spend twenty minutes explaining to him why the pizza guy had offered himself as an extra topping, but none of the pizza was ever actually consumed. As if that hadn't been bad enough, Castiel insisted on watching another one and said, "I didn't know humans could bend that way," then stared at Dean with a frankly speculative expression as he asked, "Can you bend that way?" Dean suspected this had been yet another case of Castiel fucking with him, but the angel was so deadpan it was impossible to be sure. Best to avoid the situation entirely. . . . And now Dean's brain was thinking about Castiel, porn, and Castiel fucking with him (Castiel fucking), and that was going nowhere good. "Dean? Dean?" Sam said, watching him with concern, like it wasn't the first time he'd repeated himself. "Are you okay?" "Peachy," Dean said. Dean had a problem, but Dean had lots of problems, and one was more pressing than the others. "I'm just. Going back to my room. To take a shower," Dean said. A cold shower. The coldest he could manage. — ("You're not going far enough," Ruby said. "All this romantic stalking bullshit is great, yeah, but this is Dean. It's not a full mind fuck until there's fucking." "No," Sam said. "I didn't want to get involved in the lips thing. There's no way I'm going anywhere near that." Castiel, meanwhile, had tilted his head to regard Ruby thoughtfully. "Is this true?" he asked, and though he was looking at Ruby, Sam could tell Castiel was asking him. "Yes," Sam said, "and okay, sure, fine, go for it. Whatever. I'll even send you some links to porn for research. But otherwise, leave me out of this part." "Dean said I wasn't allowed to watch any more porn," Castiel said. Ruby started laughing again. It took her a very, very long time to stop.) — Dean didn't take a cold shower. He meant to—God knew he meant to—but then he was naked, and the bathroom door was locked, and it wasn't like anyone had to know. Dean's life was kind of shit, and if he could have one thing, just one private moment to himself in which he could be honest, in which he could let go and just feel for a while, then what did it matter, if he wasn't hurting anyone? No one had to know. He turned the water pressure all the way up and let the warm water pound against his skin as he braced one hand against the tile and curled the other in a fist around his dick. He started slow and let his mind wander. Normally, he thought of women from porn—sometimes men—or his latest fuck; sometimes Dr. Sexy popped into his head; very rarely, he let himself think of Cassie, of her warm hands and her soft lips as she whispered against his chest, "It's okay, Dean, I've got you. You can let go." Now, however, all Dean could think about was that damn diary and Castiel's preoccupation with his lips; that spiral of thoughts about Castiel and porn and the idea of Castiel fucking with him, then of Castiel fucking him; Castiel's speculative voice as he'd asked, "Can you bend that way?" and the thought that had crossed Dean's mind at the time that, for Castiel, he'd like to try. His hand sped up, and he tightened his grip, trying to find that perfect place deep inside of him, seeking that one moment of freefall and mindless pleasure. He was close, so close— "Dean?" came Castiel's voice from the other side of the bathroom door, and that was it, Castiel had the worst timing ever, and Dean was choking back a scream as he came all over the shower wall. After a moment, Castiel's voice came from the other side of the shower curtain, shadow visible through the thin plastic, because Castiel had no sense of privacy whatsoever. Dean guessed he should just be thankful Castiel hadn't materialized in the shower itself. "Are you all right?" "Fine." Dean's voice came out strangled, and he cleared his throat and tried again: "I'm fine." Then, "What have I told you about knocking?" "I did. You didn't answer." "Most people would take that as a hint to go away," Dean said, and he vacillated between mortified anger and despair over Castiel's inability to ever learn. Dean could only be grateful that he'd opted for the shower instead of using the bed. "Do you want me to go now?" Castiel asked. Dean sighed. "No, just. Just give me a minute." Castiel's shadow against the curtain didn't disappear. "I meant wait outside." Castiel's shadow twitched, as though with guilt, before he vanished. "Great, Dean, kick the puppy while you're at it," Dean told himself, frustrated on a number of levels, and set to cleaning up as fast as possible. — ("What do you have so far?" Ruby asked, flopping down onto the bed next to Castiel. Castiel scooted over, whether to make room or in an attempt to inch away, Ruby didn't really care. For an angel, Castiel was kind of a pushover. "Foreplay, fellatio, frottage—" Castiel's even voice was interrupted by Sam's exaggerated choking sounds. "What did I say about not wanting to be involved?" "You're not involved," Ruby said impishly. "Castiel hasn't written anything here about hoping for an incestuous menage a trois. Though could you imagine Dean's face?" "I don't need to," Sam said, "because I believe I'm making it right now." Horror barely covered it. "Yes," Ruby said happily, "yes, you are." To Castiel, "This checklist barely fills half the page. Let me help." Sam made several more strangled noises and dug out his head phones, plugging them into the laptop and pulling up Pandora. Ruby made a point of shouting her suggestions. Castiel looked between her and Sam, made an obvious decision not to get in the middle of it, and dutifully wrote everything down.) — Dean made a decision. He and the diary were done. This was leading nowhere good, and whether it was Castiel fucking with his head or actually serious, it didn't matter, because there were more important things going down, like, oh, say, the freaking Apocalypse. Dean had to get his head in the game. This decision was helped when Castiel appeared, diary for once nowhere in sight, and said, "We have a mission for you." "Please tell me it involves killing something," Dean said. Some nice, simple deadly mayhem was just what Dean's situation called for. Castiel clearly didn't approve of this plea, but he said, "There are ogres." "Ogres," Dean said. "Yes." "Huge, smelly, deadly ogres?" Dean asked. "Yes." Castiel now looked as if he wondered whether Dean had hit his head at some point while Castiel had been off seeking revelation or defending other seals. "Sounds good," Dean said, smiling wide, and that look of doubtful concern didn't leave Castiel's face, but Dean didn't care. Ogres were good. Ogres were awesome. Almost as awesome as Castiel's hand on his shoulder, his thumb brushing the side of Dean's neck as he transported them directly to Sam's room, but Dean wasn't thinking about that sort of thing anymore. He wasn't. This assertion was made truth when they teleported in on a naked Sam and half-naked Ruby, ruining the entire point of separate rooms; Dean's balls tried to crawl back in his body to die as he pressed his hands to his scarred eyes, and Sam asked, "Weren't you supposed to teach him to knock?" — (Castiel had moments of doubt. "Mrs. Castiel Winchester? You're sure?" "Trust me," Sam said, his eyes wide and his lips twitching. "But how will he know I mean him and not you?" Castiel asked. "I think he'll know," Ruby said. "Especially considering this follows the page where you talk about his cock and your wedding vows." Sam shot her a look that said, quite clearly, "Why must you ruin this for me?" "Wedding vows are important," Castiel conceded. He wrote, "Mr. Dean and Mrs. Castiel Winchester of the Lord," across several lines, trying several different scripts until he found the one that was most aesthetically pleasing.) — Ogres were, in fact, terrible. They weren't the worst in the series of horrible events determined to fuck Dean's shit up that was his life, but the ogres definitely seemed determined to at least be a lowlight in Dean's week. They'd hidden out in the sewers, because it wasn't enough that they smelled like they'd rolled around in tons of crap, they had to live in it, too. Things—terrible things Dean did not want to identify—squished under his boots, and Dean had already determined that when they were done, he was going to burn all of his clothes and the nonessential equipment, then shower for a week. "Should've thrown paper," Dean said, not for the first or the last time in his life. Because Dean hadn't endured enough torment this week, he'd been set up as bait to draw the ogres out, and he almost didn't notice when they'd bitten. On his second course around the sewers, always sticking close to the kill zone they'd set up, Dean finally heard the not-very-distant sound of footsteps thudding behind him. Looking back, Dean saw that the ogres were much larger than he'd imagined, nearly twice Dean's height; their heads brushed the ceiling, their hands were half the size of Dean's torso, and apparently for a bunch of giants, they moved like ghosts, because they were only maybe forty, fifty feet behind him. "Definitely should've thrown paper." The one advantage to the ogres' size was that it hampered their progress through the tunnels, made it difficult for them to navigate the twists and turns Dean took, arms and legs pumping as he tried to keep in mind the map Sam had shown him before going in. Dean actually did make it to the right chamber, the one with only two exits and a thirty degree incline between the two, even made it halfway across the room before his foot caught a loose stone, a piece of trash, a fucking banana peel for all he knew or it mattered, and Dean went sliding, leg folding under him and head hitting the floor so hard he saw stars of light streak across his vision. "Dean!" Sam called, and Ruby said, "We have to close the gate." Dean thought, I'm fucked, then, Wait, where's Cas? because it shouldn't have taken him that long to close the door behind Dean. Before Dean could lever himself up to look, to fight, to start running again because Sam was a moron and wouldn't close the second gate locking the ogres in until Dean was safe, a hand landed on his shoulder and an arm wrapped around his waist, lifting, and Dean and Castiel were on the other side of iron bars, through which Dean could see the now extremely pissed off ogres. One was lying motionless on the ground, shiny, black blood trickling out from under its body, but the others were throwing themselves at the walls and the doors on either side. "You can safely continue the plan now," Castiel told Sam calmly, as Dean tried to catch his breath. Sam and Ruby turned and pushed the oil barrels over, let the oil coat the floor and slide down the incline. They backed up several feet, and, with a grin, Ruby lit a match and tossed it to land in the oil; the chamber and everything in it went up in flames. The shrieks the ogres made nearly sounded like human screams, but Ruby just kept smiling as she said, "Burn, baby, burn." It occurred to Dean by this point that Castiel was still holding him, and that they weren't actually touching the ground. Castiel's breath was warm against Dean's ear as he asked, "All right, Dean?" Inappropriate reaction, Dean told himself. Extremely inappropriate reaction. For once, he wasn't explaining this to his dick, but to his brain and his chest, which had clenched in reply, like Castiel had just whispered post-coital words of affection. At that thought, Dean realized he was probably going to have to have that talk with his dick, after all. "Yeah," Dean said. "I'm good." After a few seconds—during which Dean had to remind himself several times that post-battle kisses were only the sort of things that happened to him, usually by incredibly hot female (or, in one or two cases, male) would've-been victims expressing their gratitude, not something Dean initiated himself with a freaking angel of the Lord—Castiel gently set Dean down. Sam was watching with a weird expression, and Ruby had that look like she was going to start laughing again any moment now. Ruby looked that way a lot, lately. Dean cleared his throat and gave Castiel a manly smack on the shoulder. "Thanks, man." "Any time," Castiel said in that low, steady voice that was almost like fondness, the sound reaching deep in Dean's heart and easing something constricted and broken. Never mind the plan to ignore the diary. Dean was safe from the ogres, but he was still fucked. — ("What's CBT?" Castiel asked. Ruby's lips twitched, but all she said was, "It's an abbreviation, like BFF." Castiel underlined it twice. He wondered if he should tell Sam he could take off his headphones now. Then Ruby said, "You know what would make this even better? If you checked some of them off." Her expression was especially pleased at this idea. "Why?" Castiel asked. He tapped Sam on the shoulder, and Sam shot him a look of gratitude for being his filter and sanity saver. Ruby rolled her eyes. "Because then he'll think you've done them." "Done what?" Sam asked. "The list," Ruby said, tugging the book out of Castiel's hands and holding it up for Sam to see. Sam gave her one of those puppy dog looks in return, but rather than taking mercy, Ruby smiled like Sam's pain pleased her. She'd explained, though, that some couples (and threesomes and so on) were "into that," and apparently, if the evidence of their meetings were anything to go by, she and Sam were one such example. "I believe," Castiel said slowly, "that this is one of your suggestions I'll have to forgo." "It'll be fun," Ruby said. Then, mostly to herself, with great delight, "His FACE." "It would be dishonest," Castiel said. "I have no intention of checking any of these off until I've actually accomplished them." "What," Sam said, eyes wide. "Unless," Castiel corrected himself. "Unless I actually accomplish them." For some reason, this didn't seem to reassure Sam. Ruby, meanwhile, grinned wider and pounced Castiel, pressing him to the bed. Castiel could have dislodged her, but instead, knowing himself in no immediate danger, he allowed himself to follow the path of curiosity. "What—" Castiel began in an unintentional mirroring of Sam, and Ruby pressed her tongue between his lips and into his mouth. It was wet and not entirely unpleasant, but neither was it welcome. It was also over nearly as fast as it began. Ruby pulled back and said, "Check!" Then, "Don't make that face, angel. I'm doing you a favor." Sam was making choking sounds again. Ruby groped Castiel's ass for good measure and said, "No, really, you'll thank me later." She rolled off the bed and repeated to herself, half-laughing, "His face.") — If he was fucked anyway, Dean decided, he might as well give in, go all the way. The next time Castiel left the diary behind, Dean kicked his feet up and settled on the bed with the intention of reading through the entire thing. Because Dean was that kind of guy, he started with the end. To say this was a mistake was an understatement. "Is this a checklist?" Dean asked. "Is this an actual sex checklist?" Dean wondered if angels of the Lord were even allowed to have sex, much less some of these sex acts in particular. Each word branded itself on Dean's brain, and he had little doubt that the next time he masturbated, he wasn't going to be thinking about porn or Dr. Sexy or his last fuck, but rather the words "fellatio" and "anal" written in incongruously beautiful script. Face heating, Dean flipped back a few pages, because there had to be something easier to read in here. "Mr. Dean and Mrs. Castiel Winchester of the Lord?" Then, "Is this an invitation list?" Maybe the sex checklist would be easier after all. Sure, he was having trouble swallowing, he'd already had to adjust himself, and he was wondering if maybe the bed really wasn't the best place for this, but it had to be better than seeing speculation over whether Bobby would be willing to walk Dean down the aisle. Frottage, foreplay, French kissing— "Why the hell are some of these checked?" Dean was reading on autopilot by this point—bondage, roleplay, fingering, whatever—as he thought furiously over whether something had happened he couldn't remember, or if this meant someone else had put their hands and mouth on his—the—the angel, but then his eyes skidded over three letters and came to an abrupt stop. "Wait. WHAT." — (Sam had to admit, with a very real admiration, that Ruby was evil. Sam? Sam had pulled out the glitter and unicorns and twelve pages of Lisa Frank stickers and thought himself a genius. Ruby suggested wedding invitation lists and baby names. "Gazardiel is a respectable name," Castiel said determinedly, because apparently he was right there with Ruby about everything but the names themselves. "I served with her for many years." "You seriously want to name your theoretical baby after a dead angel?" Ruby asked. "Plus, there's not even a good nickname for that. The kid would get her ass kicked at recess. Sam, back me up here." "I think," Sam said slowly, "this is almost worse than the checklist." "Speaking of," Ruby turned her smirk Castiel's way, "if there's anything else on that list you need help with—" "I won't." "But if you do—" "I won't." Sam had thought it was bad enough when Ruby was afraid to come around because of the angel. He'd had no idea how much worse it would be once she'd decided she liked Castiel. "I am invited to the wedding, right?" Ruby asked. Castiel eyed her carefully. "I suppose we'll need bridesmaids." "The important question is: will you wear white to the wedding?" So much worse.) — Okay, Dean hadn't managed it the first time he'd tried to confide in Sam, but if there was anything that would lend a man terror enough to man up and talk to his brother, it was seeing CBT underlined twice in an angel's checklist of things he wanted to do to his charge. As in: to Dean. As in: to Dean's junk. Dean was getting some fucking answers even if it meant humiliating himself or, worse, talking about his feelings. Sam took his sweet time answering the door, and when he did, his face was bright red and Ruby was sprawled languidly across the bed. For some reason, pink and yellow construction paper was spread out next to her. She was fully clothed, but Dean still had no desire to speculate on what they'd been doing. Sam said, "Uh, what's up, Dean? It's kind of late." "We," Dean said firmly, "are getting pie." He wasn't taking no for an answer, because if he put this off now, he'd just keep doing so, until Castiel asked him about baby names or checked more things off his list or something else equally disastrous. Dean needed to head off his doom now, before it snowballed into a second fucking apocalypse. Sam seemed to sense Dean's determination, because he said, "Okay. Let me just get my coat." "Am I invited?" Ruby asked in a sing-song voice, her smile strangely wide for the question. Dean glared, but Ruby didn't seem to notice. Sam shot her a placating look. "I'll bring you back some." Sam added in a warning tone: "If you're good." "I'm always good," Ruby said, her smile transforming into a leer as she stretched slowly. "I don't need or want to know," Dean said, turning his glare to Sam. "Seriously, time for pie." Dean waited until they were seated in a vinyl booth of an all-night diner, cherry pie with extra whipped cream settled in front of them, before he could bring himself to explain. It took another two pieces of pie and a side of ice cream before he was done. "So what is it?" Dean asked. "Is it some freaky angel-charge thing? Is he fucking with me?" Dean shoveled another forkful of pie in before he could manage, words garbled around the sweet taste of apple, "Or does he want to fuck me?" Dean swallowed the pie and said, "It's not serious, right? Tell me it's not serious." Sam, to his credit, had not laughed at him, though it was obviously a very near thing. He had a hand over his mouth and took a minute before he answered. "Actually," Sam said, and it looked like he was trying for solemn and failing wildly, "I think it is serious. I'd meant to tell you about something that Castiel had asked me." "He talked to you?" Dean asked weakly. Sam nodded. "He wanted my advice on what sort of flowers would be appropriate for a human wedding." Dean decided his only possible course of action was more pie. Pie was the only thing that could fix this: beautiful, delicious, sanity-saving pie. Sam laughed and said, "Okay, seriously, Dean, I—" Castiel appeared suddenly next to their booth, and normally Dean would remind him about not freaking out the locals and how humans didn't bamf in when they had someplace to be, but Castiel's expression was so grim the words died in Dean's throat. He had a smear of blood down the line of his jaw and a hand print of it on his canvas coat's shoulder. "A seal has just been broken and another is in immediate danger," he said. Dean was already moving out of the booth, and Sam was right there with him. There was a reason they carried all the weapons and equipment they needed in the trunk of the Impala, and Castiel didn't even wait for them to take the time to reach it, just teleported them right next to it. He fed them details as Dean popped the trunk and they grabbed extra holy water and the shotguns. By the time it was all over, Dean couldn't bring himself to care anymore whether Castiel had something on his checklist that was on Dean's hard list or if he wanted a spring wedding or if he wanted to have fifty kids and name them all Gazardiel. He was tired, his ribs still hurt even after Cas had healed him, and it would be nice, really nice if Dean could have just one good, uncomplicated thing in his life. Sam apparently felt much the same, because upon being deposited in the motel's parking lot as the first hints of the sun breached the horizon, he headed straight for his motel room and, presumably, Ruby. If Sam had meant to tell Dean anything else before they'd been interrupted and pie was discarded in favor of yet another very long, dispiriting night in which Dean fought for his life and all of mankind, Dean didn't know and he didn't really care. There were only two main thoughts in Dean's mind as he climbed into bed: sleep, and the knowledge that thanks to Cas, they'd skipped the tab and had yet another diner they couldn't go back to. "Damn it, they had good pie," Dean muttered to himself, not even noticing the diary was gone as he fell into dreams. — ("So when does it end?" "What?" Sam asked, at his laptop again. "A prank," Castiel elucidated. "How do you tell when it's over?" Sam shrugged. "I don't know. When the other guy figures it out or it stops being funny anymore." Ruby shot them both looks that communicated precisely how hopeless she found them. By Sam's logic, this was never going to end, because Dean was utterly, endlessly gullible when it came to the angel, and as far as Ruby was concerned, this was never going to stop being funny.) — Here was the problem: Dean didn't get what he wanted. Dean never got what he wanted. If he got something he wanted, it was just the universe convincing him to let his guard down before it sucker-punched him right in the balls. Dean didn't enjoy being sucker-punched in the balls. Very few men did—though, going by the checklist, Castiel might be one of them. The important thing was this: Dean didn't get what he wanted, and as much as it pained him and embarrassed him and made him wonder if maybe he really had been dropped on his head too many times, what he wanted was Castiel. "We need to talk," Dean said before Castiel could flit off like he normally did after the rare mission that went totally right for once. "Talk?" Castiel asked, tilting his head to the side. Dean figured they could dance around the topic for a while, and Castiel would probably need it spelled out, and then Dean would have to talk about his feelings or something, or— "Fuck it," Dean said, and just went for it, fisted his hands in the lapels of Cas's tax accountant trench coat and pulled him forward, crashing their lips together and not letting go. After a long moment, Castiel said, "Intriguing." Then, "I feel compelled to inform you—" "I know about the diary, okay?" Dean said, because he didn't want to talk about it when there was kissing and—if Dean played his cards right, and Dean always did—a whole lot more on the table. "I know, and I don't care, I just—" He pressed his lips to Castiel's, slipped his tongue in Castiel's mouth as his hands tugged and pulled at Castiel's coat until it came off his shoulders, down over his arms to be discarded on the floor. Castiel seemed to submit to Dean's desire to avoid the conversation for several minutes as Dean tugged the shirttails from his dress pants, undid and discarded his belt, and led him by the tie toward the bed like a silk leash. Castiel's eyes had gone dark, the irises a bare rim of blue around the pupils, and he licked lips shiny from all the kissing as Dean turned them so that the back of Castiel's knees bumped the edge of the mattress. Dean went for Castiel's zipper, and Castiel said, "Dean, you really should know—" "Less talking, more sex," Dean said, unable to resist palming Castiel's ass as he pulled down Castiel's pants and boxers in one go. Castiel made an awesome noise at this, then an even more awesome one when Dean pushed him down onto the bed. Neither of these sounds compared to the ones Castiel made when, once Castiel had scooted back until he was practically settled against the headboard and Dean had crawled onto the bed with him, Dean kissed Castiel's hipbone, licked the hollow, kissed the inner crease of his thigh, and then went for it, sliding his mouth over Castiel's cock. "Dean—" Castiel said, gravel voice scratching even lower than usual, and he sounded desperate, almost broken. "Dean, Dean, you—" Dean had once learned this trick from a pretty boy with brown eyes and an even filthier mouth than Dean himself, and Dean was kind of out of practice by this point, but when he tried it anyway, Castiel's voice broke mid-vowel. When Dean looked up to see, Castiel's hands were gripping the bedsheets like they were the only thing anchoring him to the earth, his eyes wide, wide open and staring at Dean like Dean was the only thing that existed, the answer to his prayers, the reassertion of his faith. His lips were parted and bitten red, and he didn't seem able to finish whatever he'd been trying to say, like Dean had broken his brain. Dean was awesome. To confirm this, Dean grinned and got back to it. The only further words Castiel spoke were, "Dean," and, "Yes," and "Please," followed by the most wrecked noises Dean had ever heard from Castiel, like with every swipe of his tongue or press of his fingers Dean was pulling prayers from him a vowel at a time. Contrary to Dean's faintest expectations, ones he would never admit aloud or even mostly to himself, Castiel didn't come light or rainbows or whatever the fuck, but regular semen, sudden and salty in Dean's mouth. Dean had warning—barely—but it was Castiel's first orgasm ever, if his diary was anything to go by, something he'd been thinking about for months, and damn if Dean didn't have some stupid-ass hearts and flowers impulse to make it special, make it mean something if only to himself, and Dean ignored all his usual instincts to pull away, to spit, to do anything but prove that sometimes, Dean was a swallowing kind of guy. Not that Cas noticed. He was staring at the cracks in the ceiling now, as if all his thoughts had flown from him and were capering about up there, putting on a show. Dean crawled up next to Cas and kissed his jaw, said, "A little reciprocation would be nice." Castiel looked at Dean, almost bewildered, then visibly gathered himself, face schooled to something approaching its usual inscrutability. "There was something I meant to tell you," Castiel said as his hands slid inside Deans boxers, fingers sliding across his hipbones and back to land on his ass, kneading gently. "But it can wait." Castiel then proceeded to prove that for a guy with not a lot of practical experience, he was practically (quite literally) a fucking expert. Afterward, naked and submitting to a little post-coital cuddling, because apparently angels needed that sort of thing if Castiel's diary and its many passages exhorting the praises of Dean's hugs were anything to go by, Dean carded his fingers through Cas's hair and said, "So what did you want to tell me?" "Never mind," Castiel said, head tucked into the corner where Dean's neck met his shoulder, Castiel's lips dragging delicately at Dean's skin on every syllable. "It can wait." — ("You had sex!" Ruby said, beaming. Sam and Dean were on the way back from a hunt, and Castiel had decided it would probably be prudent to wait until they returned. Why Ruby was also waiting in Dean's room, Castiel was uncertain. "You totally fucked Dean!" "Sometimes," Dean had told Castiel once, "the only thing you can do is avoid eye contact. You make eye contact, and you're lost." This advice wasn't actually helpful, because Ruby took his silence and averted gaze as both an affirmative and an invitation to inquire further. "How was it? Was it everything you ever dreamed?" Continued silence did no good. "Was he up for the bondage? Because that sounded totally hot. I was surprised that was your idea. I don't suppose you actually used the tie—" "I believe the saying goes: a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," Castiel quoted desperately from memory. "By which I mean, I don't wish to discuss the particulars with you." "Awww," Ruby said. "You like him." With this topic, at least, Castiel felt he was on steady ground. "I do." "That's adorable," Ruby said. "That really is. I feel like we're friends now, like we could share anything. So tell me: does he call your name during sex, or your father's? I know it took me a long time to train Sam out of that shit." Castiel hadn't once made eye contact, but he felt most decidedly lost.) — In the days that followed, they had sex everywhere. Okay, not everywhere, because while Cas could travel a hell of a lot of places, it was pretty much impossible given Dean's lifespan, but they certainly did try. On the bed, they traded blow jobs and hand jobs, took turns fucking each other past the point of words, communicating with hands and lips their attraction, affection. In the shower, Castiel sunk to his knees on the cheap porcelain to press Dean against the glass door and proved he was an extremely fast learner. In an alley, as ridiculous as it was when Castiel could teleport them directly back to the motel with a touch and a thought, Dean's hands and back dug into the rough brick behind him as Castiel took the brunt of his weight, grinding against Dean with desperate friction, his eyes never leaving Dean's face as their foreheads pressed flush together, something in his expression near devastating. In the Impala and on the Impala's hood, because if there were three things Dean enjoyed that went awesome together it was sex, Castiel, and his car. Hell, they even had sex in Bobby's wrecking yard, tumbled together on the dirt beside a rusting heaped tower of metal, Castiel's hand pressed over Dean's mouth, palm cool against Dean's overheated lips and chin, a caress and an impromptu gag, because Dean couldn't stop—Dean couldn't stop to go indoors, couldn't stop touching and pulling and pressing their bodies together, couldn't stop the noises coming from deep in his throat, way down in his chest, being wrung out of him note by note by the unrelenting pressure of Castiel's other hand around Dean's dick. Dean couldn't stop any of it, and he didn't want to. In all, they had a lot of sex. And if it was anything more for Dean? He wasn't going to say something unless—until—Cas did. — ("You still haven't told him," Ruby said, and for once, she didn't sound teasing or gloating or amused—just thoughtful, her eyes slitted half-closed. "I haven't," Castiel confirmed. "It's been a couple weeks." Ruby didn't sound like she was judging—she was a demon; the chances of her judging Castiel were incredibly low—but rather like one friend telling another something he already knew. "It's only going to be worse if you wait." "I agree," Castiel said quietly. They stood patiently next to one another, each waiting for a Winchester to return, and spoke of nothing more.) — It was all going fine, everything was perfect except for the impending apocalypse and Dean's inability to muster up the courage to tell Sam that apparently inappropriate relationships were in the Winchester blood or something, because in addition to Sam having a demon girlfriend, Dean was fucking an angel—that it was maybe something more than fucking. Sam, Dean thought, maybe even knew, because he'd tried to talk to Dean a couple of times, said, "Look, Dean, about Castiel—" Usually, Dean managed to interrupt him, but sometimes Ruby, eyes knowing, apparently took pity on Dean and grabbed Sam by the elbow. "Hey, I need you for something." Though not that much pity, because when Sam looked at her in confusion, she frequently followed that with, "We haven't had enough sex today," her grin directed in equal parts at Sam's mild embarrassment and Dean's horror. The point was: It was all going fine, and Dean had everything he wanted outside of world peace and an end to a life like a monster movie. This was how Dean should've known he was about to be punched in the balls. It wasn't anything in particular that jolted the memory. The day was normal enough. They'd saved a seal, had some celebratory pie, and Castiel had fucked Dean through two orgasms like sex was one of his super powers before disappearing on angel business. The diary hadn't even made an appearance for a while, not since the first time Dean had pushed Castiel down on his bed and blown him. If asked, Dean couldn't have said what it was that triggered it, but when he spotted the diary on the motel's one chair and went to pick it up, he remembered with sudden alarm a conversation he and Castiel had after Dean had introduced him to the wonders of the internet past porn. (Porn hadn't gone well any of the times Castiel had been introduced to it, and Castiel hadn't believed Dean that that was what the internet was for.) "And what is the purpose of this . . . trolling?" Castiel had asked, expression one of intent curiosity, like a cat trying to figure out door knobs. "It's like—it's like practical jokes," Dean said, which led to explaining practical jokes, and then to explaining his practical joke war with Sam. "So it's a form of social bonding? A means of lifting one another's spirits?" "Yes," Dean said, giving up. "That." "Ah." Castiel had paused for an all too long moment, before he said, expression strangely determined, "I think I could do that." "You may want to take it up with Sam or me before trying anything on your own," Dean advised, and—as the topic had never come up again—that was the end of that. Or not, apparently. Staring at the diary with even more horror than he had upon first discovering its contents, Dean had only one repeating thought. "Son of a bitch." He was going to kill Sam. — ("May I request your opinion?" Castiel had asked. "Do you think this has too many hearts?" "No, no, I think you need more hearts," Sam had replied. "And put wings around some of them." "I will defer to your greater expertise," Castiel said and carefully penned in several more. In truth, he agreed with Sam. He didn't think there could be enough.) — Before Dean could collect his bruised balls and go talk to Sam—and okay, it was taking Dean a while, but you'd think he'd catch a fucking break and be given the time to work up to it—Castiel returned. "Dean—" Castiel began, then stopped. His head tilted the slightest bit, and his eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?" "What's wrong?" Dean asked mockingly. "What's wrong? I don't know, Cas, why don't you tell me." He held up the diary before tossing it onto the cheap motel table. Castiel's eyes were, as ever, in-fucking-scrutable as he regarded Dean. "Sam told you." "Sam didn't tell me shit," Dean said. "Neither of you had the damned decency to let me know I was a stupid, oblivious asshole, making a moron of myself over a fucking joke." "Dean," Castiel said. "You must know I never intended—" "Never intended what?" Dean interrupted, and his voice might have been the wronged, bitter tones of a thirteen year old being dumped for the first time, but he had the right, damn it. "Never intended for fucking with me to turn into actually fucking me? For me to find out before you were finished dicking me over? What, Cas?" Castiel was silent for a long time before he said, voice quiet, "My apologies. What can I do to make reparations?" "What can you—?" Dean couldn't help a choked, harsh laugh. "You know what? Fuck your reparations and fuck you. It's over. I don't—" He shook his head and ran a hand roughly through his hair. He couldn't even look at Castiel. Dean should've known, should've remembered how fucking heartless and spineless angels were. "Come get us for missions, but if you have anything to say, you say it to Sam. You and me? We're done." "If that's what you would like," Castiel said, and the asshole's voice was even, without inflection, not the least bit affected. "It is," Dean said tightly. "Very well." When Dean looked up, Castiel was gone. — (Castiel had gone to Sam, because that's what Dean had said, Dean or Sam, and it would have ruined the surprise to ask Dean himself. "Sam?" Castiel had asked. "I have a request. Call it a favor." Sam looked visibly irritated, but not, it seemed, with Castiel, because he said, "Sure, fine, whatever." He waved a hand. "Make it quick." "Dean has been . . . in somewhat low spirits lately. I have an idea for rectifying that." Castiel explained about what Dean had told him of practical jokes. By the time he finished, Sam was smiling, like the thought of cheering his brother in such a way was a balm for his own spirits. It pleased Castiel to see that the Winchester brothers were growing so close again, to see whatever damage done to their bond in the past months and their separation healing. "Yes," Sam said. "Yes, I'll help." At the time, Castiel wasn't pensive, or concerned, or worried in any way that it could go wrong. Castiel was just happy that he could do his part for Dean, that he could help spread some of that joy Dean's way.) — Sam, Dean was beginning to realize, was just as stupid as Dean himself was. "I don't see the big deal," Sam said. "I mean, yeah, I meant to tell you—tried to tell you a few times, actually—but as much as you freaked out at the diner, it's not like you haven't pranked someone yourself. I can remember a few things you pulled that were so much worse than some glitter and Lisa Frank stickers. I even thought you knew at first, considering what you did to my shower. Ruby wouldn't have se—talk with me for a week." Dean's brain skipped right over all near references to Ruby and sex, because his brain had more important things going on than being scarred by mention of his brother's shower sexcapades. "You didn't know," Dean said, and if his chest felt hollow, like all the goopy bits had been scraped out to make the fillings for some despair pie—like pumpkin, but bleaker—at least there was the fact that his brother hadn't known, that Sam wouldn't do that to him. "Know what?" Sam asked slowly, gaze gone considering, and Dean made the decision right there that, okay, he couldn't have almost anything he wanted, but one thing he was going to give himself was an out to this conversation. "Nothing," Dean said. Then, making an exaggerated face of reconsideration, he intoned, steady and serious as he could manage, "I just thought you knew. About Cas and my big, gay love." Sam grinned. "Right. How could I have missed it?" "I don't know," Dean said. "Maybe you need glasses, Sammy. Surely you saw my moonlight serenade during that werewolf case. Or maybe when I picked Cas a bouquet from that field in the middle of that battle for a seal? Come on, you must've seen when I got down on one knee and proposed in the middle of Bobby's wrecking yard." Sam laughed, and Dean felt the tense muscles of his own strained smile ease somewhat, even as those in his chest clenched tighter still. "Yes," Sam agreed. "I have no idea how I missed your epic romance." "I don't know. Love is blind," Dean said, blase, like he didn't care at all, "and so are you." — ("Angel?" Ruby asked, sidling up next to him. "Don't," Castiel held up a hand. "Please. Don't." Ruby's eyes narrowed, but she swallowed back her questions, was already pretty damn sure of the answers. Maybe no one else had realized where this was going, but Ruby had expected something like this from the start, when Castiel had carefully drawn in hearts and penned in the word "forever" like they were sigils he had to get just right, and the next day Dean had tried again to introduce him to the wonders of pie. Ruby was a demon—was one of the best fucking demons there was—but she'd been a human first. Castiel was largely clueless, and Dean, human or not, was largely oblivious, but Ruby had understood. She understood now, as she stood quietly next to Castiel until the Winchesters came back and Castiel disappeared. Ruby had been wrong about one thing, and one thing only: it had finally stopped being funny.) — "Here's the thing," Ruby said, sliding into the booth and stealing Dean's slice of peach pie, like she felt hadn't been living up to her demon reputation and needed to put a few extra ticks in the evil column. "Angels, demons, we don't really tend to get attached. Me and Sam? That's an exception, not a rule." If Dean was expecting a "suck it up; angels don't get human emotions, and you shouldn't have expected anything else" speech, that wasn't what he actually received. "Castiel," Ruby said, and now she was looking at Dean with a hard, unforgiving expression, "is, by some mystery of cosmic chance, important to me, and God alone knows how—seriously, ineffable is all that comes to mind here—but you're important to him." "Are you giving me the 'you break his heart, I break your legs' speech?" Dean asked disbelievingly as Ruby took a huge bite, demolishing in one go a third of the pie. Dean would be offended at Ruby's threatening tone—and, worse, pie theft—if he weren't in a state of shock. How was this his life? "If I'd given you that speech, your kneecaps would be tiny, shattered pieces," Ruby said. "I'm giving you the 'you're fucking up your life and made the angel cry' speech." "Castiel doesn't know how to cry," Dean said on autopilot. How the hell did a demon and an angel become friends? Also, was Ruby using demon pie-eating super powers? She'd taken another huge bite, and the pie slice was reduced to a third its original size. "You should make sure it stays that way," Ruby said. "For an angel, he's a pretty fast learner." She stood up. "And that's about all that disgusting heart-to-heart shit I can deal with. I'm off to fuck your brother until the sugary taste is gone." It wasn't enough Ruby had to break his brain; she had to add scarring images like the worst of cherries on a what-the-fuck sundae. And she took with her the rest of Dean's pie. — ("I," Ruby said, stalking toward Sam and gripping his shirt to pull him in close, "have been a very good girl." "Have you, now?" Sam asked with a grin, picking her up and whirling her around to walk them toward the bed. "Yes," Ruby said, grinding her hips against Sam's with intent. "I really, really have.") — "Cas, wait," Dean said, gripping Castiel's shoulder before he could follow his new modus operandi of getting the hell out of dodge after helping Sam and Dean hold off Hell another day. Castiel stilled immediately, and his voice was careful as he asked, "What do you need, Dean?" "Do you—" Dean moved his hand from Castiel's shoulder to settle light and uncertain against the side of his neck. "If you could do it all over again, would you dick me over this time?" Dean didn't know what he wanted from the question, how he wanted Castiel to react; Dean just knew that he needed to know. Castiel's stare in return was inscrutable as ever; it was like trying to discern feelings from a brick wall. Dean was used to throwing himself at immovable objects and operating on sheer, stubborn willpower and inability to quit, but this was actually, actively ridiculous, even for him. "You're giving me somewhat mixed signals," Castiel replied finally. "I'm uncertain what you want from me." "You don't know what I want from you?" Dean demanded, and if he were being honest, he'd admit he was maybe overreacting, his anger over the top in reaction to such a simple statement, but one, honesty was overrated, and two, Castiel was infuriating. "I've been nothing but straight with you!" Then, "Okay, not straight, exactly, but—" Now Castiel looked confused, and only more-so with every word, and Dean sighed, gave up. "Never mind." Dean let go of Castiel's neck, let his hand drop to his side as he took several steps back. "Never mind. Just—forget about it." "No," Castiel said, and now, finally, some emotions were beginning to bleed through his steady voice. Prominent was bewilderment, like Castiel had no idea what he was saying or why. "I don't want to forget about it." Castiel crossed the space between them and brought his hand up to rest on Dean's neck in a mirror image of Dean's position before. "Dean, I am asking, in all seriousness and with no knowledge or even the slightest inkling of your answer, what you want from me. Tell me what you need." And Dean hated this discussing feelings shit, had done his best to avoid it for weeks, but it wasn't like that had gotten him anywhere. Then again, that didn't mean he was going first. "I need to know what the hell you were thinking." Because this was Castiel, Dean knew he would have to be clear, to specify, "I need to know why you didn't just fucking tell me." To his surprise, Castiel didn't dodge the question. "I didn't want it to be over," Castiel said. "All I wanted was to make you happy." Oh my God, Dean thought. We are the stupidest people ever. Castiel's thumb kept sliding back and forth along the tendon of Dean's neck, but otherwise he was still, obviously waiting for Dean's answer. Dean could have said, "Yeah, great job there," or, "You are such a girl," or, "All I wanted was you," but Dean hated that feelings shit, and if it had caused problems before, not talking about it, at least now Dean knew. Dean leaned in, and Castiel tilted his head, and they were kissing, hesitant, and kind of chaste, and so sweet that if Ruby were watching, she'd probably have gagged. Then Dean thought, okay, just in case— "There's nothing else you're not telling me, right?" Dean asked. "Nothing else that's going to turn around and bite us in the ass?" Castiel hesitated. Dean glared. "The only thing—" Castiel stopped and gave Dean a look that said he wasn't really sure Dean wanted to know. Fuck that. "Tell me." "I love you," Castiel said, his voice making the words a simple fact rather than a revelation. Dean choked. Castiel brushed their lips together, spoke low against Dean's mouth between kisses. "It's okay, Dean. I don't need or expect you to feel the same." Castiel was going to make Dean say it. "I—" Dean managed. "It's okay," Castiel said and mouthed at Dean's jaw, at his neck. Dean pushed Castiel away and blurted out, "I love you, you stupid asshole." Castiel froze. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not saying that shit again." Castiel actually fucking beamed at Dean. "Dean, I—" and there was no way in hell Dean was listening to the end of that sentence, because it was all going to end in another chick flick moment, and Dean's head was going to explode. Dean pulled their mouths together, and there was nothing chaste in it this time, nothing hesitant or sweet. Okay, maybe a little bit, and maybe something bubbled up in Dean's chest, bright and happy, but—"Goddamnit." Dean was ruined. "Don't blaspheme," Castiel said, almost absently, and went for Dean's pants. — ("You shouldn't have threatened Dean," Castiel said. "Don't thank me all at once," Ruby said, and okay, she wasn't that kind of girl, but it took a whole lot of effort to turn her smile into a smirk. "So how did the make-up sex go? It's not my favorite, but—" Castiel was blushing. Castiel was actually blushing. Ruby nudged their shoulders together. "That good, huh?" "What are you doing to my angel?" Dean asked gruffly as he and Sam walked out of the gas station loaded up with drinks and snacks. "Your angel?" Ruby asked. "Ruby," Sam said warningly. "You can wander off anytime. I'm stuck with him when Dean throws a bitchfest." "I'll bitchfest your face," Dean muttered, but Castiel had crossed over to him to help carry all the Hohos, and Dean's heart didn't seem to be in it. When Castiel's hands brushed Dean's, Dean even smiled.) — Dean made Castiel go through the entire diary with him for what was actually true, and what was a Ruby inspired lie. "What about this one?" Dean asked, pointing. "I was told," Castiel said slowly, looking at the diary's checklist, "that it was an abbreviation, like BFF." He looked back up at Dean. "Am I to understand this is not the case?" And Dean? Dean couldn't help himself, because Ruby was one evil, glorious, kind of hilarious bitch. He started laughing so hard he had to lie down. "Dean? Dean? What's so funny?" Dean couldn't stop laughing. "Dean?"

12:00 AM - 1:30 AM You've got Stanley Butters to visit still, and you figure it's maybe time to pop on over. Focus on some work instead of your own head for a while. You cut through the cemetery and hike over the half-wall along the south side. It's only about ten blocks away, and you make it there before you know it. Three houses down, you see a man come out of the house whose address is written on the paper in your hand. Down beneath the address is a quickly jotted down description of Stanley, and, yeah, it matches. He's short and thin-boned, like a hard wind will tumble him down the street, and he's balding. The glasses are too big for his thin face, and they keep slipping down his nose. You scoot to the side, and try to decide between confronting him now, or letting him go so that you can poke around inside his house. But then you see his left hand. Actually, you see what's in his left hand and you shove the paper back in your jeans pocket. You reach him as he's unlocking his car. Spin him around and slam him against the side of the vehicle. He's shorter than you are. A lot shorter. You glare down at him and then pry the Orb of Thessulah out of his hand and shove it into your coat pocket--and, damn, the pockets are nice and roomy. Bonus. "So," you say casually. "What exactly were you planning on doing with that?" "You're hurting me," he cries out. You roll your eyes and grab a hold of his coat and slam him back against the car again. "That would be the point. Hurting you. A lot worse, if you don't give me an answer." His glasses are slipping down his face, and you get a look at his eyes. Desolate. Tear-filled. "Give it back," he whispers. "I need it." "Why?" Another slam against the car when he doesn't answer right away, but it doesn't get him talking. "Fine. We can go back to the hurting." His body starts shaking when you slip the knife into view, and it takes everything in you not to drop it and run away in a panic. This is not like it used to be. You are not like you used to be. And the nausea you're feeling is proof of that. The blade comes to rest against his throat and you look him up and down. "Don't seem like a champion mojo-maker. Do you even know what the orb is for?" "Yes, and I need it. You don't understand..." No, you don't, and that's the goddamn point. "Right. You've got a really important reason to trap some poor soul's...well, soul," you finish awkwardly. "Let's have it." "Not trap," Stanley corrects you, a fanatical light coming to his pale green eyes. "Transport. You have to let me go." You frown and press the knife harder against his throat, just a shade more pressure and you'll be drawing blood. "Talk, and make it good." "I need it for Gina," he says earnestly. "For my Gina." And he collapses back against the car, the earnestness gone and replaced with...loss. You don't know how else to describe the look, and you don't really know how to handle it, either. This kind of thing is Tara's territory. The understanding and shit. "Why does Gina need it?" you ask cautiously. But Stanley shakes his head. "I...you...I'll show you. And then you'll see. And you'll understand why." He's broken. You know the signs. Broken people do desperate things. Really desperate things. You would know, wouldn't you? Just like you know that normal people can't even begin to fathom or guess at what the hell they might be. You've got a really bad feeling about Stanley's Gina. He's not going to be able to tell you, only show you. And unless you let him, you won't ever figure it out--you're not broken anymore, even if you're not entirely whole. The knife moves away from his neck, and you nod slowly. "Show me." He tries to get in his car, and you shake your head. "Gimme the keys." There are some bungee cords in the trunk and you bind his hands behind him, then wrap the slack around his torso so that his arms are pinned to his side. He's gone into some kind of shock or something, and you get him into the passenger seat easily enough. After you start the car and pull out onto the street you look at him. He's about as close to huddled as he can get, what with the way you've got him trussed. His voice is flat and dead when he gives you the first direction--make a right at the stop sign--and you decide against pushing him to just give you the destination. It's probably easier on him to take it in small steps, and if you can keep him somewhat in his head, you'll have a better chance of sorting this out. There's a nagging, sickening, clenching of your stomach when he tells you to turn right on Amelia St. You can see it in the distance. The blocky structure. The bright entrance signs. No. No. And, no. "You need to bear--" Yes. Yes. And, yes. Fuck. "To the right," you whisper, mouth dry. "I know." Your hands are white around the knuckles as you steer the car towards that building, and pull into the parking lot. You jerk into a parking spot so suddenly that Stanley tips to the side. You turn off the car and just stare at the hospital. You want to give Stanley the orb and walk away. You want to crush the orb and snap Stanley's neck. You want to curl into a ball and spend a while shaking like a loser. Basically, you don't know what the fuck you want to do. Without turning away from the hospital, you take out the knife and cut the bungee around his torso. "Try anything and you'll die," you tell him. "Let's go." There are vague, almost shapeless explanations in your head for why Stanley has brought you here, and you swallow thickly and wrap your arms around your waist. What you wouldn't give for Tara right about now. Tara at your side, forcing your arms away from your body so that she can hold your hand. And Spike. Spike at your back, ready to kick you in the ass if you start to falter. Fuck. Inside, the bile climbs up your throat the instant you inhale. It doesn't matter that you're breathing through your mouth now; you've already smelled it. Hospital. It's like acid in your throat. You follow Stanley like a zombie to the elevator, and when it starts to move he looks at the floor and says, "You're the Slayer, aren't you?" It startles you, and you spin towards him. He lifts his eyes and turns that stare on you. "I heard about you. When I was looking for..." He gestures in the general direction of your pocket. "Heard about a lot of things," he finishes softly. No doubt. You have no idea where he got the orb, but you figure he had to have hit the demon underground because the Magic Box is the only legitimate place to get one in Sunnydale. The elevator stops and he doesn't move. You hold the doors open and almost change your mind and let them close when you see the sign. It's the goddamn children's ward. Fuck fuck fuck. Stanley rouses himself finally and stumbles past you, and the two of you walk down the longest hallway ever. Seems like it takes fifteen minutes to get to the end, and during the trip you remember just how much fun life has gutting you every chance it gets. So you're not surprised when you see the little girl on the bed, and hear Stanley telling you that she's in a coma. She's behind a glass wall, and she's all alone; none of the beds on either side of her are occupied. There are all sorts of tubes going in and out of her, some with bags at the end, others with beeping machines. Her brown hair is limp and oily against the white of her pillow. Her skin is pale, so very pale. Not much sun in there for her to soak up. None at all, really. She's got Stanley's bone structure, all thin bird-like bones, but they look pretty on her. Delicate. Your throat is like sandpaper and it hurts to talk. "What...what happened to her?" Stanley touches a hand to the glass, and you turn away from Gina to look at him. Someone's home again. Someone who remembers that he didn't used to be broken. "Car accident. Diane--my wife--she died. Gina's been like this ever since. I want my little girl back, not trapped somewhere alone and scared." You finger the orb through the soft leather of your coat. "She's not," you breathe. "She's just...it's like sleeping, before the dreams come." He looks at you. "How do you know that?" "Eight months. That's how long it was for me. Woke up and didn't even know I'd been in one." His gaze goes to Gina again. "Could you hear people? They say she can..." You shrug. "Dunno. Wasn't anyone around to talk to me. But if they had...it would have gotten through." That's just bullshit. You don't know or believe any such thing. A part of you is well aware that your opinion might be a protective one--it doesn't matter that there was no one to talk to you, because you wouldn't have heard it anyway. You don't remember much from those months; it really was like that empty sleep that precedes dreams. Though, you actually did have a couple of dreams, which you've decided were Slayer dreams that couldn't be avoided even in a coma. It was nothingness, but it was only frightening after you got out. You woke up in some hidden away room, cuffed to the bed like the fugitive you were, and it felt like a day or a century had passed. And, oh god, you were so fucking cold that your teeth chattered for hours, enamel clacking against enamel in tune to the beat of your frantic heartbeat. And tired--you would have slept for a week straight if you hadn't been all turned around. Your fingers leave the orb and you watch the tears spill down Stanley's face. Crying could be bad or good. You've yet to figure out the subtleties of it. He rests his forehead against the glass and takes in a shuddering breath. "I miss them both so much. It should have been me. Not them." Survivor's guilt. You and Tara have talked about it because she's been through it. It's a bitch. You felt it yourself when you found out Wilkins was dead when you woke up. And, hey, you've just noticed that he also gets last name only treatment. Damn. "It's not up to you," you tell him. "All you can do is talk to her. Let her hear you. Be here when she wakes up." "They don't think she's going to," he chokes out. "It's been over a year and she hasn't changed. Nothing's changed." "You talk to her," you say again. "And you let her go if you have to. When you can." He breaks down, and there's nothing you can do for him except fix what he's already done and keep him from doing anything else. The rest...it's all on him to deal with himself. The two of you move to the chairs a few feet away and sit down. There's a newspaper on the seat next to you, and the headline catches your eye. Stanley doesn't notice it, but your eyes stay planted firmly on it as you ask him, "How old is Gina?" "She'll be six next month." You've been torn by two conflicting reactions before, but never like you are right this second. On the one hand, you get it. You get it to the point that you think it's right. On the other hand, you're so fucking angry and disgusted that you have to clench your hands into fists to keep from tearing Stanley's head off his shoulders. Neither of those options are viable (from the Latin, vita, meaning life and word of the day three months from now--sometimes you read ahead), and you don't know what the fuck to do. It's such a bad idea, the one you know Stanley has come up with. So fucking bad. He knows it too, because he's not a bastard, just a man who's lost too fucking much. Angel got through to you because he understood where you were coming from. You understand where Stanley's coming from, but you don't really have any experiences you can bring up to demonstrate it. Plus, it's not about Stanley. It's about Gina. That? Yeah, you've got experiences you can bring up. But they don't really translate well since Gina's an innocent girl, and you were, uh, not an innocent girl. Well, then. You'll just have to make some shit up, won't you? You're pretty good at that. You start off with, "I was angry when I woke up. And I did something...creepy. And really stupid. And did I mention creepy already? Because it was." He's not really paying attention to you, so you'll have to drop the bomb now. Screw the lead up. "I switched bodies with someone." His head snaps around and he's gaping at you, his eyes wide and panicked because you've caught on to what he's up to. "But who I was?" you continue. "It wasn't just in my soul, or my memories. It was in my body too. Scars I have. The way my eyes droop a little. Texture of my hair. Shape of my hands. I didn't realize that until then. Bodies aren't just packages, you know? Not just shells." Stanley looks down again, and you glance at the headline. Six Year Old Julie Thompson Missing. "Gina's going to be confused, and she'll go insane," you state plainly, glad to see Stanley flinch. "And Julie's parents are going to spend the rest of their lives the way you are now. And somehow I don't think Diane will look down and be pleased about any of it." "Oh, god," Stanley whispers, the realization of the consequences settling on his face, leaving him horrified and pretty damn freaked out. "What have I done?" You suck in a breath. Okay, yeah, so there goes the hope that he hadn't actually gotten around to doing anything yet. "Where is she? Where's Julie?" you ask sharply. Stanley lets out a tremulous breath. "She's at my house." You get to your feet. "Let's go." You're determined on your way out, and Stanley is still horrified as he trails after you. "I'm a monster," he whispers when you get into the car. He's not tied up again because the bungee is useless, and you don't really think it's necessary any longer. "You're not a monster," you refute and start the car. "You just love too hard. It's not a crime." "Kidnapping is." Yeah, so it is. You back out of the spot and point the car in the direction of the parking lot's exit. You've apparently unleashed something in Stanley, because he's talking now. "She never saw me. She was playing in her backyard. Alone. I read the words and I had the orb in my hand. Then I just walked up behind her and touched her back. She crumpled." You can't listen to this. If he goes on much longer you're going to run out of your very limited store of understanding. "Stop talking," you snap. "Just be quiet." He doesn't say another word during the drive, and then you're both walking up the porch steps. His hands are shaking when he unlocks the front door and flips on a light. The interior of the house is like an advertisement for Martha Stewart Living. And you aren't going to think about how you know about Martha Stewart. But you do, and it does. In the living room, you see the cute black-haired girl lying on the sofa. Julie doesn't look anything like Gina; Stanley was probably more concerned with getting the age right, rather than appearance. She could be sleeping, but there's...an absence in her body. Even when Spike goes all creepy still there's still a sense of...something. Life of some sort. And it's missing in Julie. There's no sense of anything coming from her body. She might as well be dead. Stanley picks up a piece of paper from the coffee table and holds out his hand for the orb. Yeah, right. You arch a brow and hold out your own hand. "I'll do it." He reluctantly hands it over. There are three separate paragraphs, each with their own heading. It looks like Latin. You don't understand more than the odd word, but you could speak it and be understood. Much to your dismay, you've actually picked up a few things during your tenure on the Hellmouth, and correct Latin pronunciation is one of them. But, three paragraphs. One to remove a soul and store it in the orb, one to remove a soul to the ether, and one to put a soul into a body? Seems like a good guess, but you're not leaving Julie's soul in the hands of your guess. Your cell has a camera in it. Even though you and the others are all on the same plan, yours is the only one that has that nifty feature. That's because your phone got crushed to bits by a Y'Fow demon last week, and when you went to get it replaced, you found out they stopped making your old model. Tara's supposed to get everyone else upgraded next week. You snap a picture of the paper and email it to Olson's home computer, then hit the two button combo for his apartment. Josh answers, sounding entirely wide-awake. "I emailed you a picture. I need Olson to do a quick and dirty translation." He groans. "Any cue at all what obscure demon language it might be?" "Latin." "Oh. That'll be quick, then. He'll call when he's got something done." You hang up without saying goodbye, and Olson calls back before you can clip the phone to your belt again. "I'm assuming you're with Mr. Butters?" he says archly. "You were supposed to call." "Yell at me later," you mumble. "Translate now." "No need. Josh researched various ways the orb could be used earlier today, so we already have information on this particular set of spells." That makes things a whole lot easier. "What do they do?" He confirms what you already guessed, and you find out that the third paragraph is the one that will send Julie's soul back into her body. "What is the situation with Butters?" Olson asks when he's done explaining. "I'll let you know once I do." You hang up, not quite sure why you didn't tell Olson about everything, and with the nagging suspicion that you're not going to. Stanley eyes are focusing anywhere but at Julie, and he's got a look about him that you think you recognize. He looks like you felt when you finally shattered to pieces in an alley in Los Angeles. It's a sucky thing, shattering like that. But it's the only way a person can put himself back together again. There's a small pad and a pen on the end table next to the couch. You might be about to do a really stupid or a really good thing. You're not sure that it matters which it is, because you don't think there's really anything else that you can do. Or, actually, anything else that you're willing to do. You scribble down a name and address and then you approach Stanley. He's sitting on the loveseat, head in his hands, and you offer him the address, which he takes with confusion. "Raymond White?" he reads. "He's a psychiatrist," you tell him. "Knows all about those things you found out about, too. So, you know, he won't toss you in a padded cell when you talk about them." Stanley studies you carefully. "I don't understand. They said you'd kill me if you found out." You sigh heavily. "You're in a bad place, and you need help. I'm giving you a chance to get it." You narrow your eyes and point at him. "You only get one." He shakes his head and tries to give back the address. "I kidnapped--" "Look," you interrupt impatiently. "She didn't see you and she's not aware of anything right now. Go see White. Stay out of trouble. I'll know if you fuck up." Stanley finally nods, shock settling in, and you go the couch and lift Julie in your arms. "Now, where does she live?" "Three blocks over on Sienna. Four twenty-one." Stanley walks you to the door and opens it. Before you step outside, he catches your eyes with his. "Thank you. I don't know why you're doing it, but I won't...I won't mess up." You nod. "Good. And you'll go see White, too. That's not negotiable." "I will." He looks down at Julie and flinches. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "So very sorry." You traipse through backyards instead of the streets, Stanley Butters left behind to try to make some sense of his life again. You hope he does. At four twenty-one Sienna, the lights are all on. You can tell even from the backyard. You drop to your knees at the steps leading up the back porch and lay Julie carefully on the soft grass. Keeping one eye on the house, you move Julie onto her stomach, and then you take out the orb and the paper with the spells on it. You're whispering, and you're speaking the words slowly, like each one is its own sentence, but you're pronouncing everything right and when you say the last word, the orb flares brightly. It's Julie's soul. It's Julie. You lift the orb to your face and peer at it. It's beautiful, which is strange because it really doesn't look like anything more than a bit of light. But there's weight to it. Substance. And there's depth to it. Layers. It's this little bit of substantially layered light that makes all the difference for Angel and Spike, in entirely different ways. "Hey, Jules," you say quietly. "Time to go home." You change position so that you're crouching next to her, and you have your escape route in sight. With a deep breath, you touch the back of her neck. Her soul drifts out of the orb, crawls down your hand and spreads over Julie like a second skin. It sits there for a moment, on top of her, and then its like it just sinks into her. You bolt. From the shadows, you watch her sit up and stare around the yard in confusion and then fear. She scrambles up the steps to the back door. It's locked, and she starts crying, feet and hands batting at the barrier. You watch her father open it and almost fall down in relief, tears running unabashedly down his face when he sees his little girl. He jerks her into his arms, holding her like he's never going to let her go ever again, and he trips inside, calling out to his wife. You wander away, feeling melancholy for no reason you can understand. It's a good thing you've done. For Stanley and Gina; for the Thompsons and Julie. Maybe the melancholy is because you know it might not stay good. That Stanley might lose his mind entirely. That Julie might be irrevocably fucked up for life. That Gina might spend twenty years in that hospital bed. Everything is only fleetingly easy, and everyone can be okay for that moment without even trying. It's the after that's hard. It's in the after that things go to shit for real. Patrolling isn't really appealing right now. You want to do something that might actually keep things good longer than just tonight for Stanley and the others. So you pick up your pace to a quick jog and head over to Willie's. The conversation in the bar comes to an abrupt stop when you walk in. That's a little unusual. Most of the time you storm in and the energy level skyrockets as the demonic customers get ready for a fight, should they be the lucky one chosen to pummel information out of. But you're moving slowly and deliberately, and they know that they'll get death, not a fight, if you turn your attention on them. So does Willie, and he hurries up to you, already fretting. "I just repaired the damage from your last visit," he whines. "Maybe you could take care of business outside?" You glare down at him, and he starts to twitch. "Human guy," you say flatly. "He was looking for an Orb of Thessulah. What do you know about him?" Willie blinks. "Yeah, I heard about him. Don't know his name, though. He wasn't giving it out. Everyone just called him Rube. I don't know if anyone helped him. I swear!" That doesn't matter. That's not why you're here. The far wall catches your eye. Looks like Willie made another change when he patched the place up. He scurries along at your side as you go to the whiteboard. "Blooming Onions!" "Goat Spleens!" "Taqoep Eggs!" "Ask about our daily blood type!" Interesting...in a way that's really fucking creepy. You clear away the colored words with quick swipes of the eraser that's on the tray along the bottom of the board. Willie watches you warily. You're way more unpredictable than Buffy ever was, and it's always put him off balance. The marker squeaks as you write, because you're pressing the felt tip so damn hard against the bright white surface, and if you keep on leaving messages everywhere, you're going to have to start carting around writing implements and poster board. "Spread the word--anyone who even thinks of talking to the Rube who was looking for an Orb of Thessulah will take a year to die. If they're lucky," Willie reads nervously, eyeing you with trepidation. "Make sure the non-English ones know the deal," you tell him. "I'm not bluffing or over exaggerating." You tilt your head to the side and pretend to consider it. "In fact, I'm probably under exaggerating." "Right," he says emphatically. "Rube is persona non grata. Totally of limits. Got it. So will everyone else." You scan the bar and eyes slide away from yours. Yeah. They get it. Good. "Got our order ready?" you ask Willie. He goes behind the bar and brings you a small brown paper bag. There are two pints of human blood inside. You guys keep it on hand in case Spike takes a beating and needs to heal faster than animal blood lets him. You weren't too keen on the idea of having it in your fridge, but the alternative is to inevitably watch Tara slice herself open and force her blood down his throat--no matter who tries to stop her. "Hope I don't see you soon," Willie calls out when you leave. No one ever wants to see you soon. You blow out a frustrated breath. So, yeah. It's a little strange, this helping without slaying. Not really what you're used to. Satisfying in a way, but not nearly as satisfying as beating the crap out of something. Also, you've had your fill of the past rearing its head tonight. Xander was bad enough. Revisiting your Coma Glory Days was a bit much. And you can't help but wonder...were you really shoveling shit at Stanley with your talk about bodies not just being shells? You thought so at the time, but it's starting to make sense. Question is, does it just make sense, or is it the truth about how you felt in Buffy's body? You stood in front of a mirror and exercised her face. You contorted it into expressions you'd never seen on her. You schooled it into your own expressions. You let it fall naturally into her expressions. The only reason things got all fucked up was because you were all fucked up. If you had just left town right away, Buffy and the others would never have been able to find you. Instead, you let Riley and your Slaying impulses confuse you. For the better, yeah, since one thing led to another and you finally got to that alley in Los Angeles. But if you were entirely sane. If there wasn't anything in you to be confused and broken about. Being in Buffy's body would have been fine. Wouldn't it have? You're standing right out front of Willie's, and you suddenly have to move. Move or have an embarrassing breakdown. You walk so fast you might as well be running, but you're not running because this isn't something you can run from. You told Stanley Butters something that was nakedly true. Strip away the bullshit, strip away the ability to avoid thinking about it, and that's what you're left with. Hard, cold, bare-assed truth. That there was something of Buffy in her body, in her shell, and you knew it. You felt the parts of her that were in her own scars, and her own hands, and her own hair. And you coveted them. At first because you wanted to destroy her entirely and to do that you had to carve them away from the inside. But then it wasn't about that anymore. You wanted those things for yourself, because they were what was missing. And you tried so damn hard, didn't you? Followed the pull of what was left of Buffy and fled the airport. Tried to trick the vestiges of Buffy into believing that you were really Buffy with your actions. They couldn't be fooled, though, even before you came face-to-face with yourself. It was about more than just walking around with a different perspective, and if she hadn't switched the two of you back, both of you would have been insane instead of just the one of you. Because the parts of you still in your body would have eventually driven Buffy over the edge, just as surely as her parts did the same to you--only it happened really fast for you because you didn't have all that far to go. You really wish you'd snagged more than just the one cig from the Xander stand-in, because you need some nicotine pretty damn badly now. * 1:30 AM - 3:30 AM You turn a corner and run smack into someone--no, something's chest. You jump back and look up, your face incredulous. It's the fucking Y'Fow demon that smashed your phone last week and got away when you were taking care of the rest of his buddies! Goddamn. And he's just as ugly as you remember, with his muddy green thick skin and pointy protrusions (alliteration, the word is cool and so is the meaning). There is one long moment that you both stand there and stare at each other like fools. Then he tries to run. You set the paper bag from Willie's on the ground and tackle him before he goes two steps. The fight is dirty. Violent. You beat him to a pulp--literally. He's bits and parts when you finally stumble back from the mess on the sidewalk and take in a deep breath. Just like with the coat, you know Giles would entirely disapprove of what you've just done. Olson, on the other hand, has subtly hinted at you from his first day in Sunnydale that you should do shit like this. Vent the anger, and the violence. Get it out on what deserves it so that it doesn't get misdirected. Lately, you don't need to do it much. In fact, the last time you did it was right after Tara came. Sure, you'll sometimes get a little gung-ho in the middle of a fight, but this is different. You think you'll always need to do this at least every once in a while. The anger in you...it'll probably never be gone. Ever. You spent too long being a victim to things that you couldn't stop. Alcoholism. Neglect. Your own mind. Maybe some day you'll stop and think about it and realize it's been years since you last took it out on some demon or other. But not anytime soon. You scrape the flesh and orange blood to the curb with your feet and leave them for the street cleaner to take care of. Sunnydale's got trucks that rival Boston's, with the brushes and the water and shit. Greeny won't be any trouble for them to handle since you've conveniently turned him into slush. The blood for Spike really needs to be refrigerated. Even though the last thing you want to do right now is go back to the apartment and see Spike, the first thing you want to do right now is go back to the apartment and see Tara. Hell, okay, yeah, even Spike. The two of them together somehow always manage to level you out. Things seem to have tilted the other way for you, and since you suddenly realize that at some point tonight you subconsciously decided to forego (that's a Giles word--one of his favorites when lecturing you) getting bouncy for a while, you really need some time with Spike and Tara. So if you go home and wake Tara, it's a sure bet that she and Spike will distract you without even trying. You figure it'll be pretty easy to convince Tara to put aside sleep for videos, and she'll only need to look at Spike and he'll stay, no matter how pissed he is at you. Time was, Spike was the one who distracted you. Actually, you distracted each other. Every once in a while it's still you and him. Generally at his place in deference to Tara's diurnal nature. But as rare as it was when he first got back, it's been even more rare the last two weeks. It was twice a week in the beginning, and recently it's been zero times. Spike has been pretty scarce lately all around, now that you think about it. Hasn't really joined you on routine patrols, but he was there last week to hunt down the Y'Fow demons. Hasn't been hanging around after he walks Tara home, either. You've seen ore more tonight than you have in the last week. Maybe he has things going on, but--no, fuck that. It's Spike. He doesn't have things going on because most of the demons in this town want to kill him on sight; the other half he tries to avoid because he's fucked them and Spike isn't much for going back for seconds. So, yeah, he's been avoiding you. You're okay with that for the most part, but you hope that won't be the case tonight. Your phone rings as you're picking up the blood from the ground. "Aw, shit," you groan, knowing it's Olson. Probably a pissed off Olson. It turns out to be the apartment phone number that shows up on your phone's display. Huh. "Yeah?" "Hey, it's me," Tara says. "What are you doing up?" you ask, staring to walk. "Olson called. About those spells. Um, he was supposed to call when you called him back. I figured you forgot." "Yeah, well, you figured right. Why'd he call you anyway?" "He said you were, you know, your usual informative self," she says with amusement. "He wanted to give me a heads up in case you needed help." "Nah, it's--well, I took care of it." Tara's always perceptive, even if she doesn't always make known all the little things she picks up on, and she's also lived with you for a while. That little slip up, the hitch in your voice, would have slid right on past anyone else. Well, except Spike, because he's also perceptive and he's also lived with you. "Hm," she murmurs. Spike gets pissed as all fuck when Tara does that Hm thing. You don't. You like it. It means she's picked up on most, if not all, of the nuances of what was and was not said. It also means she's not going to slam you with a million questions. "I'm heading home. Got the good shit from Willie's when I was in the area." You hear Spike in the background, then Tara tells him, "No, you can't continue watching...that here." Could be one of the horror movies, but you don't think so. It's most likely some Pay Per View porn because Spike gets a kick out of Tara's disapproval and annoyance when she has to pay the cable bill. "And pull up your zipper," she adds so sweetly that you have to snicker. Her pleased tone of voice when she talks to you again means she actually managed to turn the tables on Spike, which doesn't happen very often. "Well, I'm up and I see some more movies. Should I bring my blanket downstairs?" Late night movie watching is done with the lights out and Tara curled up on the couch in her pajamas under a blanket. She manages to get you under there with her sometimes. Once in a blue moon, she'll spread it over Spike and he'll actually let her. "Yeah. I'll call Olson and let him know to stand down. See you in a few." You keep things simple for Olson. "I took care of it," you say when you call. "Took the spell from him and got you another Orb for the shop." "What was he planning to do with it?" You pause for a moment. "He was trying to fix something he shouldn't have been. We had a talk. He's cool." It's Olson's turn to pause. You don't usually do the cryptic non-answer bullshit. In fact, you never do it. You always give him a blow-by-blow run down on the mechanics of things. "Interesting," he says slowly. "Oh, and I ran into the last Y'Fow demon, too. He's gooped on Clawson. They've got street cleaning in the morning." "Gooped? Do you feel better?" he asks easily. You make a non-committal grunty noise. "Night." When you get to the apartment, lights are already off and there's a Tara curled up in the center of the sofa. Purple material, strewn with white clouds, peeks out from the gaps of her gray fleece blanket. She's got her hair in a pony-tail, but it was carelessly put up and there are pieces of hair she missed, and bumps of uneven gathering in the front. The television screen is on the main menu of one of the less bloody DVDs you picked out. "Starting without me?" you ask, setting the blood on the table by the door and then emptying your pockets and belt clip. Spike strolls out of the kitchen, two plates of food in his hands. He passes one to Tara and sits the other on the coffee table. "Just getting ready for you," Tara replies. She seems pretty damn awake and you kind of feel bad, except she's got a little sparkle to her tonight. She gets that sometimes, the sparkle. Like life is really good and solid, and she's happy. You have no idea what triggers it, and tonight is no exception. Getting woken by Olson for possible trouble when she's got to be up early to break up with her girlfriend isn't really sparkle worthy. But there are a lot of things about Tara that elude (different than allude--they're homilies or homophones or something) you. Not about her personality, or her motivation. But the faint subtleties of how it all works together. In that way you know Spike better than you know Tara; there's little that's vague or subtle about Spike most of the time. In fact, there are things about Spike that you know better than Tara does. You and he have walked the dark paths, you and he have violence in you that you have to keep under control so that it doesn't overtake you. You grab the bag of blood and offer it to Spike as you're hanging up your coat, and he heads back into the kitchen with it. "Can you take this stuff over to the shop tomorrow when you're out?" you ask Tara, gesturing at the Orb and the spells. "Mm hmm." You plop next to her in your usual spot; it's always Tara in the center, you to her right, and Spike to her left. Olson and Josh are always relegated to the other furniture in the living room when they're here. You lean down to unlace your boots and peer up at Tara. "You want to watch something else?" "Nope, I'm good," she assures you. "I don't like this kind of stuff for movie nights. You know, because of the...fights." Josh and Olson both hate slasher flicks. "But late night, curled up in the dark? Perfect." "Right you are," Spike agrees as he comes back in and sits down. "Except for the curled up part." The coffee table shoots towards your face as you're pulling one of your boots off, and you jerk up. Spike unhooks his foot from the opposite table leg and sets his feet on the surface. Well, okay, your food is closer now. You pick it up and toe your other boot off, then slide your feet up and mimic Spike's position. Tara's feet join yours and Spike's a moment later, her blanket tossed across her legs. She's got the remote. She always has the remote because she says it's a necessity when watching anything with you and Spike. There've been a few fights, and one all-out wrestling match for it in the past. Tara won rights to it for all time from Spike when she kicked his legs out from under him, straddled his chest, took it from his hands, and refused to concede that it was unfair of her to do that to someone who couldn't actually fight back. Spike said he'd never been prouder of her, and you and he stood next to each other, wiping imaginary tears from your eyes and bemoaning how quickly they grow up. "Play the movie, luv," Spike tells Tara. She doesn't. "The kitchen light is still on." Spike snorts. "Turn it off, then. I've been the gofer enough for tonight," he says, gesturing at her food. Tara turns to him and since her hair is up, you can see her sweet smile and big eyes. Spike stares at her, unmoved, and her head starts to turn to you. "I killed the Y'Fow tonight, and I'm taking a well deserved break," you say before she can try any of her wiles. "Did you?" Spike says with interest, leaning forward to look at you. "Put up a lot of fight?" You shrug. "I didn't really give him a chance." Tara groans as she wrestles herself out from under her blanket and gets to her feet. "The Mayor said that our taxes are going to go up if they have to replace another street cleaning machine," she sighs on her way to the kitchen. "Like that much matters to us," Spike reminds her. The kitchen light clicks off and she's on her way back to the sofa. "Hey, I pay taxes," she insists. "Not as much as you should," you point out. "Olson shuffles most of your salary under the table." She shrugs and settles on the couch again. "I can't keep my scholarship if I make over a certain amount of money." "Which you do," Spike drawls. "Watcher pays you three times the going rate for a cashier." Tara nods and starts the movie. "He needs a hobby to spend his money on, I think. Maybe we can get him interested in something?" "He already has a hobby," you snicker. "Us." Doing something that requires you to sit still and be quiet? Probably not the best idea, because you can't seem to do either. Forty-five minutes into the movie, Tara has pretty much scooted as close to Spike as she can get in an effort to avoid your fidgeting and twitching. "What do you think they use for blood? Ketchup?" you ask when the slasher monster makes hamburger meat out of some poor dumb blond. "Probably some special...industry stuff," Tara says absently. A woman is running through some woods and you snort in disgust. "They always fall, don't they? What's up with that? How hard is it to just fucking run?" "Save your questions until the end of the presentation," Spike snaps. You watch the movie for another ten minutes and suddenly you frown when you hear a strange clacking noise. You're looking around for the source when Tara reaches over to clamp her hand on your thigh. You've been shaking your leg, and since your feet are on the coffee table, your fork has been jumping around on your empty plate. "I'll put those in the kitchen," you mutter, jumping up and dislodging Tara's hand. You take her plate and yours in and rinse them off. The dishwasher is on, so you poke your head around the partition. "Hey, can I interrupt this on 'rinse'?" Tara frowns. "Yeah, but it's almost done. Just, uh...leave them. In the sink." While you're in there, you might as well put away the ziti that Spike left out. There's barely a quarter of a pan left, so you haul out a plastic container and scoop the remainder into it. You toss it in the fridge, then set about cleaning out the pan so that the sauce doesn't set. Might as well do the plates while you're at it. And there's some sauce on the counter where the pain was, so you wipe that up. Then you straighten the stool by the counter at the partition and head back into the living room. Spike is glaring murderously at the screen. "What happened?" you ask curiously. Tara stops the movie. "Well, that's kind of what I was, uh, wondering." You frown and she raises her brows. "What happened tonight? You seem a little..." she waves her hand and shrugs. You stiffen and shake your head. "Nothing much. Let's finish the movie." "No," Tara says quietly. You grin at her. "It was an easy night, babe," you say easily. "No big." Tara leans across Spike to turn on a lamp. Spike has his head resting against the back of the sofa, eyes on the ceiling and a muscle jumping in his cheek. Very, very angry Spike. "Faith, why did Stanley Butters want the Orb?" Tara asks softly. The grin leaves your face. "Drop it, Ta," you say sharply. "Just put the damn movie back on." She pushes her way out of the tangle of her blankets and gets up. You take a step back and then stop. She stands in front of you, concern etched on her features. "Are you...are you okay?" she whispers. You swallow and her brows draw together. "Oh, Faith." You see her hand coming towards your face. Small, gentle Tara hand. It'll settle on your cheek and you will crumble--like Julie did when Stanley touched her back. You won't be able to remain upright in the face of Tara's softness because it'll seep into where you don't want it to go. She stumbles back when you slap her hand away before it reaches you, and you're not sure which of you is more surprised. You didn't--you didn't tell your hand to do that. You didn't. It just--it was instinct. She looks like you just killed her puppy, betrayed her to her core. And maybe you have, because you didn't hold your strength back all that much since it wasn't a deliberate move on your part. You step forward and flinch when Tara skitters away. Okay. Fine. It's...fine. Really. It was only a matter of time before you somehow clued Tara in to what a cunt you are. You've been waiting for this, haven't you, and now it's here. "Let me see it, pet," you hear Spike say and you blink. He's got Tara's hand in his, poking at it. It's swollen, and she hisses in a breath when Spike finds at a particularly sore spot. His jaw clenches even tighter, then releases. "Nothing too bad," he assures Tara. Her head is lowered, and he puts a finger on her chin and lifts it up. You see the tears in her eyes and it makes you retreat far inside. That was you. You did that to her. Your hands clench into fists and you exhale evenly. Tara takes a deep breath and stares up at Spike. "I thought--I just want--" Spike draws her to his chest and lowers his head to her ear. You can hear the sibilant whispers of sound but you can't make out words. Tara shakes her head in distress and pulls away from Spike. His brows sink down and he glares at her. "Tara!" he snaps. She jumps at his tone, and his face softens as he closes his eyes for a moment. "Tara," he says again, but differently. He's telling her something. Firmly. But also letting her know he understand where she's coming from. Almost automatically, her hand stretches up to touch his face, but she freezes mid-motion. You've done what going crazy, killing her lover, going crazy again, taking a hellish trip around the world, and confronting her dead lover wasn't able to do to Tara--you've made her hesitant about expressing herself, unsure of settling that no-strings-attached affection on another person. Spike takes her wrist and brings her hand to his face, and his eyes are dark as they look into hers. Tara swallows thickly, then nods. Spike looks furious suddenly, like the nod from Tara unleashed something he's been keeping under wraps for a long while. He steps away from her, and turns so that he's facing you. "Do you give damn about anyone but yourself?" Spike asks you, his voice cold and hard. And you're immediately on the defensive, not only because you know that you're in the wrong, but because that is the last line of crap you deserve. Sometimes you think everything you are is shaped by just how much you give a damn about the people in your life. "You son of a bitch," you breathe. "Where do you get off asking me that?" "Because you don't bloody show it," he replies immediately. Well, you thought you were furious, but apparently not because the anger kicks up a notch and now you know you're feeling real fury. "Fuck you," you snarl at him. You're about to start shaking or crying, or both, and you have to get out of there. You grab your boots and try to head for the door, but Spike is blocking your path. You shove him aside and realize that you somehow missed the fact that Tara moved from the couch to the door. She's standing in front of it, watching you closely. You won't force Tara out of your way. You just won't. And it hurts that she's not on your side. Hurts something low and deep in you. Even though you can't really expect anything else, given what you did. But...it's Tara. She's the one who sees past your shit, who knows what you really mean. "I get pushed aside, but Tara doesn't," Spike says from behind you. "Why?" "You're a vampire," you remind him, still staring at Tara's wide eyes. "I could hurt her. More." "So because he can take it, it's okay to dish it out?" Tara asks quietly, and you see something hard at the back of her eyes. Hard and Tara do not compute and you're suddenly scared. There is no right answer to this question, and you think it might be rhetorical anyway, so you lower your eyes and stay silent. "When we were in Berlin," Tara continues, "he tried to take my place with the crone. He knew it would be physical torture for him if he did it. He said he could take the damage." She pauses. "I wouldn't let him do it." You lift your eyes. Tara looks tired and sad. "I...I love you, Faith," she tells you, and your heart skips a beat. "You're like a sister and you're important to me. But so are the others. It hurts to watch you strike out at them because you don't want to actually say what's on your mind." "Yeah, well, it hurts when you and Spike get lost in your own little world of silent conversations," you snap. "Don't hear me complaining." "I don't believe you," Spike hisses. You turn to look at him. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. "Tara spent months unable to string two coherent words together, you stupid bint. Of course we got good at reading one another." He takes a step forward and points a finger at you. "Don't you dare lay a guilt trip at her feet for that. Not after all she's done for you." If you feel bad, you will damn well not show it to them. There's been too much shit slung at you tonight, from every direction imaginable. It's too fucking much. The curtain comes down and you plan on leaving it there for a long while. You shrug diffidently and spread your arms out. "Hey, no one asked her to do anything for me." Spike goes still. Utterly, preternaturally still. "You ungrateful little bitch," he whispers, and there is something like awe in his voice. "Spike, she doesn't mean it," Tara says from the door. "She just feels cornered." "That's where you and I are different, pet," Spike tells Tara. "I don't care why the hell she's dong it. You do everything you can for her, and you get shit all in return from her." "I don't do it for what I get in return," Tara says with a frown, and she sounds annoyed and practiced, like she's said this before to him. "Good for you," Spike snorts. "But I'm not going to keep my mouth shut when she starts lashing out at you, no matter what the reason behind it is. Of anyone in her life, you deserve it the least." "Are we almost done here?" you ask, vexing smile on your face. "Because as interesting as all of this is, it's not really holding my attention." "No, of course it's not," Spike drawls. "Nothing ever holds your attention when it has to do with your shortcomings." You suck in a breath. "My shortcomings?" you repeat slowly. "Yeah. You think I don't get it, Slayer?" he says, his voice smooth and deep. "It's overwhelming. Not the Hellmouth. No, you can deal with the nasties. You like dealing with them. But the people? That's almost too much for you. Constantly wondering if you're going to be too slow, or too late. Afraid that even if you're just in time it won't make a difference. Do you have nightmares? See their dead bodies, with their eyes all blank and accusing?" You're shaking. Shaking. And you can't stop even though you grit your teeth and try. "Worried and scared," he goes on. "All the time, right? But you won't let them know. You just keep it all inside and let out the bitch. Because that way you don't seem vulnerable, human. You're a Slayer, and you're not human. Not like others are. Can't--" "That. Is. Enough." Spike's words come to a skidding halt, and you both swivel your heads to gape at Tara, whose face is tight and jaw is clenched. She ground those four syllables out from between clenched teeth. He recovers before you do. "No, it's not," Spike insists firmly. "It's nowhere near enough, and you damn well know it, luv." "That's not tough love," she says, her voice raspy and thick. "It's just...cruel, and it's more than enough." She gives you a quick look, then steps away from the door. "Go," she says lowly, waving at the door. "I'm going to Spike's." "It's about damn time you moved out," Spike says with satisfaction. Your breath catches in your chest. Everything catches everywhere. Fuck the curtain. You can't be in this place without Tara. You can't. The breath won't leave your body, but you keep taking more in, and your vision is getting spotty. Your arms are flailing in front of you, and you know that she's too far away for you to grab a hold of but you still grab at the air. "I'm not moving out," Tara says impatiently. "Stop aggravating the situation." Your vision clears a little and you see that she's looking at Spike. Not at you. Not at the arms reaching out for her that drop suddenly to your sides. It's at that moment that you realize just how right Spike is. Because you expected Tara to come to you, to put herself in the path of your hands and let you grab at her instead of the air. You've gotten used to her seeing what you need and giving it to you, of giving you things that you don't even realize you need until after the fact. She gets her slippers from by the stairs, puts them on, and then steps outside, leaving you with Spike. You look at him, and you think you see compassion there in his eyes but you're not really sure. Nothing makes sense all of a sudden, and you don't trust yourself. "She'd step in front of a demon for you, you know," he tells you quietly. "Without a second thought, she'd do it. Even if it meant she would die. And it has fuck all to do with you being the Slayer, and everything to do with you being Faith." He tilts his head to the side. "I know you'd do the same for her, and it would be about Tara, too." His eyes darken and you see all of his cynicism. "But we've both been around the block, Faith. Big gestures are good and all, but nine times out of ten they're empty. That woman?" He points at the door Tara left through. "She's spent months clawing away at the Great Wall of Faith with her bare hands. Doesn't care that that she's only gotten through about an inch of stone. Doesn't care that she's got to fight you every step of the way. She doesn't even care that you probably hate her a little for doing it." He narrows his eyes on you and cracks his neck. "I'm done holding my tongue. Tara thinks you need time; that eventually you'll get it. Personally, I think you got it long ago and you're too damn scared to admit it. Get your shit together, Faith. If you don't...well, no one's going to walk away from you. But they'll shower you with the same treatment you give them." You've stayed still and quiet throughout his lecture. Things are so off balance that every word stabs at you, drawing the blood you know you deserve to bleed. He starts to leave then turns back, and his eyes are cold and empty in a way they weren't before. "You lift a hand to her again, I'll arrange a nasty surprise and then call Giles." "I won't," you manage to say through chattering teeth. Why you can finally squeak something out now, you have no idea. But you're glad you can, because it's very important that you make this clear. "Ever. I didn't mean..." He nods and this time he does leave. *

8:00 - 10:00 PM You are rushed at by Josh the second you step across the threshold. He snatches the VideoMania bag from you, pausing to smack his lips against your cheek in a hello kiss, then shoving his hand into the bag and pulling out the movies. You close the door behind you and set the knife and stake on the table just next to the door. Bending down, you untie your boots, kicking them off and then stashing them in the closet. You hang up the coat as well, and it's when you're sliding it onto a hanger that Josh notices it. "Oooh," he says, lifting a hand and touching the sleeve. "Soft as butter. Was it a scavenge?" "Yeah," you say. "Some trashy vamp over at my last stop." "And you just decided to get rid of your coat since you got that one?" Tara asks, her eyes twinkling. She's standing by the couch, passing a bowl of popcorn to Olson. You shake your head, grinning a little. "Nah, had to use mine to torch a nest of vamps in Tranquility Falls." Spike raises a brow. "Pascal mausoleum?" he asks knowingly, and you nod. You step further into the room, your intention to go to the kitchen and gather the chocolate Josh promised he would get. But Spike narrows his eyes and reaches out to grab your arm as you pass him. "Blood," he says. It just so happens there is a lull in conversation at that moment, and the word cuts through the silence. Everyone's looking at you, and then Spike sniffs again and says, "Your blood." Tara hurries over to you, eyes worried. "How bad?" "Relax, babe," you say negligently. "Totally self-inflicted. Left a little message at the Pascals'. No worries." She frowns at you and you resist the urge to punch Spike in the face. "Seriously, it's just two little scratches, see?" You lift your pants leg and show her the shallow cuts, and she actually bends down to look closely at them before she nods in satisfaction. "Anyone else want to inspect me?" you ask sarcastically. When no one takes you up on the offer, you let your pants fall back into place, and head into the kitchen. "No way!" you hear Josh scream from the kitchen. "Faith, I bow down before you in absolute fucking supplication." He comes to the cut out, holding out the comedy and smiling widely. In a night of more failure than success, it's nice to hear that you've done something right. "Calm yourself down, princess," you snicker. "Bowing's not necessary, but you can tell me where you put my chocolate." He yells something about a drawer and you figure he stashed it in the candy/cookie drawer. Why he put it away is beyond you. It's going to be eaten tonight. You and Josh do a little dance as you both try to get through the doorway at the same time, then step aside to let the other pass. Finally, you grab his neck, yank him out of the kitchen, then go in. Olson comes in while you're rummaging through the freezer for some ice cream you know is there. You distinctly remember hiding the small container behind the frozen carrots so that Josh wouldn't hoover it down. But, alas, it's not there and you're not sure if Josh found it, or if Tara had a craving. "Hey," you greet him, not paying too much attention because you're peering into the small plastic garbage can, trying to see if there's an empty container of ice cream. "How were patrols?" Olson asks. He slides past you and takes a beer out of the fridge. "Any trouble?" There is no sign of the ice cream container. "Routine," you tell him. " I did my Ancient Forces Live Inside Me shtick." He leans against a counter and looks at you. "Ah." You've gotten used to Olson's not chatty nature. Time was, it would make you feel like you had to fill the awkward silence, but now you're as comfortable with it as you are with Olson himself. You wouldn't call him a friend, not in the traditional sense of the word. Both of you hold a little back, each for different reasons. Sure, you trust Olson and he's never let you down. But your experiences with Watchers haven't been anything to write home about and you think you'll always be waiting for the other shoe to drop. And Olson devoured Giles' journals when he arrived. Not just the official ones, either. Giles left his personal, private journals behind for a time so that Olson could fully understand what he was getting himself into with being in charge of a Slayer--you in particular--on the Hellmouth. Having glanced through those journals a few times, and having been present for some of it, you know that Olson is trying to keep a distance to maybe prevent some of what Giles went through. But you're not just Watcher and Slayer, either. You think you'll be shocked if the other shoe ever does drop, because it seems less likely to happen with each day that passes, and Olson spends too much non-business time with you for it not to have gotten a little bit personal for him. The most important thing, to you at any rate, is that you trust him. Really trust him. Far more than you thought you would. Which was why you told him about your episodes of channeling the Slayer in you. He wasn't surprised about it, telling you that Buffy had something similar happen to her. He calls it a Slayer Rite of Passage, thinks it kicks in when a Slayer is at a point when she can fully comprehend the magnitude of what she is. He agreed with you about it becoming addictive, about it taking your sights away from the big picture. He asked you to let him know whenever you do, so you have. "I've come to notice a pattern," Olson is saying. You look at him curiously. "You seem to do this when you're...stressed." You wonder what his first word of choice was. "You think so?" you ask, noncommittally, opening the drawer that Josh said he stashed the chocolate in. Oooh, the pretty boy got you Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Score. "In fact, I'd be interested to see if the opportunity even arises at other times," Olson continues. "Giles and the others had an encounter with the spirit of the first Slayer, who was, shall we say, not pleased that Buffy had friends." You open the candy and peel off the tissue-like brown paper at the bottom of the peanut butter cup. "So, what?" you ask, gesturing with the cup. "You think the first Slayer part of me is hoping that I'll give in and not come back? Trying to get me at a weak point?" The peanut butter cup is crammed into your mouth, whole. You work it around, letting some of the chocolate start to melt before you begin to chew. "A possibility," he says, shrugging. "But I was thinking more along the lines of it being a subconscious mechanism that serves as a way for you to ground yourself. Until recently, Slayers have always been alone. Retreating to familiar territory can be reassuring, comforting." You swallow your chocolate and peanut butter, thinking about what he said. If it is something that's in your hands, however much you don't realize it, then it is another weapon you have. You need to know how to use this. "Let's find out if that's the case, then," you tell him, prepping the second piece of candy. Olson nods approvingly. "I'll come up with some ideas on how to do that. In the meantime," he adds ruefully. "There is movie night to contend with." You snicker. Olson might not be that much older than you are, but he's got way different tastes. You suppose that comes from him being raised by moneyed folk. He's pretty refined. All of his clothes are designer label, and properly understated. He drives a huge Mercedes SUV, which he claims he only does because a SUV is necessary in our line of work and the Mercedes is the safest. Whatever floats his boat. You know he went with the Mercedes because of the name. His apartment is posh and, again, properly understated. Until you met Olson, you didn't know that spending gobs of money on things that look like they don't cost gobs of money, but have fancy designer names attached, is the sign of Old Money. Of people whose families have been rich for just about ever. "Give me a minute. I need food," you tell Olson, and he pushes away from the counter and walks into the living room with his beer. You're in the mood for more ziti. You think Tara might have anticipated it, so you take a chance and pop open the microwave door. Sure enough, there's a plate of the stuff, just waiting for you to heat up. See, Tara rocks. You set the timer and dig through the drawer for more chocolate, then grab a bottle of water and a can of soda from the fridge. While you wait for the ziti to heat, you hear the sounds of everyone getting settled in the living room and you glance in. Josh and Olson are curled up on the loveseat, which they've repositioned so that they have a good view of the television. Spike is crouched down by the DVD player, movie case in his hand and the player gobbling up the disc. Tara is sitting on the sofa, Indian Style, her long skirt pulled above her knees to accommodate the position and leaving her calves bare. Spike absently tickles one of her feet as he sits to her right, at the end. The microwave beeps and you take out the dish of ziti, gathering all of your stuff and going into the living room to sit on Tara's other side. She smiles at you, a hopeful expression on her face, and reaches to the coffee table to acquire a bowl of popcorn. "What did you rent, anyway? No one will tell me." "Something you'll like," you assure her. "Okay." Josh brandishes the remote. "Ready?" Everyone gives their ascent, and Josh hits play. You turn your head and watch Tara's face expectantly. When the title screen comes up, her face breaks into a happy grin, and she does a small little bounce on the cushions. "'Big Trouble in Little China'," she says incredulously. "Wow. I haven't seen this in...ages. Wow." She frowns a little. "I remember thinking it was funny, but I don't think I remember any specifics." "It's funny," Spike tells her. "Complete cheese. Just your cuppa, luv." And Tara is the first to break the popcorn boundary when she tosses two fluffy kernels at Spike's face. He lets them connect, and the scowl he gives her promises retribution. Josh starts the movie and you shovel food into your mouth through the first five minutes. You set the plate on the coffee table, then open one of the chocolate bars. You can feel Tara's eyes on you, and you deliberately savor the first peanut butter cup. "Say, you wouldn't happen to know where the ice cream went, would you, Ta?" you ask around the treat. "There was a demon," she tells you solemnly. "An exotic one. I had to research for hours." She sighs. "In the end, only feeding it a half a pint of Chunky Monkey, and waiting until it was too stuffed to move faster than a snail, was the only way I could kill it." You look at her, raising a disbelieving brow. "I saved the world?" she adds, and you can see the subtle spark of teasing in her eyes. "Good one," you acknowledge with a shrug and fork over the other peanut butter cup. "Be quiet," Olson grumbles. "This is exactly why I don't like movie nights." He pauses for a moment. "Well, that and the horrible pieces of tripe you people think are worth the rental fee." Josh feeds him a piece of popcorn. "It could be worse," he reminds Olson. "Remember our trip to the movie theater?" You were all kicked out. By a fifteen-year-old girl. Olson and Tara weren't pleased. They weren't the ones who spat wet JuJuBees into annoying people's hair; that was you and Josh. Spike was simply amused by the whole thing, and you still suspect that at least one of those JuJuBees came from his seat. "I can't forget, actually," Olson says with a sigh. "That girl works at the Starbucks down the street from the shop now. I see her every damn morning. She won't sell me anything that can be used as a projectile." "That's a shame," Spike interjects. "Those mints they have there are pretty good for coffee breath, and blood breath, too." "Sh!" Tara admonishes all of you, and silence reigns once again. At least, for the moment it does. You all can't be together without bickering, arguing, and cursing. That's just how it is. You've got the attitude, Spike has the snark, Josh has the bitchiness, and Olson has the all-purpose orneriness. Tara is the long-suffering matriarch, the lone port of maturity in the sea of adolescent-minded adults. Like the mom on that "Malcolm in the Middle" show, except Tara yells less. All right, you've only ever heard Tara yell twice. It's a powder keg of personalities, but luckily none of you take any of the others very seriously. Tara says it's like a family, and maybe it is. You don't really know much about family. It was just you and your mom. You know people think that there was huge amounts of drama and abuse when you were young--maybe even some molestation because that would explain your in-your-face sexuality--but the reality was pretty tame against all that. Your mom was an alcoholic. She basically left you to fend for yourself. Obviously, this was not a good thing, but it could have been a lot worse. She didn't hit you; that would have meant she was actually aware of your existence. She didn't bring men back to the apartment; you think her only lover was the bottle. There was some drama, though. There was you staying up every night to make sure that she didn't fall asleep, or pass out, on her back and choke on vomit. There were times when you had to search the house for every scrap of change you could find so that you could get a bottle for her, because DTs are not pretty to watch. And there was the utter lack of a relationship with the only person in your life. You don't really talk about it much, never have. When you became a Slayer, you pushed it all away and decided it didn't matter. But it mattered a lot more than you thought, and that came through loud and clear when you had Buffy chained to a wall--or so you thought--and you were making pathetic, angry comments about puppies ad shit. Even now, it apparently still does matter on some kind of level, because one night you gave Tara the rundown on your life in Boston. Your only excuse was that you were kind of twitchy from patrol, and there were chocolate covered almonds being dug out of vanilla ice cream with spoons and eaten on their own. That was one of the few times you've seen Tara angry. You didn't understand why, at first. It was only after she told you about her family that you realized where the anger came from. (And her family better hope that they don't ever get the urge to come back to Sunnydale for her, because you will put a hurt on them that will signal a short and satisfying reversion to type.) When Tara was growing up, her mother was the one point of light in her life. Her mother gave her the love, the attention and the affection that she needed. To hear about another mother being so derelict in those duties had shaken her foundation of How Things Are. The movie passes without incident until the last ten minutes, when Josh oh-so-casually swings his popcorn bowl and lets the contents fly at Tara, who is watching the movie with her usual concentration. Of course, it hits you and Spike in the process--and wouldn't you know it, there's a mostly full bowl on Tara's lap. She's still blinking in confusion when you and Spike grab for the bowl. A short tug of war ensues, and then an inopportune twist sends the popcorn on Tara's lap. Both of you freeze. Spike looks at you. You look at Spike. Josh starts laughing and then Tara has scooped an armful of popcorn up. You're not expecting it, so that's why she's able to pull at the collar of your shirt and dump the popcorn in it. And, oh damn, it's in your fucking bra. "Son of a bitch!" you shout, jumping to your feet and digging down your shirt. "This shit is sharp." You pull the bottom of your bra away from your body and try to shake the popcorn out. But most of it stays, and it'll take a shower to get rid of it. Tara's watching you with glittering eyes and twitchy lips, and you smile at her and take a step towards her. Her eyes go wide, and she quickly reaches over and grabs at Spike's waist. He lets himself be yanked across her lap, and then moves the rest of the way so that he's in between the two of you. Tara's face peeks out from behind one of his shoulders, and she sticks her tongue out at you. There is no sufficient amount of popcorn left in any one place to retaliate in kind. Tara knows it and she's crossing her eyes at you and giggling. Spike, in front of her, rolls his eyes in disgust, but there's some amusement there. Olson and Josh are on the floor, laughing. Laughing. Huh. You move fast, pushing Spike to the side and then pushing Tara down. She stares up at you, blinking a bit in surprise, then tries to squirm away when she realizes what you're about. "I'm sorry!" she says quickly. "Really. Sorry. Um, I'll make some more popcorn. And you can get me back." "Take it like a woman, pet," Spike drawls. You're kind of half sprawled across his lap and you grin down at Tara. "Oh, I'm already going to get you back, Ta." "It's torture!" Tara cries out. "Verifiable torture." She gives you big, wide, innocent, pleading eyes. "Don't torture me, Faithie." You freeze for a moment, and Spike notices. "Oh, do it, Slayer. Brat needs to be taught a lesson, and I'll do it if you won't." You shake off thoughts that you have no business thinking, and then your hands are at Tara's ribs, and she's laughing uncontrollably as you tickle her. You're actually barely touching her. Sometimes, you only have to get close to her ribs for her to start laughing like a maniac. "Learned your lesson?" you ask after a few moments. Tara nods, tears of laughter trickling from her eyes, and her face pretty red. "What lesson did you learn?" "Not...to...hide...behind....Spike!" Tara laughs. Spike leans over Tara and the two of you peer down at her. "Hey, now!" he says indignantly. "You bait the tiger, you pay the consequences. Thought I taught you that one already, pet." Tara's head thrashes to the side and she calls out for help from Josh and Olson. No help from that corner, though. Josh has gotten the camera out. "I'm...going....to PEE!" Tara cries out through her laughter. You pull away so fast that you almost fall from the sofa; it's only Spike's arm at your waist, hauling you up, that keeps it from happening. He drops you on his other side and then grins down at Tara. She's down to giggling now. Spike reaches out and brushes the tears from her face, and she plants a kiss on the palm of his hand. "You alright?" he asks. She nods and Spike arches a brow. "Gonna charge for the peep show?" Tara frowns, not knowing what he's talking about. You snort and reach around him to yank Tara's skirt back down from where it had ridden up to the top of her thighs. "Pink panties, Ta? What are you, three?" Josh snickers. He comes over and holds out a little Polaroid from his I-Zone camera. In his other hand is a digital camera. Spike gets to the digital camera before you, and growls at Josh, who looks abashed. Which he damn well should. The last time he used the digital camera, he posted pictures on the Internet and you had some little dork following you around for three weeks. Tara frowns at him in disapproval, and then takes the mini-Polaroid from him. Her eyebrows rise. "Yep, that's a peep show," she sighs, offering it to you and Spike to view. Your first thought is that you're damn glad Spike got the camera from Josh, because the picture you're looking at seems kinky to your sex-a-rific eye. You're face down on Spike's lap, your breasts on the other side of his thighs, one leg bent at the knee. His elbow is resting on your ass, and he's peering down at the two of you with his lips twisted. You know that twist of his lips--it means he's more amused than he really wants to be, and is trying to play it cool. But in the picture, it looks like he's all smug about the lapful of women he's got. Tara's skirt is around her waist. One leg is hidden between you and the couch, but the other is raised. She was kicking at your back, but it looks like she's about to wrap the leg around your waist. Not to mention the fact that the way her head is tossed back, hair tangled and face red, with the moment of laughter frozen, makes it seems like your hand is someplace other than at her ribs. For all that can be seen in the picture, it might as well be, because your hands can't be seen at all. There's just your cocky smile and tussled hair on view. And, hey, you've got some nice cleavage showing. "We should send that to Rupert," Spike says, snagging the photo from Tara. "See if we can give him a heart attack from several continents away." You smack the back of his head. "Or send it to Angel and see how long it takes him to hunt you down like a dog and stake your sorry ass," you retort. "And on that note," Olson says wryly. "We'll be heading out." "What about my camera?" Josh says irritably. Spike sends him a cold look. "Have your sugar daddy buy you another one." Josh rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest. "Hey, Mr. Grab and Smash? Why don't you just erase the pictures and then give it back to me?" "Because he doesn't know how," Tara answers, smiling. "But I do. I'll take care of it tonight and bring it over to the shop tomorrow." She frowns worriedly. "You're still opening for me, right?" You look to Spike in confusion, and he mouths, "Tracey" at you. Oh. Wow. Tara really doesn't waste any time. "Yes, sweetie," Josh says, sounding very put upon. "I will be dragging my lovely ass out of bed well before I'm ready, just so you can have the morning off." He bends down and Tara obligingly gives him a kiss goodbye, her lips making an exaggerated smacking sound against his cheek. His eyes twinkling, Josh offers his cheek to Spike, who shifts to his game face and growls at him. But it takes a lot to discourage Josh, and he just chuckles and waves at you. "We left that address on the desk for you." "Call before you go there," Olson says firmly. "And again when you're done. If you need assistance--" "It's not my first damn time doing something like this," you say irritably. "I know the drill." Olson's lips press together. "You know it, yes," he agrees tightly. "But you don't always adhere to it." You look away from him. "I'll call, all right?" "Good. Be safe." He and Josh leave, and Tara gets up and starts cleaning up the popcorn. Spike helps her out, and you gather up empty soda cans, water bottles and dishes to bring into the kitchen. It doesn't take long for the living room to be put right again, and then Tara makes her way upstairs to bed. With working and going to school, she has to keep regular hours. You're rummaging through the Video Mania bag when Spike heads for the door. "Going for a smoke?" you ask. He looks at you coolly. Shit. Things didn't just return to "fine". You thought they did, because Spike seemed like his usual self during the movie and popcorn fight. But you sometimes forget that Spike looks out for Tara more than just physically. Which makes sense, because he spent a lot of time protecting her from her own mind, from her own guilt, from her own confusion. Nowadays, with Tara finally settled normally, Spike protects her from the way you and he chafe against each other. "I'll be at my place," he says curtly. "Let me know when you go on another round, and I'll come over and stay with her." With that, he's out the door and gone. You toss the bag to the floor and curse under your breath. * 10:30 PM - 12:00 AM You last half an hour before the apartment starts closing in on you. Upstairs, you take a quick shower that's simply you rinsing your body free of popcorn, then don a dark gray short-sleeved deal that gives you some nice cleavage and that'll match your new coat. In the bathroom, you wipe off the useless kohl and paint on the liquid eyeliner. A slightly darker shade of colors for your eye shadow and lipstick--applied right over the lighter colors--and you're ready. You creep down the hall to open Tara's door. She's sleeping, and you watch her for a few minutes before you're convinced that she's sleeping peacefully. When Tara first moved in, she used to have some fucking nasty nightmares. They scared the crap out of you, because they didn't end when Tara woke up. She used to stare around wildly, desperately, like everything she was afraid of had the power to slink out of the shadows and grab her. It was a feeling you knew all too well. And she used to lock her eyes on you and refuse to look away. Because you were the thing she used to remind herself that she was awake and not still in the middle of a nightmare. There was a routine that emerged, eventually, and it involved you forcing her to realize that she was well and truly awake a lot faster than she did it on her own. A few questions, some casual commentary, and a lot of staying within Tara's view. But what Tara doesn't know is that you always knew when she was going to wake up screaming like something was trying to kill her. You used to go into her room and watch her sleep, and you discovered there were telltale signs. She slept restlessly when the dreams came, and whimpered in her sleep. Waking her was impossible, though. And you know because you tried really hard to wake her so that she could get away from it without the screaming and the fear that followed her into reality. If Tara's sleeping and you plan on going out, you always check on her first. It's been a while since she's had one--since right after Spike came back, to be exact--but your skin crawls when you imagine her screaming herself awake and being all alone. You grab the coat on the way out, stash Butters' address in your poicket, and then make your way to the side of the building. Olson bought the damn thing a few weeks before Spike went off to find Tara. That's because you were about to be forcibly evicted due to all the damage that was consistently being wrought on the apartment and the courtyard. It wasn't all your fault; the history of damage spanned back to Giles' days living here. Sure, you could have gotten another apartment, but you really like this one. It feels like yours, even considering the previous occupants. It's the first home you've had, and you didn't want to give it up. You bitched to Josh and Olson about it, and the next thing you knew, Olson was now a property owner. He manages all the details, and lets Josh handle pretty much everything to do with the Magic Box. It works out well. You get to the apartment at the side of the building, and climb down the three steps that lead to it. It's a below ground level apartment, and it used to house the asshole superintendent that the former owners hired. Olson let him go, and has someone from across town on retainer. When Spike decided to stay in Sunnydale after the soul, Olson offered him the place. Spike refused for a long while and then Tara told him that if a crypt was a fine place to live, then she would just move on in with him. There was a long staring contest, the likes of which Spike and Tara have often, and that you and Josh have dubbed Battles of Stubbornness. Josh doesn't think Tara would have actually done it, but you know better. You remember the bite mark on her wrist from when she forced Spike to feed from her when she found him beaten and bruised in New Orleans. She damn well would have shuffled herself over to Spike's latest crypt--lack of water, electricity, heat and air-conditioning be damned. So he moved into the spacious sub-level apartment, and Dawn came to town for a weekend and she and Tara helped him decorate it and get him everything he needed. The money, you suspect, came from Olson. That's where all the money comes from. He's got more than he knows what to do with. You rap at Spike's door and he opens it a moment later, taking a look at you and twisting his lips. He closes the door behind him and follows you up the stairs. You part ways in the courtyard and then you start out for the Bronze. You don't know what the hell it is with you and Spike. All right, so maybe you do. He doesn't let you get away with shit the way the others do. He calls you on the carpet for being a bitch, rather than just let it work itself out of your system. What you don't know is why he does it, or why it gets him so angry when it just makes Tara a little annoyed. Anyone else, you'd push for an explanation. But...hell. Spike has a habit of shoving truths down people's throats, whether or not they want to, or are ready to, hear them. So maybe, just possibly, you're avoiding hearing some personal truths. You frown as you wonder just how long it'll be until he does it anyway, before he stops waiting for you to ask and just assaults you with things you already know but won't acknowledge. And, yeah, you really need the Bronze tonight. The place is plenty busy, even for a Tuesday night. You prefer coming here on the weeknights, because there are more college aged people packing the joint. Hitting on some hottie and then finding out he's fifteen is not an experience you want to have again. You get a glimpse of shiny black hair, exotic eyes, slender female figure. Hm. That would be the chick who was trying for Tara before Tracey came along. She doesn't give you any creepy vibes, never has. Maybe you need to start dragging Tara here again. A quick glance and tête-à-tête (that came across your calendar just four days ago, and you're still not sure how to pronounce it) with your gut alerts you to two vampires. You're not going to go for them right now, but you're not going to let them pull their usual lure-and-snack crap either. Taking a deep breath, you tune yourself in to them, draw their location on your skin so that you won't get distracted from them. Sometimes you feel good about everything. Tonight is not one of those nights. Spike's driven it home, yet again, that you aren't pulling this off as smoothly as you like to tell yourself you are. Your natural defense mechanisms kick in on the bad nights. You revert to type the only way you can, and that's with a nice, quick, mind-clearing fuck. There's really no place better than the Bronze to find one in Sunnydale. You don't go by appearances so much as you go by the eyes. You look for someone who's out for the same exact thing you are. But you're not one to just stand around and wait for some shmuck to offer to buy you a drink. And, really, the best way to find who you want is on the dance floor. The music at the Bronze runs the gamut, and tonight it's more your kind than it usually is. Yeah, okay, so the pretty-girl voice really isn't your thing, but the drums and frantic guitar are, so you toss yourself into the mass of bodies and just let go. It's different than what happens during Slaying. This is you letting it out with the tossing of your head, and the movement of your torso. It's you reclaiming something that you're more than sure of than anything else, even your Slayerness-control. You're in charge, and not one doubts it. They slink off when you arch a disinterested brow. They sandwich you in between them when you give them a smile. They wait for you right where you tell them to when you see vamp number one about to slip out with a victim. It's a quick little brush against him as you squeeze past the two of them in the tight hall that leads to the back door. Then the girl is blinking at you in shock as the dust falls. "Do yourself a favor and check for a pulse next time," you mutter, then dance back to where they're waiting for you. You change your mind and take a detour to the booth where vamp number two is sitting. He's alone at the moment and you climb in next to him, that smile on your face, and he smirks at you. Moron. You move closer and closer to him until he's practically lying down on the bench seat, and you shake off the dust as you get up. Four songs later you feel like you're you again, and you grab the hand of the guy you picked out two songs ago. He told you his name but all you could hear above the music was a St sound at the beginning. Doesn't matter, the name, because he signs the register at the motel "Mr. Smith". The middle-aged clerk knows you back from when you lived there, and you toss him a grin. Sammy's good people for the most part, and you try to always swing by midway through your Thursday patrol because he leaves before dawn on Thursdays and sometimes the vamps get stupid ideas in their heads. Sammy snickers when-Steve?-pays for two hours. Yeah, Sammy's got you down, and he knows you won't be in there nearly that long, but he takes the money anyway. Practical guy. "Catch you later, Sammy," you say as you lead-Stan?-away by his fly. "Play safe," he calls back. Once the two of you get into the room-and Sammy's really a fuck, because he gave you your old room-you're even keel is slightly off balance again. Fuck. You kiss-Stu?-and it's a battle of tongues that you win. You strip your jacket off in victory and toss it to a chair. You shove him to the bed and gab for his belt. SteveStanStu has a damn nice cock. It's long, it's thick, and it's got a sweet little curve that you know is going to feel real fucking good. He gives you a patronizing look when you lower your head. That's because he's a man, and he doesn't get it. You're a natural top, and you're a good one, at that. Giving head is usually a submissive thing, but not always. It's your teeth that can clench and make them cry out. It's your tongue that can make their backs arch off the bed. Your finger, just behind their balls, that can tear a strangled scream from their throats. It's not about their pleasure, and that's why it's not a submissive thing. It's about you, having them at your mercy. You make SteveStanStu cry out and arch and scream. You don't make him come. You give it like a top, and you take it like a top, unlike SteveStanStu. You know how to work it so that whoever's eating you out is focused on making it good, and you want some of that now. You crawl over him, shedding your pants and boots along the way. Your knees go on either side of his shoulders, and then you lower your cunt to his face. You know you're damn wet. Making someone dance to your tune always makes you wetter than wet. Unfortunately, it's not being appreciated. SteveStanStu really ain't all that good with his tongue-has he even bothered to learn where the clit is, for fuck's sake? Probably not. The ones with the nice sized dicks generally don't bother learning much of anything. Is it worth it to guide him through it? You think about it, but your axis is tilting and you need to fuck. Now. The condom is in your bra. You've always kept them there, because your mother used to go through your pockets. Habit kind of stuck. You tear it open and roll it on down, then hold a hand to his chest and slight right on home. And, fuck, it's nice. Got you tingling all over, and when you're tingling you're not thinking. You hold still once you've got all of him in you, and yank your shirt down and pull your breasts out of your bra. You grab at them with your own hands as you pull yourself up that lovely, lovely, cock, and then slam right back down. It's not the same with a dildo. You thought it might be, since you don't really pay much attention to who's under you, most of the time. But you tried. Got one of those big fuckers, with the suction cup bottom, and went to town. So very not the same. There isn't that body below you that you're reducing to something incoherent and desperate. His eyes are glassy and lost in pleasure and there's nothing for him but you. Your fingers convulse on your nipples, and you ride him harder. Slide up and down that cock so hard and so fast that you can't stay wet enough for it to be smooth. He makes a choked noise as you clench your muscles up good and tight, increasing the friction. And you feel wild and primal as you ride him like a bitch in heat, and you think he might wind up with some interesting bruises, but you don't think he much cares right now, and you won't care ever. Goddamn, but you fucking love this guy's cock. It's got you stretched and it's going so damn deep inside that you can't even keep anything in your head. You shift a little then next time you come down on him like some unholy thing, tuck you knees back a little so that you're pitched the slightest bit forward. "Oh fucking god," you growl, because your clit is sliding along his cock and you can't pinch and twist your nipples enough. You stare down at SteveStanStu and he's looking a you like you're something holy, like his cock hasn't ever been fucked so good, and your muscles tighten around him even more, and it just takes a vicious twist to your breasts on the downstroke and you're coming so damn hard that you scream. But you don't stop moving, just keep sliding your clenching muscles up and down, and he's trying to thrust up, and you pinch your nipples and send a wave of aftershocks through your cunt, and then he's coming. You slide off of him, and you're both panting, lying there side by side. He offers you a post-fuck cig, and you take him up on it, grabbing another for later. You stare at the door to the bathroom and your mind goes places it shouldn't. Angel lost his soul because he loved Buffy so damn much. In a way, Spike got his soul because of the way loving Buffy changed him. You feel like nothing--like something entirely insignificant--in comparison. Your own mother didn't even love you more than anything else, and that's, like, the definition of a good mother. SteveStanStu suddenly rolls off the bed and gets to his feet. When you bother looking up, you see him buttoning his pants, eyeing you like he's got your number. Like you're so easy to figure out. You ignore him and shove your breasts back inside the cups of your bra, then lean down and start putting your clothes back on. SteveStanStu goes into the bathroom as you're yanking your jeans on, and comes back with a stack of towels. Little thief. Outside the motel, he gives you an asshole smile and shithead eyes, and says, "I'll see you at the Bronze again." No soft looks and pretty words for you. That's how you used to like it. Business. An exchange of scratching to relieve itches. For some reason, that thought makes you take a real look at SteveStanStu, and you feel your eyes get wide and wild before you spin away and almost run down the street. He's tall. He's got dark brown hair. He's got deep brown eyes. Just like the three guys before him. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. Your subconscious isn't very subtle, but then again, you can be pretty oblivious when it suits you, so maybe it has to be obvious. But, damn, you really could have done without knowing. You finally realize that you're still moving, and you come to a stop, looking up in surprise at the gates in front of you. You also could have done without coming here, and you want to leave, but your body doesn't seem to be listening to the way you're yelling at it. Whenever Dawn's in town she, Tara and Spike always come here together during the evening, and Dawn comes by herself once during the day. You don't get it--don't get how the three of them can put themselves through it and come back to the apartment smiling. Graves are for the living, but you've never much seen the point to visiting them. You tried, not long after you first got back, but standing six feet above Buffy's corpse didn't do anything for you, and all looking at her headstone did was remind you just how short your life expectancy is. Maybe some people visit to remember, but you remember just fine without it. So you're not sure why you're walking into the cemetery, but you do know where you're going. You stop a respectful distance in front of the headstone, then shrug and walk right up to it, sit down, and lean your back against it. The cigarette you got from SteveStanStu is in your pocket and you pull it out, break it off somewhere in the middle where it got bent, and light up. "I hated you." You jerk in surprise at the words, almost looking around, then realize they came from your mouth. This isn't you. This is some kind of After Lifetime True Story movie-of-the-week moment. But you can't seem to stop. "I hated you for trying," you spit. "And I hated you even more when you stopped trying." And that's so fucking true that you have to close your eyes for a moment. Angel refused to stop trying, no matter what the fuck you did, and once he finally got through to you, you discovered a seething hatred of everyone who had given up on you. You spent many an hour in jail wondering just what your life would have been like if someone before Angel had refused to give up. You smoke silently, and when the cig is done you toss it aside carelessly and tangle your hands in your hair. A string of curses is muttered, whisper soft. "I feel like a fucking idiot," you hiss, and there's no response. You lift your head and frown. No answers, no arguments, no expectations. Okay. So, yeah, you're starting to see the appeal. "I hated you, but then I got it. There was only so much you could take of me when you had your own shit going on." You pull at some grass by your hip and narrow your eyes. "I only wrote one letter in jail, and it was to Angel. But I wanted to write you. Then I figured I'd get to tell you in person one day." You lift a shoulder. "Okay, no, I didn't think that. It's more like I figured I could repay you." Your head tilts to your side as you consider just who you're sitting above. "Maybe save your life. And you'd understand what I meant with it." You get to your feet, not sure what exactly you should be feeling right now, but there's a lightness somewhere deep inside that used to be heavy. You eye the headstone and sigh. "So, yeah. Thanks for trying, Xander." You turn away and wander through the cemetery. Your life is a lot sadder than you realized if you've been fucking Xander stand-ins. Not because of the Xander part; he was a stand up guy. Not because of the stand-in part, either. You've used the time honored tradition of stand-ins before, especially right after you got here and the specter of Buffy was practically choking you. There's no shortage of small blonde girls in this Southern California town, and you got to know half a dozen of them intimately. Sometimes you had them eat you out until their jaws were too tired to do it another second more. Other times you sucked at their cunts relentlessly, coming yourself when they screamed your name at the fifth, sixth, seventh orgasm you assaulted them with. You tied them up and fucked them with a strap on, and you'd pull out of them in the middle of it all, and not go back in until they begged you. You fisted two of them, your body stuck in some kind of continual loop of coming the entire time your hand was in them to the wrist. They enjoyed it, and they pleaded with you to do something-anything to them, pleaded with you to let them do something-anything to you. One of them--and she was the sweetest and most innocent looking of them all--let you take a cat-o-nine to her back and her ass and her tits and her dripping cunt. She told you to make her bleed and you did, but only a little. And afterwards, she looked at you like you were her whole fucking world, like you were the be-all and end-all of her existence, and you cleaned up the few shallow cuts on her tits and sent her home and didn't fuck around with her again. You still see her sometimes, and you have a hard time looking at her. Her eyes tell you that she wants you to define her, so that she can just let go of everything that makes her her and just be what you want her to be. Just be anything that she doesn't have to think about. You don't even know yourself, so you look away and ignore her. So, really, it's not the fact that you've been fucking Xanders. Screwing all those Buffys helped you exorcize her, or some shit like that. No, what bothers you about the Xanders is that it wasn't a conscious decision on your part. Getting bouncy is supposed to be about forgetting shit for a while, but you've apparently been trying to get some of what you wouldn't take from Xander. Right. Just a year-and-a-half and a live body too short. Your timing always did suck. *

3:30 AM - 6:30 AM You stand in the living room, staring at your feet. Alone. Not just by yourself, but alone. It's a blackness that creeps up on you and steals your warmth. You remember the feeling, remember that you used to wear the skimpiest clothes and thumb your nose at the cold. Shed those clothes and expose yourself to the elements while pretending for ten minutes, twenty minutes, an hour if you were lucky, that you were colder than the cold and it couldn't touch you. There's no excuse for it this time. There's no calling a redo on account of having a crappy life that never gave you the chance to learn about the important things. You learned about them during the brief time you were Buffy. You realized in Los Angeles that you need them, want them. You've experienced them during this second go round on the Hellmouth. They stole the cold away. What you're feeling now is the prelude to an iciness that will end you. To stay warm, you just have to let them in. It's so simple that it's giant and impossible. Spike is right; you got it a while ago, and you've been trying. But every time you attempt it, you find yourself not doing it and afterwards you're never really sure what the hell happened, why you didn't. This has been coming, you realize. A slow and steady arrival that began the day the Watchers sprang you from jail, faked your death, and sent you back here. It picked up speed when Tara moved in, and the pedal went to the floor when Spike and his soul came back. You're not sure anymore who you were trying to protect with the distancing--them or you. Doesn't matter, because as Spike has made plain, they're sick of the distance, tired of trying to close it, and ready to give up. A part of you thinks that might be for the best. But the frantic part of you clawing its skin away from its arms doesn't agree. That part knows that the only reason you didn't bolt out of town a month in was because of them. They only reason you didn't shatter again--in a new way--was because of the way they held parts of you in place until they could stay on their own. They gave you safety and warmth, and they're ready to take it all back because you fight them every step of the way. Again you have the thought that there's been too much to deal with for one night. You need to think. For that, you need to move. Still trembling, you cram your feet into your boots, gather the necessities from the table by the door, and grab your coat. Something feels off in the courtyard, but it's not until you're at the stairs that you realize there's someone there. In the bushes. Your arms stretch out, making contact with flesh, and your fists take hold of clothing and give a good, hard yank. Your eyes widen when you see the voyeur. You let her go slowly, taking in the light brown, shoulder-length hair, gray eyes, and square features of Tracey. She's pretty enough, but you think Tara can do better. You'll probably always think Tara can do better than whoever she's dating. That's because Tara is better than most people. Kinder. Smarter. Nicer. Prettier. All things you used to have no stomach for. "What the hell are you doing?" you growl. Tracey's eyes widen and she stumbles back a step at the edge in your voice. You seem to be causing that reaction in people a lot recently. "Faith," she stammers. "I was just..." "Spying?" you supply. "Yeah. I'd noticed that. Why? And why were you following Tara?" Tracey shrugs and you inch closer, your face going tight. "Why?" "She's keeping things from me," she says harshly. Your eyebrows climb to your hairline. "Tara is keeping things from you," you repeat incredulously. "Yeah, right." The idea is crazy. Ridiculous. "She said she was gong to be at the library last week," Tracey says angrily. "And I brought her some tea. But she wasn't there. And she told me the next day that she got a lot done there." Aw, shit. Not so crazy or ridiculous. Fuck. Tara was helping you and the others ID and find the Y'Fow last week. But, still. "And so you decided not to, oh, say ask her about it?" you say sarcastically. Not that you'd want Tara to have to lie more, but really, what kind of person hides in bushes instead of asking? "Like she'd tell me the truth," Tracey scoffs. "All I'd get are more lies and then I'd find out the truth about her screwing someone else." You roll your eyes. The bitterness is evident, and you smell someone who's been crapped on more than once. "Guess women aren't that much different than men in some ways," you comment. Tracey sighs. "Not so much." She frowns. "I like her. A lot." You know that Tara likes Tracey as well, though not a lot. Recent events have pretty much lowered that to not at all, what with the planned break up in the morning. "I don't want to lose her," Tracey says quietly. "So you hold on tight," you realize, giving her a considering look. "Maybe a little too tight, huh?" She nods. "I guess I do." Her eyes flicker to the building, then back to you. "At first, I thought it was you." You have considered maybe translating your occasional muff diving into something more lifestyle-y. So that there maybe could be a you and Tara. You gave this a great deal of consideration actually and eventually realized it was just not going to happen. You like the cock. You could not go without the cock. And since Tara does not have a cock, there ended the consideration. You blink at Tracey. "So not the case," you mutter. "I said at first," she tells you. "But then I saw--I saw her go to Spike's just now. In her pajamas. And then he followed her." "It's not anyone, much less me or Spike," you say with frustration. "Tara doesn't...she's not even like that." You smile cynically. "And that comes from someone who knows about people being like that." Tracey stares at you, then her face collapses. "She going to leave me, isn't she?" she asks miserably. You shrug awkwardly. This isn't really a conversation you want to have, and you're starting to feel bad for the woman. "Look. Spying and stalking?" You shake your head. "Those are issues. Maybe you should work on that. Because it's not exactly, you know, healthy and shit. Actually, it's fucking creepy. And disturbing." "I know...I just..." You know. You really do. "Go home," you suggest. She nods and starts to turn. Then she glances at you. "I know you're going to tell her." You don't deny that. "But let her know I'm sorry." You wait a couple of minutes, then finally climb the stairs out of the courtyard to the sidewalk. It's funny, in a way that's not even a little funny. You and Tracey. Both so afraid of losing Tara that you've both done something that will pretty much guarantee you'll lose her. Only in your case, it's the others as well. You wander town for hours and there's no answer that comes to you that you didn't already know and fail at. You're kind of...deflated. Like a balloon. You zipped around the room, all the air going out of you, and now you've fallen to the floor, tired and empty. Make that exhausted. Goddamn, there should be a limit to how much a person has to deal with in one night. This shit is just too fucking much. Xander and Stanley Butters and the shit with Tara and then the Tracey thing. You can't even begin to process it all. You're probably supposed to learn something significant from it all, but--fuck. It's a lot. Maybe someone better or smarter could figure it out, but you're just on overload. And you feel old and incompetent. About the only worse way things could go would be if Giles were to call. You pause, waiting for your cell to ring, but it stays mercifully silent. "Small favors," you mutter, and start walking again. You manage to do a sweep of the remaining cemeteries on your walk, not finding much of anything. You probably scared all the roaches into the woodwork with your displays at Tranquility Falls and Willies'. That's a good thing, because you're not exactly at your most attentive. Your mind is just going in circle after circle. You know that things aren't lost, not for good. Tara will forgive you, Spike will go back to his usual manner of calling you on the carpet, and things will return relatively close to normal. But it's only a reprieve, and you know it. If you can't figure this out, then you're gong to fuck things up permanently. Tara gives more than she should--it's her way. But everyone has a limit, and soon you're going to find out what hers is. Spike will walk away with her. If it comes down to you or Tara, he'll pick Tara every and any time. Just like you would if it ever came down to Tara or Spike. Tara's worthy. You and Spike aren't and you both know it. You figure you might as well head home. Sun'll be up soon and sunrise is your bed time. You wonder what kind of fucked up dreams this night is going to give you. * 6:30 AM - 7:30 AM When you get back home about an hour before dawn, you find the apartment not as empty as it was when you left. Spike's sitting on the couch. Smoking. That means Tara is still at his place, because there's a strict no smoking policy in the apartment. He'll probably catch all sorts of hell when she comes back; like any non smoker, Tara's got a nose for the scent. "Get a lot of action?" he asks blandly while you strip your coat off for what feels like the millionth time that night. It's something of a peace offering, considering how he has no problem ignoring you when he wants to. You shrug. "Not really. Wasn't looking. Just walking." He nods and drops his cigarette in a soda can on the coffee table, jiggling it around so that the liquid inside snuffs out the cig. "Guess I could have been easier on you earlier," he concedes. That makes you smile. "Tara read you the riot act, didn't she?" you say knowingly. He laughs, more than a little indulgently, but doesn't answer. You collapse onto the loveseat, positioned so that you can see him. "Kind of funny, isn't it?" you muse. He arches a brow. "What's that?" "Come on, we're badasses," you remind him, grinning. He returns it, some kind of predator gleam sliding into his eyes. "But we just shrink under a glare from Tara. It's funny." "Are you in love with her?" he asks suddenly. He's watching you like he expects you to be shocked, but you just smile at him. "Be a lot easier if I was, wouldn't it?" "Nah," he replies with a shrug. "More complicated is more like it. You're even worse at relationships than you are at friendships--and that's saying a bloody lot." It's your turn to spring a sudden question on him. You know it's not going to be a welcome question, but you're beyond desperate at the moment. "How did B do it?" He is about as surprised by your question as you were by his. "What does that matter, eh?" he asks curiously, his eyes narrowed. "Are you Buffy?" "I was, once," you murmur quietly. "I remember," he says, his voice just dripping innuendo to the point that you can actually hear his smirk before you shift your eyes and see it. "Can we stay on topic here?" you demand. "Right. Buffy. Who you are not." You flinch and prepare to stand, but Spike has leaned over and grabbed hold of your knee. You're still feeling unlike yourself because of your previous altercation with him, so you stop trying to move. "Wanna try hearing me out before you get all huffy about imagined insults?" he asks coolly. "Yeah, sure." "Buffy was a hell of a Slayer," he begins, and you dig your nails into your palms as you brace yourself for the inevitable comparison. "And I should know. I've fought a few. Killed a couple. Know what I learned? All of them were different. Didn't make any of them less of a Slayer." He pulls out his cigarettes and lights one, then jiggles the pack so that a couple stick out. You take one when he offers the pack, and lean forward so that he can light it. You're less tense now, because so far the comparison hasn't come, and you're starting to think it won't. Which is maybe the point he's trying to make. "Your problem is that things got screwed," he says bluntly. "You and Buffy shouldn't have been around at the same time. But you were, and she was a good Slayer with a couple of years on her. So you figured that to be a good Slayer, you had to be like Buffy. Don't suppose your little stint in her body helped matters." Another wince, and you decide that you will never not have some kind of physical reaction to any reminders of that incident. Just as well, since it was probably one of the creepier things you did. "No, it didn't," you admit, exhaling some smoke and tangling a hand in your hair. "She had it all, Spike. Everything I never did. Know what the rub was?" "If you hadn't fucked things up royally, you could have had it, too," he answers simply. "But that's not true. What was right for her, what worked for her? Not necessarily what applied to you. And let's not forget that even if you had meshed into that group, they were her group first and last. Nothing to do with you, that. Just how people are." "But fucking look at me now!" you exclaim. "Got the friends and the fucking movie night. Am I supposed to just not have them? Because she had them?" He rolls his eyes and points at you with his cigarette. "Will you stop being so damned defensive and listen?" He glares at you. "Don't make me force you, because I will; chip or no chip. Got strict orders from Tara." Despite yourself, you snicker at that, then spring another question on him. It's kind of changing the subject, but you're curious about it. "Are you in love with her?" This time he is surprised, and he chokes on some smoke that he was in the middle of inhaling. "What?" he practically shouts. "She's gay, and I'm not that much of a fool." You really can't help thinking that being in love with Buffy was more than a little foolish, but he stops you before you can say that. "Not a word. Not one bloody word." You hold your hands up in mock-surrender. "Fine, all right. Not a word." "So the point I was trying to make is this," Spike continues, still watching you warily, as if he expects you to bring up the Buffy thing despite his warning. "The group you've got around you? They just kind of happened. Wasn't you trying to be Buffy, and no one thinks otherwise. But they bring complications, and how Buffy dealt with them doesn't matter." "That's not even a little helpful," you scoff, leaning forward to cram your cigarette into the soda can. "I'm looking for some advice here." He sighs tiredly and rubs a hand across his face. "Said it earlier, and I'll say it again. You already figured it out. Just a matter of you acting on it." He shakes his head and turns those intense eyes on you again. "What I'm trying to get through that head of yours is that you--Faith--are a damn good Slayer." And that stops you. Stops you and starts you all at once. Because--Spike? Heavily biased for Buffy, obviously. You've always thought that he's the one who most often finds you lacking in comparison to her. There you go again with comparison, don't you? He's got a point, and you recognize it logically. Two different people are still two different people, even if both are Slayers. You think it'll take you a while to accept this the way it needs to be accepted, but for now... For now, the fact is that this Buffy acolyte--who has never been one to say things just to make someone feel good--has just said he thinks you're a damn good Slayer. It's something you can latch on to. Accept. It's simple and straightforward. "Glad something's permeated that thick skull of yours," he snorts. You realize you're staring at him like he's just told you some secret to the universe. Maybe he has. A secret to the universe that is Faith. You keep staring, and his face softens into less pronounced angles. "Whatever doubts you've got, you remember that, will you?" You nod and look away, because it's a whole lot of soft, squishy moments all rolled into one and you've never been good at those. "Thanks," you say awkwardly. "Right. Now, on to the next subject," he says breezily. Next subject? You're not really sure you can take more sharing tonight, and what the hell else is there to discuss? "Tara." "Tara?" you repeat in confusion. "She's a subject?" His lips twitch. "A noun, specifically." "Fucking blow me," you mutter irritably. "You know what I meant. And I feel shitty enough already, so do we need to have another touchy-feely conversation about it?" "Yeah, we do," he says reluctantly. "Not one I'm looking forward to, either, just so you know. You're not the only one who dislikes the sharing time. Always been my favorite thing about you lot--the lack of it." Well, that bodes well for wrangling out of it. "So how about we do the short version?" you propose, giving him a grin. "I'm a bitch, and if I am a bitch to Tara again you'll find a way around the chip. We cool?" You watch his face go a little blank. "No, we're not cool," he says steadily, but something is glittering in his eyes. The grin slips off your lips and you hunch down a little. "Let's try something new for this conversation. How about I ask questions, and you answer them without your usual 'go take a piss' attitude?" That has you glaring at him, but he glares right back at you and so you sigh and wave a hand. "Okay, okay. What do you want to know about the subject of Tara, who is a noun specifically?" He frowns, like he's wondering if he should call you on the snotty addition to that statement, but you guess he decides it's as good as he's going to get, because he nods. "Since I came back, you've been out of sorts," he begins. "Yes or no?" You shift a little uncomfortably as you realize he is about to ask you a whole lot of questions that you really don't want to answer. "Yes," you say lowly. Shifting around on the loveseat, you settle sideways, your back against the arm and your legs stretched out. It puts your back mostly to him, and if you don't focus on your peripheral vision, you can't see him. Maybe it'll be easier to answer if you don't have to look at him? Maybe he'll let you? "Very good. Gold star for you," he says, doing a little golf clap. The clapping doesn't even irritate you because he's actually going to let you stay the way you are and not have to look at him. "Why have you been out of sorts?" "Never thought about it." "Funny, that would actually work on Tara," Spike comments. "But not on me." You sometimes forget just how damn good this vampire is at just knowing people. "She was mine," you say sullenly, not caring how it sounds. "I mean, Josh and Olson were here and all, but it was me and Ta at the apartment. We got to know each other, right? Know things they didn't." You shrug like the child your words imply you are, and bend one knee, looping your wrist over it. Staring at your wrist, you try to find words. You've learned a lot of them, but stringing them together into something...cohesive, is another matter all together. And not something you've had much practice at. "Did Tara tell you about when Khentimentiu came here?" you ask haltingly. "To send her to you after you got the soul?" He makes a noise that, loosely translated, means no. "Yeah, well, so Khentimentiu didn't want to tell me what was going on, and I told him that you're one of ours. That we take care of our own." You fall silent and remember the scene that night, when you first became aware of that thing between Tara and Spike that you can't touch. "What happened then?" Spike asks. "He fucking tripped out on me," you tell him. "Tara had to step in between us to get us to cool it. Then he turns around and says the reason he's telling Tara is because you're hers. And he had no problem with that," you continue, your voice harsh and angry. "No freaking out, no violence. Just, 'hey, Spike's yours'. Know why?" "Knowing Khentimentiu?" Spike says slowly. "Could've been any number of reasons." You crane your head back and stare pointedly at him, and he sighs. "Right, was because she loves me." Sinking back, you close your eyes. "Yeah, that's what he said," you reply. "Anyway, I know Tara, and I knew she was going to get you back here; that's just how she is. I started thinking about before you left, when she was here for the Cerno, and how you two just--fuck, it was like you were inside each other's heads, man." "We were," you hear him say, and you whip your head around to gape at him. "That night I took her to Wildwind, she...did something." He narrows his eyes and stares off at something or other in the distance. "Pummeled me with emotions, with memories, and gave me a dose of what was going on in her scrambled head." "No shit?" you whisper, and he nods. "Damn." "Pretty much," he concedes. "And her knowing me, that's just how Tara is. Watches, doesn't she? Soaks things up like a greedy little sponge. Lots of activity behind her quiet exterior." He smiles softly and shakes his head. "Go on, then. Got to thinking about me and Tara during the Cerno...?" This looking at him thing doesn't seem too bad, so you scoot around and pick up your explanation. "Yeah. And I thought about you and me, you know while you were helping us. And I thought about me and Tara since you left. No matter how I looked at it, I--" You make a frustrated noise because you're not sure how to say it. "You got the short end of the stick," he finishes for you, his tone not unkind. "Felt like Tara was more mine than yours, pretty much were told that I was more hers than yours. So who was yours, right?" "Well, yeah, I guess," you admit irritably. He opens his mouth, seems to think better of what he's going to say, then seems to change his mind altogether. "You're an idiot." You glare at him. "See, this is why I don't do sharing." "Well, you are," he insists. "I can see you feeling that way at the time. But you still feel that way, don't you?" "Shouldn't I?" you come out and ask him. "Because from where I stand? Nothing's changed. You two still do that creepy thing, where you look at each other and have entire fucking conversations." "That's not going to change, and you're overlooking something vital." "What's that?" "You have those kind of conversations with me, and with Tara, too." You frown. "Yeah, no I don't." He quirks a brow. "You and I had several about Tracey last night." Eager to prove him wrong, you replay the events of the prior evening before the first round of patrols. "Well, goddamn," you say, sounding just as shocked as you feel. "Listen up, Faith, and pay attention. Tara? She loves you something fierce. Wants everything for you. Does her best to make sure you get it, too." "I'm not an idiot," you say again. "I know that." There's a long, long silence and you don't know what it means. When he speaks, his voice is almost a whisper. "Do you, now?" "Yeah." "Are you in love with me?" "Sharing time's over," you announce suddenly, jumping to your feet. Spike is there before you can take a step. He stares down at you with that intense stare. "Are you in love with me?" he asks again, and you can't read anything on his face. It's blank. So are his eyes. Nothing there to give you a hint about what he hopes or thinks the answer is. You don't want to think about that question, but you suddenly have to. And the answer comes quickly, simply, and with it comes clarity on pretty much everything else about the three of you. Pretty damn surprising. "No." He blinks. "No." You shake you head. "No." You laugh a little. "That would probably make a whole lot more sense. Explain everything neatly." He echoes the shaking of your head. "You think that would be 'neat'?" he wants to know. "Well, yeah. Because it's, like, the expected thing. Love fucking things up. Messing with friendships. Totally trashing a group. But that's not what's going on." Spike thinks you're talking out of your ass, as is clearly demonstrated by the rolling of his eyes. And, really, you can't blame him for thinking that. For most of this conversation you've been struggling for words, and even you find it strange that you've apparently known the deal about what's at the center of it all for a while. You take your perch on the loveseat again. "Three friends," you say confidently, letting the words end on an up note to signal there's more coming. There's a theory, and a story and a truth coming. Spike tilts his head to the side, somewhat interested, and then sits on the couch again. He waves his hand to continue, and you follow it up by gesturing for a cig. He's all about not killing you with the Big C, and the warning glare he gives you along with the cigarette means you're cut off for the week. That's cool. "Three friends," you say again. "None of who are in love with any of the others." Okay, that sounds all wrong, and you decide that you should leave the fancy narrating to someone else. "Romantic love not entering into it," you clarify. "Sex, either." "Right," he drawls, snorting a little. "Man, you need to get over yourself." He blinks and you grin. "Yeah, Spike, that's right. I'm not interested in getting bouncy with you. Haven't been since...well, since that time I was interested." And, hey, an improvement. No masochistic mention of switching you-know-whats with you-know-who. Go you. "It's nothing to do with me. You're a goddamned cat in heat. Nothing wrong with that," he hastens to add. You don't clue him in on your recent revelation about your sex life. It's going to stay with you, because you came to it on your own and it's yours. "Seriously, Spike. It hasn't been an issue since I came back." He studies you for a long moment, surprise filling his face. Maybe a little disappointment, too. Because, hey, who the hell doesn't want to be the object of someone else's lust? It's flattering. "So these three should have it easy, right?" you go on. "No sexual tension. No love triangles. Should be smooth friendly sailing. But it's not. And you know why it's not?" Spike holds up his hands, like he's letting you make the point. But you think that he doesn't know what the point is. "Because they're not friends." Yeah, he really didn't know where you were going with this. His mouth kind of drops open a little before he catches himself. Then he nods. "And they're not family," you add. That's really caught him off guard and piqued his interest for the first time tonight. "So then what are these three people?" "They're three people. And each of them is the others'." He frowns at you and you take a frustrated breath. "Okay. You and me, we're Tara's." He nods. "But I'm also yours, and you're also mine. And Tara is mine and yours. It's not just a group of friends. It's three people who've laid some kind of claim on each other. We haven't done that with Josh and Olson--they're our friends, our family." Spike is quiet for a while. "Say you're right," he proposes eventually. "Why do you think that makes it more complicated?" "Because of me," you say softly. "I want you and her to be mine, and that's it. No other having of any kind. I don't want to...I don't know. Get left. Out or behind." Thankfully, he doesn't make a big deal of what you've just confessed to him. If he did, you would probably have run screaming for the hills. Instead he nods sedately. "Always tough. Wondering if you're going to be figured as unnecessary. You and Tara, you're both women. Both human. Can't see as either of you have much need for a souled and chipped vamp. And me and you, we've got insight into each other that Tara can't even begin to get near. Gotta make her wonder if she's got anything to offer." And, yes, you can be incredibly self-involved, but it's still a surprise that you never actually thought about that aspect before. It's true, isn't it? There's reason for each of you to feel like you'll get left. Out or behind. But...when you think about Tara or Spike getting left out or behind, it doesn't work. You and Spike were alone together for months before Tara came. It was cool, but you didn't have the kind of things Tara offers. And when it was you and Tara, you didn't have any of the things that Spike offers. So maybe it's the three of you. Maybe the Spike and Tara deal misses out on something if you're not involved in the equation. Maybe it's not two and one, but all three of you. Huh. Sun's up, now, and Spike isn't going anywhere. He pulls out his cigarettes again, then sighs and puts them away. You fall into a silence that's comfortable, and that's a very weird thing. You and Spike don't usually do silence, and you never do it together. "She's too good for the likes of us, you know," he says roughly a while later. "Fuck yeah," you agree. "I don't plan on telling her that anytime soon, though. Do you?" He smirks and shakes his head, eyes meeting yours. "She's not mad at you. About her hand." You go a little still. "I didn't even mean to do that," you mumble. "She knows. Says she knew better than to try it then; something about some look or other in your eyes that she ignored." The silence falls again, and you ponder how strange this all is. Nothing's been fixed. Nothing's perfect. Nothing's even the same or better than when you woke up. Even still, there's been some shit settled. It's probably a start. Definitely a start. The rest is up to you, and even though you doubt that you'll be able to do what it is you haven't been able to do, you still feel kind of good about things. There's something like an hour that passes, and you're about to fall asleep when there's a noise from Spike. When you look over, your heart stops for a moment, and then you jump to your feet. His back is hunched up unnaturally, his head arched back, and then his body is flailing to the side. He crashes through the glass top of the coffee table. You stare down at him in shock, having no idea what to do. He's having a seizure or something. One of his hands is grabbing at his head, the other is pounding into the floor, and there's a garbled scream coming from his mouth. "Fucking hell," you choke out, then drop to your knees and drag him off the shattered remnants of the coffee table. You manage to haul him up on the sofa, but it's not easy. He's convulsing, shouting through clenched teeth, and his eyes are squeezed shut in agony. It's gotta be the chip, with the way he's clawing at his head. But you've seen it go off, and it's never this bad. And he didn't even do something to set it off. He was just fucking sitting there. You hold him down, keep him from falling off the sofa again, and the sounds of his choked screams are grating at your skin. "Shit, shit, shit, shit. What the fuck is going on?" you growl as you struggle to hold him down. Damn bastard is strong, and you finally have to sit on him and hold onto the back of the couch to keep him on it. You time it. Because Olson has taught you, among other things, that the details are important. You time it. And it takes five minutes. Five fucking minutes. Longest five minutes of your life. Then he collapses under you. Shaking like you were earlier. Cradling his head like there's been something rammed through it. You slide off of him slowly, watching him carefully. You time it again. And it takes ten fucking minutes. Ten minutes before he can open his eyes and even attempt to speak. "Bloody hell," he says, and his voice is so faint that you almost didn't hear it. He's not flailing about any more, and you leave him on the sofa and go for the phone. "Damn it, don't!" Spike tells you, and you think he wanted his voice to be deep and threatening, but it's just soft and weak. You stop anyway and look at him. "Give me one goddamn reason why I shouldn't?" you ask tightly. He curls his lips at you. "You already know all the bloody reasons." Yeah, that's true. You do know. He wants to protect Tara. "Look, no matter how hard you try? You can't keep her from ever getting upset about something, okay? It's going to happen. Especially with the shit we do every day." Also, you're a little upset yourself, and Tara's a damn good calming influence. Always a good thing for you to have on hand when you're in a situation that's got you all up in arms, but there's nothing to actually fight. Spike's eyes close. "Damn stubborn females," he mutters. "At least clean up the glass." It's stupid, cleaning up the glass, but you do it anyway. Tara only had her slippers on when she left, and the glass could go right through it. And she gets all nesty when things are bad. No doubt the glass would be her first task once she stopped crying. You shove the coffee table frame against a wall and then pick up the house phone. Tara's cell is on the dining table, so you hit the speed dial for Spike's apartment. Tara doesn't sound like you woke her up. "Hello?" Spike's eyes are open again, and he's staring at you. Right. "Hey, you need to come home," you say as calmly as you can. "Right now." She's silent for a moment, then asks, "What's...did something happen?" You look back at Spike. He's trying to sit up, but he's not having much success. "Yeah," you answer, and your voice is shaky. "It's Spike. He...just come. Please." There's no answer because she's already hung up. * 7:30 AM - 11:30 AM Tara is beside herself when she gets to the apartment. As soon as he sees her, Spike gathers his strength and manages to sit up, an easy grin on his lips. Tara looks from that grin to the coffee table, to you, and you quickly school your features into something relaxed. She starts crying immediately. Damn. She knows both of you too well. But Tara really is the matriarch, and she wipes the tears away impatiently and sits next to Spike on the sofa. "What happened?" she asks softly, taking one of his hands in her own. "Think the chip has gone haywire," he admits, not giving anything away that would hint at the screaming convulsions he had not too long ago. "Firing when it shouldn't be." You narrow your eyes on him. "How long has it been happening?" you demand to know, because you suddenly realize he's nowhere near surprised about his little fit. He looks at you, and there's something very, very annoyed in his gaze. Whatever. "Been happening off and on," he says, neatly sidestepping the question. But Tara's on the clue wagon now, and her eyes go really wide. "Spike?" she says uncertainly. He rubs a hand over his face. "About three weeks now." You and Tara exchange a glance that is equal parts scared and furious, and you know that she's also thinking about the fact that Spike's been around less than he normally is. So, it wasn't because of you, like you originally thought. It was because he didn't want any of you to see him convulse. "Three fucking weeks?" you shout incredulously. "And you didn't think we should maybe know about it?" "Faith--" Tara starts, but you ignore her. Because right now you're picturing Spike falling to the ground and screaming, and some baddie or other taking advantage of the opportunity and staking him. Or the damn chip liquefying the parts of his brain that the bleach hasn't already turned to mush. You can't be in this place without Spike, either, for entirely different reasons than with Tara. And in less than twenty-four hours, you've been faced with the possibility of losing both of them. "You are not allowed to be in mortal danger and not tell us," you say to him, but your voice is thick and raspy, and you have to swallow twice before you can say more. "You're not allowed to take away our chance to stop it from happening." Your words are met with matching expressions of surprise. And it's pivotal, isn't it? If they make a big deal out of your words--the emotion behind them--you might just back off. But they don't. Spike just leans back on the sofa in pain, and Tara just holds out her hand to you. They'll accept your words and actions for what they are. They won't make you uncomfortable and uncertain. Why the hell did you think otherwise? You can't remember now. It's harder than you thought it would be, taking those few steps and putting your hand in Tara's, but you do it, and you feel way prouder of yourself than you probably should. Tara tugs you down so that you're sitting next to her. "What--what can we do?" she asks. "I mean, this isn't something we can take care of magically. And I don't think the local surgeon can fix it." "Don't know, pet," Spike murmurs tiredly, and you shrug helplessly. Helplessness isn't something you like feeling. It usually sends you running off somewhere to either escape the feeling or find a way to do something. But escape isn't an option anymore, and you wouldn't even know how to do something about this. So you sit there, your hand in Tara's, and her other hand in Spike's. A little while later, Spike dips to the side, fast asleep. Tara shifts slightly and lets go of his hand so that she can brush her fingers along the side of his face. Her back is partially to you, and instead of taking it as a rejection, you also shift. Tara leans against you, drawing your arm around the front of her waist by way of tugging on your joined hands. Spike looks like he's in pain, even sleeping, and you wonder how much of an effort it's been taking him to pretend that none of this was happening. You and Tara didn't have a clue, and you don't think Josh and Olson do, either. Speaking of which, you should probably call them. Dawn and Giles, too. She'll probably ditch school and come running to Sunnydale to help with the research. It's only fifty-fifty that Giles'll come to town to help. Yeah, you'll call them. But...not right now. No, right now is for the three of you to come to terms with it. Once you've all done then, then the others can come into the picture. And it suddenly clicks. The people thing. It clicks loud and clear for you. You're actually doing something as you sit here doing nothing, and it's something important, something vital. You're giving and you're taking. Not just strength, but...comfort, too. The comfort of a presence, like when Tara used to have the nightmares and you stayed where she could see you. Like when Tara puts herself in the path of your flailing arms. Like when Stanley Butters talked to Gina. It's so easy and you can't remember why you thought it would be hard. This is what it's about. Something splashes on your hand. Tara's crying. All quiet like. You've never given much comfort, and when you have you've generally done it wrong. But Tara's been raining it down on you for months, day after day, one flinch after another as she reached out to you. You pull her tighter against you and rest your cheek on her head. "It's going to be okay, Ta," you whisper. "No it's not," she says, her voice husky with tears and anger. "That thing is kill--" "Shh," you breathe, and you wrap your other arm around her waist, then reach up with it and take hold of her shoulder. It's like a hold more than a hug, but it's the best you can do in this position. You have no idea if it's going to be all right, but the odds are against it. You rock her a little bit as you both stare down at Spike and you tell her again, "It'll be okay." Tara falls asleep a little while later, her weight falling on you more and more. You lean back to get more comfortable and stifle a yawn, telling yourself that you'll stay awake. But it's pretty comfy, warm Tara draped over you, the soft sofa behind you, and you're fucking exhausted, so you actually do fall asleep. * 11:30 AM - 5:29 PM You wake up when Tara shifts, and when you open your eyes she's sitting up. "Hey," you rasp, and she turns to smile at you. It's a little bit sad, a little bit grateful, and a whole lot frightened. "Hey," she whispers back. "I guess he really needs the sleep." You nod. "He'll need the good stuff," you say abruptly. "I'll head over to Willie's and get some more later." "Thanks," she says sincerely. "I'm sorry. About before. With your hand. I didn't mean..." She doesn't cut in while you're trying to form the words, and you think she was probably more upset about it then she let on to Spike, because she generally tries to make things easier for you when you're struggling. "It wasn't on purpose, and I'm sorry. It won't happen again. Ever. I swear." Tara studies you for a long moment, her gaze almost as intense as Spike's, and then she lets out a deep breath and nods. "Apology accepted." Both of you sit properly on the couch, Tara's hand on Spike's chest. This time, you're the one to reach for Tara's hand, and she gives it as easily as she offered it, squeezing lightly in a reassurance. There's a long bit of silence before you say, "The Petries are moving out this weekend." Tara looks at you. "Yeah?" "They've got that three-bedroom place. Lots of closet space. A real dining room." She frowns prettily. "Is that the apartment Olson made us paint in November?" You nod and your eyes go to Spike. "He doesn't like living alone." She squeezes your hand again. "And we don't like living without him." "Speak for yourself," you snort. "Not a prize to live with. But since he's here all the damn time anyway...we just have to remember not to let him do any laundry." "Like you're any better," Spike says suddenly, his eyes opening. There's some bickering and teasing. Even a half-hearted growl from Spike. Then there are plans for the Pietries' apartment. New furniture is a necessity, Spike wants to paint his room some funky assed color, and you don't want any frills. Tara nods, but even she knows that you and Spike will let her paint everything pink and cover every surface with frilly doilies if she wants to. After the apartment is decorated and stocked, the three of you fall silent. You don't think you're the only one who feels good, all the possible crap a little more--no, a lot more--manageable. So it's time for the calls. Josh and Olson show up and you're in charge of mocking Josh for the moment of surprised tears he has when he hears the news. In the face the steadiness that is you, Tara and Spike, Josh and Olson have no choice but to calm down and actually think about solutions to the problem. The three of you dominate the couch as usual, and Spike actually drags his sorry but to his side of the couch after you almost sit on him twice. Habits are habits, and he has his own side, damn it. Spike starts whining piteously (that wasn't a word of the day--you stumbled across that in the dictionary one day when you had to look up perspicuous after Olson used it during a research session) and Tara, with a knowing look in her eye, goes about waiting on him hand and foot. Everyone agrees to hold of calling Dawn or Giles until they've got some ideas to offer. You know that part of the delay is because no one's quite distanced enough yet to break the news to Dawn. Things are going by quickly, and you feel like you're only getting the surface of it all, but that's okay. That's how you're all staying steady and calm. And when you can't anymore, you'll pick up the slack for each other. And maybe you do know what Tara means by family, and maybe it's worth the fear and the stress. Tara's giggling because Spike is threatening to tickle her, and if he's in pain then he's not really paying attention to it. Tara scrunches up her nose in delight when you suddenly kiss her cheek, and Spike leers suggestively and invites you to kiss him, too, his pelvic thrust making it clear where exactly he wants that kiss. Josh rushes forward to give the kiss, and Olson slams his hand on the table and yells at all of you, which just makes the rest of you laugh. Yeah, it's definitely worth it. * 5:30 PM This isn't yours. None of it is yours, and yet here you are. Living it, holding it, protecting it, fighting it, guarding it. You feel a little more capable now. Maybe you don't have all the answers, and maybe you'll make a fucking lot of mistakes along the way, but you have the feeling that everyone will be pretty understanding, and they'll help you figure it out as you go. It wasn't supposed to be your destiny at all, but now it is. Right or wrong, good or fucked up. It's yours and no one else's. It doesn't matter how unfair it is. She should be alive. No matter what. But she isn't, and there's nothing anyone can do about that. No matter how many people might wish otherwise--and that includes you--this is how things are. It might hurt, and it might be hard, and it might be the last thing anyone wanted, but what it comes down to is this: Things aren't wrong. Not really. They're just not how anyone figured they would be. * Note: The next story in the series is "A Doe at Evening" and it's the Dawn story. It will take place during Elysium, The Red Macula, and also pick up at the end of this. So, there you go. All the Dawn you could ever want. * End.

At a month out, it wasn't that Jensen didn't know that he was maybe going a little off the charts with the organizing thing--the spreadsheet had six different colors and four tabs and he thought he should probably split out one or two of them into sub-categories of their own--it was just that this was important. And it wasn't that he didn't think that Jared didn't think it was a big deal--he knew Jared was pretty excited about the whole thing, too--but Jared's idea of planning was to write a shopping list on his palm and wing it when he got to the store, and that just wasn't going to cut it. Not this time. And, okay, it was just a party, but it was the first time they'd done anything like this together, and so far, no one had called with their regrets (and Jensen knew that didn't mean that people weren't going to bail without calling, but he thought at least some of their friends understood the basics of civility and would take the time to let him know if they couldn't make it. Then again, that group included Chad and Chris, so he was maybe being a little too optimistic.) Still. His parents were coming. Jared's parents were coming. It was a big deal. It was serious. "Babe," Jared said, on the third night he'd woken up to find Jensen huddled under the covers with his laptop. "I've met your family. You've met mine. Everybody likes everybody else. It'll all be okay." He didn't say like he thought Jensen was a freak; he said it like he was worried about Jensen, and his hand, where it was stroking up and down Jensen's thigh, was warm and strong. "I don't want 'okay'," Jensen admitted. "I want--well, I want it to be perfect, but I know that's not going to happen, so I'll settle for jaw-dropping." Jared looked at him for a couple of seconds before he nodded. "Jaw-dropping. Okay, I can get on board with that. But, in the morning. Sleep now." He held out his hand, waiting patiently until Jensen saved his changes and handed over the laptop. "Glasses, too," he said, dropping them gently on the bedside table before he wrapped both arms around Jensen and dragged him down. Jensen had never been one for cuddling, but with Jared, it was more like being wrapped up in a living, breathing comforter. It was a subtle difference, Jensen thought, already halfway to sleep, but important. * "Okay," Jared said. Breakfast was done; showers were accomplished; emergency emails were dealt with. "One journeyman baker, reporting for duty. What's the plan, chief?" "I know you don't get into baking--" Jensen started, because Jared really didn't. He liked to cook by feel and taste and smell--hell, he'd built a career on it--and you had to pay attention to measurements with baking, but Jared waved off the objection. He whistled when Jensen showed him the spreadsheet, but didn't give him any grief, just studied it with a commendable attention to detail. Then again, it did deal with food, so that made it easier to catch his attention. "So," Jared said. "The blue rows are chocolate things; the yellow rows are fruit-based; green are cookies; orange are spice-based; the teal ones are … ? "Savory things," Jensen said, quickly. "Like that rosemary cheesecake you made on the show last year. Stuff like that. And the red ones are family recipes," he added. "I only have one thing from your mom; we should get more." It was a lot, he knew, but once he'd gotten started it had snowballed. Jared nodded absently, his eyes still on the computer screen. "I'll ask her for the red velvet cake with the peppermint frosting." Jared looked up briefly. "What are you thinking for the showstopper?" "Buche de Noel?" Jensen hadn't quite gotten as far as really getting down into the nitty-gritty, but what was a Christmas dessert buffet without a buche de Noel? "um, or maybe croquembouche? It's not traditional, but it'll look awesome as a centerpiece." "Both?" Jared was still peering at the computer, and had started typing, his hunt-and-peck almost as fast as Jensen's ten-fingered, correct style. He chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip, which really shouldn't have been as distracting as it was, but Jensen was getting better at just admitting the distractions and enjoying. Then he looked up and grinned, a full-on, blinding, megawatt charmer, and Jensen was toast. "Can I make a gingerbread house?" "Sure," Jensen said, a little breathless from the smile, not even caring that combining Jared with bags of candy and unlimited royal icing was never going to be a good idea. "We can put it in the great room." "Yeah, and put all the cookies around it." Jared tapped out a few more notes and went back to biting on his bottom lip. "Do you think you have enough variations on chocolate?" "Five isn't enough?" Jensen thought about it. "No, you're probably right. I'll see what else I can come up." "Something uncomplicated," Jared said, putting the laptop down and standing up to stretch, which, again. Distracting. "I'll try to come up with something that won't tax your minuscule attention span." Jensen was getting better at not sounding as distracted as he was, even with knowing how much Jared liked it when Jensen mouthed along the very skin that he was displaying at the moment, that smooth strip that arched up and over his hip… Jensen gave himself an internal head smack, coming back to the here-and-now to find Jared stuffing his feet into his running shoes. "Where are you going?" "To get all the stuff I need to make the gingerbread. I can make the dough today and be ready to roll it out and cut it as soon as I sketch out the plans for it." Jared grabbed his keys and wallet, hesitating as he got to the door. "It doesn't have to be a gingerbread house, right? Think how cool it would be if I could do the Alamo…" Jared was gone before Jensen could react, but Jensen told himself Jared was just kidding. Nobody sane would try to recreate the Alamo in gingerbread. * Jared wasn't kidding, which Jensen should have expected, but he changed his mind once he started to plan things out, for the simple reason that the Alamo offered limited decorating potential. Jensen closed his eyes and breathed a small thanksgiving--the first one ever--for Jared's candy addiction. As far as he could tell from the sketches Jared was turning out, this was going to be the most complicated gingerbread house ever, but… that was Jared, so he couldn't be surprised. Jensen finished the master list, and then started on the staging plan. At least they'd finished the kitchen remodel, and with it having been done so Jared could shoot the new show there, they had a professional level facility to work with. Even with three ovens and the extra freezers, though, it was going to be tight at the end. Jared watched him mutter and mumble for a couple of days, then hid his computer and only let him have printouts of the recipes and shopping lists. "You're kidding me, right?" Jensen was almost shaking, he was so furious. "Give me my computer." "Sure," Jared said, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and pissed Jensen off even more. "Just as soon as you admit you have a problem." Jensen stormed out in a righteous fury, not bothering to keep his voice down as he called Jared every name in the book. He got on the phone to Chris, who only laughed at him, and then ended up sitting in the car for a couple of hours, not sulking, thank you very much. It was dark when he finally went back inside. Jared was in the kitchen, bandanna tied around his head, keeping his hair out of his eyes, liberally dusted with flour, and surrounded by a staggering number of dirty mixing bowls and measuring spoons and cups. He had to have pulled out the sets he used for the show, as well as their own personal stuff, to end up with so many. He glanced up when Jensen came in, but turned back to unwrapping sticks of butter and dropping them in the work bowl of the red KitchenAid. "Hey," Jensen said, after the silence stretched out long past awkward and into apocalyptic. He really wanted to wipe the smudge of flour off Jared's forehead, but he wasn't sure that Jared wouldn't break his wrist if he got too close. "I, um--" "I'm sorry," Jared blurted out. "That was really--rude. And annoying. And obnoxious. I was all those things." He stared at Jensen like he only expected to have a few seconds to explain himself, and it was all so stupid. "Yeah," Jensen sighed. "You were. And I've been a pain in the ass about this whole thing, so can we call it even and, and, not pretend like it didn't happen, but maybe just… try not to be so incredibly stupid with each other again?" Jared nodded, shaking his head so hard Jensen thought he might lose the bandanna. "I am so good with that, you don't even know. Just--don't leave, okay?" "I didn't," Jensen said, giving in to what was growing into a screaming need to get his hands on Jared and crossing the kitchen. "I was out in the truck the whole time." He chickened out of going for the smudge on Jared's forehead--and there was another one along his cheekbone--and settled for touching his hip instead, so he could pretend it was just a casual touch on the way to getting a glass out of the cupboards behind them if Jared hadn't quite gotten to the same point as he had. He should have known better--Jared was the guy who could solve half the world's problems with a hug; Jensen was the one who held people at a distance. Jared slid his hand over Jensen's and, when Jensen didn't pull away, wrapped it around Jensen's wrist and tugged him closer. Jensen could feel the tension bleeding out of Jared; if he was honest, he could feel it bleeding out of himself, too. They stood there, not hugging, just close enough to feel each other breathe, for a long couple of minutes, until Jensen finally shifted and broke the spell. Jared let him go easily. "All right," Jensen said, clearing his throat. "So, don't take this the wrong way, but what the hell is all this?" Jensen waved at the bowls and mixers--both KitchenAids were out of their cabinets--and the opened five pound bags of flour and sugar. And brown sugar. And chocolate chips, the good Madagascar vanilla, pecans, walnuts, hazelnuts, dried cherries, four lemons skinned of their peels, and enough almonds to feed a small country. Jensen thought about looking for partridges and pear trees. "It's an I'm-sorry-I-was-a-jerk gesture," Jared said, very seriously. "I'm almost done and then you can mark off all the cookie dough as being made and in the freezer and ready to be baked." He pointed to where Jensen's laptop sat on the big farmhouse table on the other side of the kitchen, then turned back to the mixer in front of him. "I just have to do the last batch of sugar cookie dough and, y'know, clean up this mess, and I'll be through." He started creaming the butter, measuring out the sugar and stretching out his shoulders and back while he waited, and Jensen gave himself a mental shake. They'd agreed on six types of cookies, with at least two batches of all of them, and if Jared was on the last of them, he'd been working the whole time Jensen had been sitting out in the truck, sulking. "Go," Jensen said, bumping Jared's hip with his own, nudging him toward the door. "There's a shower with your name on it upstairs. I got this." "Jen--" "It's an I'm-sorry-I-was-a-jerk gesture," Jensen told him, just as seriously. Jared hesitated, and Jensen bumped their hips again. "What? I can't make the big gesture, too?" "No!" Jared shook his head again. "I--you don't have to do that, though. Clean up my messes. I don't expect you to, you know that, right?" "Yeah" Jensen slowed the mixer speed so he could start adding the eggs, not looking up as he said, "That's not what I'm doing here, okay? It's more like I'm cleaning up after myself." Jared stayed still for another few seconds, then bumped his hip back into Jensen's and stepped away. "I'll call for take-out when I'm done," he said. "Want anything in particular?" "Whatever you're in the mood for is fine." Jensen started adding the flour, and thought about the last time he'd eaten, breakfast, way on the other side of the explosion in the middle of the day. "Just get a lot of it." "I can do that," Jared said, and Jensen looked up in time to see the flash of a smile as he headed out of the kitchen. He smiled a little himself, because that was practically Jared's life motto. Jensen liked knowing that, and liked it even more that Jared was okay with him knowing that, because there had been a good long time that neither of those things had been true. He whipped through the last of the cookie dough, double-wrapping it in plastic wrap and then again in foil before stashing it next to two shelves of similarly wrapped lumps in the big stand-up freezer in the pantry. The dishes gave him a little more trouble--too many of the giant bowls and not enough dishwasher space, not even with two--but he reminded himself that doing them by hand wouldn't actually kill him. Right as Jensen wiped down the final counter, Jared came wandering back into the kitchen, 'beater and track pants and bare feet, with two of the giant size boxes from the pizza place that was tucked into the corner of the closest strip mall, the place that Jensen always expected to find closed down by the health inspector, but that had the best New York style pizzas outside of the five boroughs, balanced on his hip. "One margherita, one pepperoni-sausage-extra cheese," Jared said, opening the refrigerator with his free hand. Jensen's stomach made its approval known. "And a six of whatever Chris left the last time he was here." "Works for me," Jensen said, taking the beer out of Jared's hands before he dropped everything. If they were treating each other with a little more care than usual--margherita was definitely not what Jared would order on a normal pizza run--Jensen didn't see how that was anything bad. * At two weeks out, Jensen finalized the schedule. Jared wouldn't tell him exactly what he was doing with the gingerbread, but swore he'd be done baking all the pieces in another couple days. "Worst case?" Jensen hated to be pushy, but they might have bitten off more than they could chew here, and if they were going to run out of time, he'd rather know that up-front, rather than figuring it out the hard way. "Four days, tops," Jared said. He was sprawled out next to where Jensen was propped up in bed with his laptop balanced on his knees, and as working environments went, Jensen couldn't complain about having all that skin right there on display. Especially not when Jared kept one hand on Jensen, absent, small strokes against his arm and shoulder and hip. No complaints at all. * At ten days out, Jared announced he was through baking all the gingerbread, even extra pieces in case something important cracked, and that the kitchen was at Jensen's disposal. Jensen looked at the box in the freezer and deliberately didn't even try to figure out what Jared was trying to do, just made a note to move one of the bigger tables into the great room to hold the masterpiece. Jensen started with the sturdier stuff: the marbled red velvet cake from Jared's mom, his own mother's rum cake (though he was using actual rum and not the fake extract she'd always used, but nobody needed to know anything about that), the carrot cake (he was probably going to have to come clean on the Baileys that went into the frosting of that one, but only because it was impossible to miss once anyone took a taste), and the pie crusts for the apple and banana cream pies. All of those could go into the freezer without making him cringe at the thought. * At a week out, the guys came out to string the lights outside. Jensen made himself sit calmly on the back deck while Jared climbed up to help them with the ones that ran along the roof ridge, for no reason other than it looked like "fun." Jensen didn't even try to talk him out of it, just made sure the phone was handy in case he needed to call 911. * At eighty-four hours out, the serious baking began. Jensen had the recipes printed up and taped at eye-level on the cabinets. He worked his way through them while Jared rolled and cut and decorated sugar cookies. Even with expecting it to be a mess, Jensen still couldn't believe how many smears of colored frosting Jared managed to accumulate on his shirt and face and hands. They both hit the wall after six solid hours, so Jensen got out the chocolate and the heavy cream and Jared raided the liquor cabinet and they made truffles. They ended up with only about half as many as Jensen had thought they would, but since the other half ended up being licked off each other, Jensen really didn't care. * At forty-eight hours out, Jensen stopped thinking and just did what was listed next on the schedule. He'd put a lot of thought into it earlier for just that reason, so he trusted in what was in front of him and didn't try to second-guess himself. The deliveries from the florist arrived, right as scheduled, so at least he could get away from cooking--and who thought he'd ever be saying something like that?--and make sure the poinsettias and miniature evergreens were set up right. Jared barely looked up from where he was mortaring gingerbread together with heavy lines of royal icing, only said, "No peeking," when Jensen came into the room to show the florists where he wanted things. * At thirty-six hours out, Jensen looked up from heating the sugar syrup he needed for the next batch of buttercream to see Jared eying the sponge cake roll for the buche de Noel with a speculative gleam in his eyes. "They have those roller things that you can use to mark up fondant," Jared said. "It's pretty easy to get the log pattern that way." "Fondant tastes like crap," Jensen answered. "I've got the buttercreams, and a fork." "That's what I thought you'd say," Jared said, and Jensen didn't think he was imagining the indulgence he heard in Jared's voice. "If it was good enough--" "If it was good enough for Julia Child, it's good enough for you; I know," Jared said, laughing. "Just thought I'd put it out there." Jensen thought about it but didn't think he was being too crazy: fondant really didn't taste good; and it wasn't going to be all that big of a deal to swirl the white and dark chocolate buttercreams together and make it look like bark. Most importantly, he didn't think he'd lost it enough to drive Jared to attempt another lame intervention, so he nodded and got ready to start adding the hot syrup to the butter-sugar-cream mixture. "Hey, Jay," he said, as Jared turned to amble back out to the gingerbread madness. "Check the top shelf in the fridge." He hid his smile as Jared found the spatula sitting on top of little glass bowls filled with all the extra frostings Jensen had put aside for him during the past few days. * At twenty-four hours out, Jensen heard Jared moan, "No, no, no," right before there was a muted thudding, and Jared snarled, "Goddamned cocksucking craptastic icing can't hold anything worth shit." Jensen thought about venturing out of the kitchen to offer sympathy, but the meringue mushrooms for his goddamned buche de Noel had ended up looking like something from a demented Disney holiday special, and he was working as fast as he could to make new ones--they were barely going to have time to dry even if he stuck them in the oven overnight--so he had his own hands full. * At twelve hours out, the smell of brewing coffee woke Jensen. When he stumbled into the kitchen, Jared was staring intently at the coffee maker, like he was afraid it might run away. "Easy, Jay," Jensen mumbled, coming up behind Jared and resting his forehead between Jared's shoulders. "Stare any harder and it might explode." Jared muttered something unintelligible back that sounded vaguely insulting, but he filled a mug for Jensen, so Jensen didn't feel the need to answer in kind. It was quiet and almost peaceful in the kitchen; Jensen didn't think about his lists or what else needed to be done, at least for as long as it took to finish off the coffee. "We're quitting at six," Jared said. "I don't care what is or isn't finished; we're done." He found a red Sharpie and wrote 6 p.m. QUITTING TIME in heavy block letters on one of the index cards Jensen kept around to scribble himself notes on. He propped it against the timer on the stove, clearly visible to all. "That gives us an hour to shower and get ready, okay?" Jensen started to object--an hour was a lot of time, especially right at the end--but one look at Jared's face and he nodded. Jared rolled his shoulders in the familiar way that meant it was time to get serious and dropped his coffee mug in the sink. "Back to do battle with the gingerbread?" Jensen asked. "It's me or it," Jared answered. "Deathmatch." "In case there's any doubt, I pick you," Jensen said, just to be sure. Jared grinned at him and pulled him in close for a kiss that still tasted sweet, even under the sharp bite of his industrial strength coffee, but didn't linger. Jensen still had plenty of crap to do, but he didn't feel awake enough to start the drama of creating a croquembouche that was going to top out at over four feet tall, so he headed into the dining room and arranged the cake stands and plates and platters and the place cards he'd already written out. The theory was that anyone could then lay out all the stuff that had currently taken over every square inch of refrigerator space, but Jensen didn't think he was fooling anyone. Nobody was going to be putting out the final settings but him. Jared had some godawful music going in the other room, singing along at the top of his lungs, and Jensen couldn't help smiling. He sounded happy--completely off-key, but a thousand times better than the non-stop cursing that had been the soundtrack for the night before. Jensen found himself humming along as he laid out the cream puffs and crème and ganache and started building himself a pastry tree. * At two hours out, Jared started cleaning up around Jensen. He slammed as much as he could into the first dishwasher and got it started and plowed through everything they'd left scattered around the kitchen, even while Jensen was working as fast as he could on anything he thought he might manage to finish up. He got three banana cream pies into the freezer to chill hard, and by the time he walked back into the kitchen, Jared had already washed the mixing bowl Jensen had used to whip the cream and had it back on the counter for the next use. "Thirty minutes," Jared said, as Jensen started melting chocolate in the double-boiler and got the last of the cream and egg whites going for the espresso-chocolate mousse to fill the bittersweet chocolate layer cake that was absolutely the last thing on the list. The white chocolate buttercream had gone over the raspberry-filled white chocolate cake like a dream; the praline cheesecake was holding up well, even though the caramel topping had been a little too thin when Jensen had poured it on; the croquembouche had turned out pretty fucking stunning if he did say so himself; and the buche de Noel wasn't half-bad, even with less than perfect meringue trimmings. Jensen had no idea what Jared had done in the other room, but Jared seemed fairly happy with it, so that was good enough. * At an hour out, Jared took the frosting spatula out of Jensen's hand and put it straight into the dishwasher, and then somehow managed to find a spot for the final cake in the refrigerator. He turned around, with a determined look in his eye, but Jensen surprised the hell out of both of them, and didn't fight. "All done, Jay." He looked down at the t-shirt and track pants he was wearing and tried not to wince at how much stuff he'd gotten covered with in the last few hours. "Yeah?" Jared let the refrigerator door close behind him and started back to where Jensen was standing. "For real?" "For real." Jensen let Jared crowd him step by step across the kitchen, until he backed into the island, Jared pressed up warm and solid in front of him, both arms bracketing Jensen as he braced them on the island. Jensen rested his hands on Jared's hips, finally not surprised at how well they fit, but grateful for it still. "Who are you and what did you do with the obsessive freak I live with?" Jensen could have taken offense but since Jared had leaned in closer and whispered it in Jensen's ear, he let it slide and tipped his head back so Jared could get at that spot, the one just under his jaw that tripped every nerve in his body. Jared took the hint, and Jensen was more than happy to reciprocate, getting his hands up under the ratty t-shirt Jared was wearing. When Jared finally let him up for air, Jensen could barely see straight, and he didn't think Jared was in much better shape. "Are we going to do this right here?" Jensen didn't let go of Jared, but he did manage to make his hands relax enough that he wasn't leaving marks. Probably. "I'm not opposed to it, but…" "But one of our mothers is likely to be coming through that door any minute." Jared took a deep breath and eased back a step. "Yeah. Okay. Good point. Letting go now." "Don't make any plans for after," Jensen said. "You mean other than fucking you through the bed?" Jared asked. He didn't move closer but the way he looked at Jensen, his eyes dark and hungry and knowing, made the physical distance mostly irrelevant. "Yeah," Jensen said, swallowing hard. "Other than that." "You got it," Jared said. "But if you don't get out of here, I'm right about to the point where I don't care who walks through the door or what they might see." Jensen more-or-less agreed, but didn't think mentioning that was going to be in their best interests, so he got himself the hell out of the kitchen and upstairs to the shower. The rush to get clean and get back downstairs to take care of the last minute crap helped distract him from the thought that it wouldn't matter who walked in the front door if they were fucking in the bedroom. Once again, Jensen managed not to say that to Jared, but it was a near thing. * At fifteen minutes out, Jensen had gotten everything on the tables but the last of the cakes --Jared's mom's marbled red velvet with peppermint cream cheese frosting and about a pound of smashed candy canes for garnish--when the thunder that was Jared coming down the stairs in boots gave him a five-second warning to get his game-face on, so he didn't insult Jared's fashion sense. It sometimes helped to have a head start in dealing with Jared's more enthusiastic choices, but this time Jensen ended up needing every second of prep time not to make an idiot of himself when Jared walked into the dining room in black jeans and a black t-shirt, shrugging into the black cashmere jacket Jensen had found for him but never quite expected him to wear. "Holy crap," Jensen said. "I think it's my turn to ask who you are and what you did with the dork I live with." "I figured if Johnny Cash could work the look, I could maybe give it a try," Jared said, with the expression on his face that meant he was ready to run and hide. "Please tell me I don't look too stupid." "No," Jensen said, as quickly as he could. "No. Not at all." Jared eyed him as though he were just saying things to make Jared feel better. Before he could make a move to go change--which Jensen wouldn't put past him, not at all--Jensen gestured to the table behind him, saying, "Okay, we're ready to go here, except for the cookies to lay out around your masterpiece," and Jared's face lit up in one of those huge smiles that Jensen had thought were completely fake until he got the full force of one in person. "C'mon," Jared said, grabbing Jensen's hand and dragged him back through the kitchen and into the great room. "Wait, don't look until… Okay, now. Check it out." It took Jensen a couple of seconds to place the scene, but then he thought his own smile might match Jared's, even if it was for other reasons, like how he really had no idea how this whole thing between them worked, except that it did and he was really thankful for that. "Dude," Jensen said, laughing helplessly. "Did you really make Christmastown from Rudolph? Out of gingerbread?" "Well, only Santa's castle and a bunch of trees," Jared said, still with that smile. "But there's Sam the Snowman and the Abominable Snowman in gum paste." "Dude," Jensen said, again, because what else could he say? * An hour into the party, right as Jensen started to relax--which probably had as much to do with the glass of Wild Turkey that was always in his hand, the one that Chris made sure was never empty, as it did with everything going well--Jared appeared at Jensen's side, smiling in the way that Jensen knew was fake, even though it fooled everyone else, and saying, "I'm so sorry to interrupt; I just need Jensen for a couple of minutes." Jensen made his apologies with what he hoped was a polite smile, but Jared had him by the elbow and was hurrying him away, and all he could think was that they'd managed to send someone to the hospital with custard gone bad or something equally disastrous. He kept that same smile plastered on his face while he hissed at Jared, "What? What happened? Just tell me and let me try to figure out what to--" Jared pushed him into the powder room, kicking the door closed behind them and for a single, heart-stopping second, Jensen couldn't even imagine what was wrong, except that it was going to be bad, but then Jared pinned him to the wall and kissed him. "Nothing's happened," Jared said, in between kisses, his hands yanking Jensen's button-down out of his slacks, big hands sliding up Jensen's back. "I just needed to see you." "Oh, for fuck's sake--" There was a lecture there that Jensen needed to deliver, all about scaring the crap out of him, to say nothing of the fact that their older brothers were probably right outside the door, plotting ways to humiliate the both of them, just for old time's sake, but since Jensen had his own hands in Jared's jeans, Jensen didn't think it was going to make much of an impression. * Three hours into the party, Jensen found Jared's mom in the corner of the dining room, staring at the cake he'd made from her recipe and looking as though she might be crying. Before he could step back and pretend like he hadn't seen anything--Jared had been right, everyone had gotten along just fine when Jensen had been introduced to the family, but that didn't mean Jensen wasn't acutely aware that before him, Jared's family had been in the get-married-have-babies mindset and he still wasn't sure how they really felt about things--Sherry saw him and there was no escape. "I hope I didn't screw up the recipe," Jensen said. "Jared said it looked right, but we didn't have time to make a test run, so I don't know if it tastes--" "Oh, honey, it's fine," Sherry said. "It's lovely." Jensen nodded, but apparently needed to work on his of-course-nothing's-wrong face, because she smiled at him and shook her head. "There's nothing wrong, Jensen. I'm just--of all my children, JT… All that energy, it's just for show, to keep people away. It's, well, it's one of those things I worried about, him never letting someone get close, and now, here we are and it's just… lovely." Sherry sniffed once, and leaned up to kiss Jensen on the cheek. "Well. Now that I've embarrassed myself and made you feel awkward in your own home, why don't you show me where you're keeping the extras and I'll fill up the empty plates while you go enjoy yourself." "Okay," Jensen said. "But only if you promise to tell Jared that I let you do it, because he swears I'm too much of a control freak to let anybody do anything." "Of course," Sherry said, linking her arm through Jensen's. "You are that much of a control freak, though, aren't you?" "Absolutely," Jensen said, smiling down at her. "But I can make a special exception, just this once." "It never hurts to keep a Padalecki man on his toes," Sherry said, laughing. * Five hours into the party, Jared started bellowing for help from the great room, but before Jensen could completely freak, he heard Jeff yelling just as loudly for a camera and Josh's cackle under it all. By the time Jensen got there, Jared in the last stages of holding back a mob that included both their brothers, plus Chris and Chad and Jensen wasn't exactly sure who else. "Get a picture of the castle," Jared said, laughing so hard Jensen could barely understand him. "Before the assholes get past me." Jensen got the camera turned on and held down the button, the flash firing repeatedly as Jared lost the battle and gingerbread went flying. * Seven hours after the first person walked in the front door, Jared threw Chad and Chris out and locked the door behind them. "So, that went… pretty good?" Jared leaned against the door and shoved his hair out of his face with both hands. "It did," Jensen answered, with no small amount of satisfaction. "Jaw-dropping?" "Close enough for me." Jensen made one final trip around the main floor, blowing out the last candles and grabbed Jared's wrist as he looped back to the front of the house. "You didn't make any plans, did you?" "Nope," Jared said, following along behind Jensen. "Not other than the one I had before. But I've been working on the details of that one all night." "Good," Jensen started to say, but it got lost in the rush of Jared's mouth on his, Jared's body pressing close. The last few steps to the bedroom were endless, but when the finally got there and Jensen started to unbutton his shirt, Jared grabbed his hands. "I get to do that," Jared murmured, backing across the room and pulling Jensen with him, until he was sitting on the bed with Jensen standing between his legs. Jensen put his hands on Jared's shoulders and closed his eyes, the cashmere of Jared's jacket soft and warm against his skin. "Take this off first," Jensen said. Jared didn't say anything, but he shrugged out of the jacket; when Jensen put his hands back on Jared's shoulder, there was soft cotton and warm skin and Jared under them, the flex and pull of hard muscles as Jared pulled Jensen's shirt free and unbuttoned it. He worked slowly, deliberately, the brush of his fingers against Jensen's skin like the lightest of shocks. When he got to the top button, he paused for a second, then traced his thumbs across each collarbone, barely harder than those light touches on the way up, but the focus was enough that Jensen dug his hands into Jared's shoulders. Jared made a soft noise and then trailed his fingers down, a straight path over Jensen's chest and abs to the buckle on his belt. "'s good, Jay," Jensen whispered, and it was; it always was. It was crazy how turned on Jared could make him, his dick and balls heavy and aching and Jared hardly even touching him yet. Jared kept the same deliberate pace, first undoing his belt, then the button on his slacks, then detouring to slide his hands, big and warm and rough from work, back up Jensen's chest to push his shirt off his shoulders. Jensen finally let go of Jared's shoulders and opened his eyes as his shirt slipped down and off his arms. Jared looked up at him, hungry and wanting, and Jensen knew he had the same look in his own eyes. Jared stopped fucking around, tearing at the zipper on Jensen's slacks, pushing khakis and boxers off Jensen's hips, and finally, finally, getting his hands on Jensen's dick, squeezing and stroking until Jensen was half-blind with want. When he stopped, though, Jensen didn't whine, just drew in a long, shaky breath. "Promised to fuck you through the bed," Jared said, rough and hoarse, through lips he'd bitten until they were already red and swollen. "And you always keep your promises." Jensen was probably a little too proud that he'd managed to pull himself together enough to find a decent teasing tone, but he was going to take his self-respect when he could, even if he knew he was going to be begging for Jared's dick soon. Especially then. "I do," Jared teased back, his mouth quirking up into an unexpectedly sweet smile. "But only 'cause I only promise things I really, really want to do anyway." Jensen reached out and ran his thumb over the curve of Jared's bottom lip, shivering as Jared chased it with his tongue. "Fuck," Jensen hissed, as Jared bit down on the fleshy part of his thumb, hard enough to sting, a reminder and a promise of how it felt, how it was going to feel, everywhere else. "I'll--I'll get the stuff." They kept the condoms and lube in the bedside drawer, right on the other side of the big, king-sized bed, but by the time Jensen made it across the mattress and turned back, Jared had already lost his boots and t-shirt, and was working on his jeans. "My turn," Jensen said, dropping things where they fell and reaching out to bat Jared's hands away. He'd gotten his jeans open enough that Jensen could see the head of his cock, pushing up from under the elastic of his boxer briefs, already swollen and hard. Jensen couldn't resist ducking his head for a quick taste, pre-come salty and bitter on his tongue, even as he shoved the jeans and underwear out of his way. Jared hissed and made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and his hands tightened in Jensen's hair, a sharp, hard pull that fucking hurt, even while it made Jensen want more. "Don't," Jared choked out, pulling Jensen away from him. "Fuck, Jen, I'm too close." He didn't move, though, only waited until Jensen finished undressing him. When he was done, and Jared was naked, too, Jensen sat on the bed, easing back until he could stretch out full-length, the sheets cool against his skin. "Fuck, yeah," Jared whispered, and Jensen barely had time to catch his breath before Jared was all over him, rough hands and hot skin and hard muscle. Jensen arched up to meet him, wrapping his legs around Jared's waist and swearing as their cocks rubbed together. Jared bit a hard kiss into the curve of his neck, and pulled back long enough to get his hands on the lube. Jensen made himself keep his eyes open even when Jared pushed two fingers up inside him, let Jared see everything he was doing to Jensen. Jared fucked him slowly, opening him up with deep, careful strokes that only made Jensen writhe for more. It would scare him, how much he wanted, except that he knew Jared now, knew Jared would give him everything he wanted, even if he couldn't ask for it. Jared fumbled a little when he reached for the condom, his hands still slick with lube, but his eyes were steady on Jensen's and Jensen couldn't see anything but how much Jared wanted, too. "C'mon, Jay," Jensen said, sliding one leg up over Jared's shoulder, and crying out when Jared drove into him with a single hard thrust. "Fuck, again, like that, god, don't stop--" Jared listened, pinning both Jensen's wrists over his head with one big hand and fucking him hard and steady, not gentle at all, but right, exactly how Jensen wanted it, how he needed it, pushing his cock into Jensen again and again, until Jensen needed to come so badly he thought he might go insane. Jared knew, though, and didn't make Jensen ask for it, letting Jensen's wrists go and driving into him more and more quickly while Jensen jerked himself off. Jensen worked himself hard, more roughly than he'd ever thought he'd like, lost in watching Jared, feeling him move deep and rough, coming with a last hard thrust that pushed Jensen over the edge, too. Jared dropped his head against Jensen's shoulder, mouthing over the marks he'd made earlier; Jensen couldn't help shivering at the careful touches on already sensitized skin. He could feel Jared smile, and tugged not-quite-gently at his hair in response. "Smug is a really annoying look on you," Jensen said, but then ruined the effect by almost whimpering as Jared's cock slid free. "Not smug," Jared mumbled, rolling over to deal with the condom. "Satisfied. Kept my promise. Right?" "Right." Jensen thought about not getting out of bed for a couple of days. His body was definitely okay with that idea, and his brain was getting there, too. "Good." Jared dragged Jensen closer, throwing one arm and a leg over him and pushing his face into the curve of Jensen's neck. "Means I get cake for breakfast, right?" "God, your stomach is incredible," Jensen answered. "How you can stand to even look at that stuff still is beyond me, but if you want cake, you got it." "I like getting what I want," Jared said, his breathing slowing down and sliding toward sleep. "Wanted you. Got you. Like it." "Go to sleep, dork." Jensen wriggled around until Jared's knee wasn't threatening to cut off circulation. "I like it, too," he added, after a bit. Jared didn't laugh at him, not exactly, but his breathing changed enough that Jensen knew he would have, if sleep hadn't been dragging him down. Jensen was sure he'd be gone in less than a minute, but Jared had other ideas. "I'll make you a real breakfast," he said, lifting his head up so he could look at Jensen, his mouth curved in a happy, wicked smile. "And then I'll fuck you again. Okay?" "Okay." Jensen smiled back. "Seriously. Go to sleep." Jared burrowed down again, heavy and warm against Jensen, boneless and relaxed almost immediately, but it was Jensen who fell asleep first.

Basti's whistling as he's taking the steps two at a time. The bottle of lube is jiggling in the pocket of his trainers, next to the condoms. Maybe he's too optimistic, but then, it has been too damn long – well, not really, if you count last Sunday when Metze came over to fetch some things of his and it ended with both of them entangled intimately on his bed, clothes strewn everywhere. They had to interrupt the second act of their lovemaking as Metze's phone rang, reminding the defender of a last-minute interview he had promised to give a school's newspaper. Now there won't be any disruptions, at least Basti hopes so – Jürgen had addressed the team this morning, telling them that they would only have to concentrate on training and nothing else, wanting them to be in shape for the big match on Friday. He probably won't be on the pitch for the opening match, seeing as Torsten isn't going to break a leg for him; and as Micha's going to be benched as well, it'll be rather Borowski than him, that much is ascertained. Basti doesn't mind it that much – it would be great to be on, but then, he's happy enough just to be called up to the national squad after all when it didn't look like he would make it. Now he's here, and what's better – he's together with Metze, just like four years ago and it's just as it should be. But then, things do have changed in these four years. He's going to be a father now. The thought still scares him a bit, but then, he's also looking forward to it. He's already an uncle two times over, thanks to his older brother, and has got enough experience in holding babies and even in changing nappies – to the amazement of his sister-in-law, he actually was better at it than the real father! It'll be just three more months, four at the most until the newest addition to the Kehl household arrives. He's phoning Tina daily, asking about her and the baby, letting her reassure him with a light laugh and her sweet voice. He knows that he's being rather overprotective, but then, he wants to do what's right by his family. She has told him that she thinks it will be a footballer, too, as it loves to kick at her and he laughed along with her. "If it gets too much, just redcard it," he joked. "Ah, I don't mind really, Basti," she said, and he could hear the smile, "it has to come after you, too. So I've got you here with me, when you're actually with the team." It is one of the best things that ever happened to him, Basti thinks. He's now on the third floor where Metze is; his own room is on the ground floor. The door to the hall is closed, but just as he's touching the doorknob, it turns itself and then he's looking at Basti – Schweini, that is. "Wha – Basti?" "None other, Schweini." The Bavarian gets called 'Schweini' by everyone now so that Basti has the pleasure of being the only 'Basti' on the team to avoid confusion. It would've been hell if Sebastian Deisler was there, too. The blond's looking a bit flustered, but smiles back at him. "Ah, okay – I just have to fetch something," and then Schweini is walking past him to the stairs, the flap-flap noise of the flip-flops he always wears echoing in Basti's ears. So Metze's sharing the floor with Schweini, too. Huh. Basti pushes the door open, seeing six doors, three on each side. Metze's is number 4. The defenders had to do extra training under the supervision of Löw today, practising running ways and passing. Basti had watched them on the far side of the stadium, his eyes following Metze's dark mop, while he was stretching. "They don't look so bad," Timo had said, and Basti had turned and looked at the blond goalie next to him who was doing the exercises as well. Although his chances of standing between the goalposts were close to nil, he never missed out on any training exercises as far as Basti knew. "Yeah, let's hope that they'll hold up against the Ticos," he agreed and Timo had nodded, his eyes searching the defense as well. Basti knew who the goalie was looking out for: little Philipp. Both of them were good friends as well and could often be found sitting next to each other at the same table at dinner, laughing and talking. He wondered if Timo missed Philipp when the diminutive defender had to go back to Bayern. He knows he would miss Metze. Fiercely. Basti sighs, the engraved '4' of Metze's door right in front of him. He wishes that nothing would ever change, that it'd be still Metze and him at the BVB. He knows that Metze has made mistakes in matches, but then, who hasn't? But as Bert does have to think of the BVB's future, of advancing in the 1st Liga, Basti can't really blame him, either, for wanting to play it safe with the Brenner. But thanks to this, he has had to bear a moody and sometimes grumbly Metze after matches, and when they lost, no amount of distraction could make the clouds disappear off Metze's mind. And when Basti had read about Werder Bremen wanting Metze, his Metze, well. Despite not being the Metze in his 2002 form yet, his best friend still was one of the best inner defenders in Germany. And as he had seen and heard – from Torsten and Tim – that Werder's defense was rather lacking, it was a good move. But what had really shaken him up was Metze's response of 'thinking about it and being honoured', and the small jabs towards the BVB. The next day at training, he had just said to Metze, "We have to talk," and the tall brunet had replied with a quiet, "Yeah." They had talked, yes. And yelled, but that had been mainly on Basti's part. Metze had remained calm all throughout it, explaining himself, pointing out the obvious until Basti had given up, slumping down on the couch in Metze's living room. "But what about us?", he had sighed, finally voicing it. Not looking at Metze, not wanting to see the pain mirrored in the soft brown eyes. Metze hadn't said anything, but sat down next to him, their thighs touching. Their lovemaking this night had been – well, different. Different in that they touched each other a lot in silence, bordering on an almost painful seriousness, interrupted only by whispered, half-swallowed words and rustling and sighs and moans. And when Basti awoke, he had curled himself around Metze, their legs entangled and he had wished that they could stay like that – forever. But some wishes have to stay unfulfilled, that Basti knows from past experience. Otherwise they wouldn't be wishes, would they? Some days later, though, Metze had said that he had declined the offer from Werder Bremen, but hinted that he'd be open to new ones after the World Cup. He had bought them some time. But that time will have to end, and where will that leave them then? Basti sighs. Since when did he get so maudlin? He had been determined to enjoy this time, alone with Metze at last. Shaking his head at himself, he knocks on the door, twice sharp, pause, again twice. Their secret code. ~~~ Damn, where had he put it? Bastian let the key drop into the bowl on the table next to the door and looks around his room. His bags are still half-unpacked, spilled over the bed – he had to search for his hair gel this morning, cursing his messiness for the umpteenth time. But the item in question isn't to be seen anywhere here – maybe he put it in the bathroom? Crossing the room, Bastian yanks open the adjoining door. His toiletries are neatly in a row on the ledge over the washbasin, and there's the bag. He picks it up and roots through it, letting out a silent whoop when his fingers close around a small bottle. At last. He slides it into the pocket of his trainers. Now he's all set and can return to Lukas, fulfilling his promise. His lips turn up into a grin as he snatches the key and closes the door behind himself, turning it twice in the lock. They had to do only the one training shift as they had to attend a press conference afterwards. What a bullshit, but at least having Lukas there along with him was fun, horsing around like they always did. They had to grin when Lehmann said that they actually were more relaxed in private – the goalie probably remembered the incident from yesterday all too well. Bastian still thinks that it had been really Lukas' fault, but had accepted the good-natured ruffle of Micha's with a smile. "Thank God that I'm leaving Bayern," their captain had joked, "both of you on the Bayern team – now I pity poor Felix." The whole table had laughed, and Olli had added, "Now I know whom I can make responsible for the grey hair," to which Bastian had shot back, "Yeah, just wait until we've mixed some of that 'Distinguished Silver' dye into your shampoo bottle, then you can complain." It will be great when they'll be united at Bayern, Bastian thinks. He remembers that he had been one of the first to phone Poldi, knowing that his friend's phone must be ringing like mad with congratulators from all over, all wanting to be the first. But then he had gotten through and it had been craziness, screaming and yelling, "You did it, you did it, fuck it, you did-" and "My God, can you believe it, can you, really?", and more incoherent yelling and screaming, and it was perfect, they would be together for at least three more years, if everything'd go well, knock on wood, and then there's the national squad, too. Sometimes, though, Bastian thinks that it's too good to be true. But then, times like these just happen and you have to grab your chance to live through them, because, otherwise? There'll be just a heap of regrets, and Bastian doesn't want to be one of these guys saying, "If I had ever…", no. He won't be. And neither will Lukas be, of that Bastian is sure. That's why they click so well, although there are differences between them. Lukas is somewhat quieter, restrained at times. He doesn't like clubbing, but Bastian is determined of showing him a good time when they're in Bayern. He also doesn't do booze, but Bastian doesn't mind that. It's just a shame that Poldi has so far refused his offers to show him a good time in Munich the few times he was there, and Bastian does know the best clubs, thanks to Andi and Michi, who do party more than he does himself, actually. Instead, Lukas had always smiled and said, "Why do I need to go out when I can have as good a time here with you, Bastian?" And – faced with Lukas' grin like that and the occasional dropped piece of clothing, like trainers, or jerseys, or even towels – oh, yes. He always caves in – but then, who wouldn't? And these are really good times, yes. Even great ones, Bastian has to admit that, and he never would trade these for a regular night out with the guys. He's now back on the floor where Kehl had been, facing him when he had pulled the door open. The Dortmund player is a nice guy, graced with a good sense of humor. He had even been set to play at Bayern himself, back in 2003 – from what Bastian had heard, there even was a cheque with a hefty sum sent over, but the then-Freiburgian had asked for time to rethink and suddenly he had signed up with Dortmund instead, sending back the cheque and Bastian remembers that Hoeness had been quite pissed about that. But Kehl had done well at Dortmund then, even winning the Cup in his first season there. He and Metze, the Dortmund defender, are as thick as thieves – they have been so for along time, at least since they were both at the national squad in 2002. Whereever one of them is – at training, for example – you can be sure that the other one is nearby, and when that's not the case, they will always know the other one's whereabouts. Bastian's now in front of Lukas' room, the door not closed all the way, and he lets himself in. The shower's running, and he flops himself down on the huge bed, which looks way cleaner than his own downstairs. Bastian knows that if he were to open the wardrobe, it would be full with clothes cleanly folded or smoothed out on hangers. Lukas did take out his PlayStation, though, and set it up next to the TV. It's now set on 'pause'. ProEvolution Soccer, and he's Brazil. Bastian scoots over the bed to pick up the gamepad, grinning. "Hey!" He flinches back, blinking his eyes against the water droplets showering down on him. "Trying to mess up my game, what?" Lukas grins, folding a towel around his hips, the hair sticking up in all directions. "Mess up your game? More like trying to improve it, I've seen how you play," Bastian retorts. "Oh, now that hurt," Lukas laughs, snatching another towel from behind the bathroom's door and starts rubbing it briskly across his chest and shoulders. "Did you fetch it?" he asks. "Did I ever," says Bastian, pulling out the bottle and dangling it in front of the Pole. "Scout's honour, eh?" Lukas smirks, grabbing it and squinting at the fine print. "It's the genuine article, don't worry," Bastian says, getting up from the bed and coming to stand next to Lukas. There's still a little water that the Pole overlooked when he dried himself off – right on his neck, a single drop glittering in the sunlight falling through the thin stores. Lukas squeaks and Bastian grins at him. "You're tasty." He licks the same spot again, and then Lukas turns around to face him, smiling, and, as easy as a key turns in a lock, their lips meet, and Bastian can taste the mouthwash Lukas uses – Odol or something like that. He likes to trace the slight scar on Lukas' upper lip. Their tongues tangle lazily, not with the nervous fervour of first-time lovers, but rather with a comfortable familiarity which can sparkle into passion at any time or just leave them thoroughly satisfied. His hands slowly trace Lukas' damp back, feeling the muscles flow under his hands. As Lukas slides a hand under Bastian's jersey, he breaks the languid kiss for a moment. "Tasty, eh?" "Very, at that." Bastian returns the smile, tugging at the towel. Lukas' hand moves slowly over his skin, inch by inch, leaving a warm glow behind and Bastian claims his mouth once again, nipping at Lukas' full lower lip, gently sucking on it. He gasps when a thumb circles his left nipple, feeling a heady surge rushing towards his groin, stirring his blood. Then the towel drops to the floor and Lukas is gloriously naked in front of him. Bastian doesn't have to look down to see that Lukas is aroused; the hot hardness against his stomach is proof enough. His hands slide down to the arse, feeling the hard muscles tighten under his grip. The kiss gets more heated until it really can't be called a kiss anymore, but rather a clashing of tongues, with bites and sucks interspersed, and hands roaming over each other's bodies inelegantly but with a hunger that can't be denied, and then Bastian's pulling his jersey over his head with Lukas bending down and nibblingsucking on the left nipple, his thumb smoothing over the hard nub of the other one, and Bastian groans, his fingers grappling for halt in Lukas' wet, short-cropped hair. ~~~ "Come on in," Metze says, and Basti follows him into the room, shutting the door with his foot. "Am I disturbing something?" "My very well-deserved rest, if you must know," Metze says, but his smile betrays him. "Then I'd better go," Basti jokes, "wouldn't want you to miss out on your beauty sleep." He moves to turn, but Metze's quicker than him, catching his arm – so that they're now standing that close that Basti could almost feel Metze's heartbeat, and he raises his eyebrow. "Forgoing your beauty for my company?" Metze chuckles. "Well, I don't want to end up getting voted as one of the cutest footballers by gay magazines." "These guys do have taste, Metze." – "Something I share with them, no?" and with these words, Metze's mouth closes over Basti's. Basti closes his eyes, smiling into the kiss. It's always that good, that easy. When Metze's hand slides up his arm, loosening the grip and tracing his collarbone, half-hidden behind the jersey, Basti opens his mouth to Metze's insistent tongue, his own hands resting on the jut of Metze's hipbones over the trainers, the warmth seeping through the thin fabric. Metze is always warm, an advantage that Basti shamelessly abuses whenever he shares a bed with his best friend as his own feet are always so damn cold. Metze now slides his hand up Basti's neck, stroking the nape and Basti shivers slightly; it's one of his weak points, as Metze very well knows. The defender now uses his height to his advantage and Basti willingly gives in – but not without a little nip to Metze's lower lip as Metze's arm sneaks around him. Their tongue duel gets more heated and Basti moans into Metze's mouth, feeling his dick harden against Metze's thigh, the friction heightening the sensation. When Metze's hand slides into his briefs underneath his trainers – which ones did he put on this morning, the faded green ones? Or the white CK ones? Basti can't remember, not when that hand is stroking his arse cheek forcefully, almost like a light massage, with fingertips dipping into the crack, squeezing gently. He shudders and clutches at Metze's jersey, bunching it up in his fists. Metze's other hand is in his hair, holding his head in place as he's devouring Basti's mouth, the erection stirring against Basti's hipbone proof of his arousal. Basti can't fathom how they managed to go through the first years of friendship without… this, as easy and natural and right it feels. He tugs Metze with him, slowly shuffling backwards – the bed has to be somewhere behind him… Oof. For a short moment, he loses his equilibrium, overbalancing as his calves have hit the bed's frame and can't go further, and then he's landing rather inelegantly on the comforter, with a very heavy Metze right on top of him as he hadn't let go of Basti during the manoeuvre. "Ow!" "Did you hurt yourself?" Metze's still on top of him, but has raised himself up and Basti can see the little worry lie between his eyebrows forming. He shakes his head, mouth pulling up in a little smirk. "I just got flattened by 84 kilos of human flesh and only wanted to voice my appreciation, Metze." "Oh, now you're making me blush with your flattery, Kehli. I just hope that there'll be more appreciation down the road…" Said with a wicked grin and lifting himself up on one elbow, Metze's free hand slides up Basti's stomach, pulling up the jersey as it advances further north. Then Metze's looking down at him, at the expanse of slightly tanned skin marred by some moles here and there. Basti folds his hands behind his head. "Still agreeing with your taste?" he queries, smiling slightly. Instead of answering, Metze bows down, and then Basti gasps as Metze's warmwet mouth closes around his right nipple, sucking hard. His hand strokes Basti's side, caressing the sensitive skin just above the waistband, and Basti groans, his back arching and his erection rubbing against the damp fabric, scorching thin tendrils unfolding upwards Basti's spine and he feels goosebumps spread on his arms and legs, shivering all over. "Clothes off," he gasps, his hands scrabbling on Metze's neck, fingers twisting in the jersey fabric. "Yeah," his best friend exhales, and Basti's not the only one affected by the heat of the moment, as he can feel the hot throb against his thigh. "Come on, come on," and, aided by Basti's impatient hands, Metze's jersey lands with a slight 'plop' next to the bed. The brunet defender struggles into a sitting position, his usually rather unruly hair even more messed up and then he rolls off Basti, tugging at his trainers. It develops into a hectic scrabble – who can get naked quicker, discarding the remaining clothing items along with the sandals and socks, flinging everything to the floor. Then Metze's on him again, his legs edging in between Basti's, nudging them apart and when their cocks touch, sliding against each other, Basti groans - finally. His hands touch Metze's sides, right above the indent of his hips, damp skin warming under his palms. He wants to get on with it, to get fucked by his best friend, but – strangely enough – he can't do it. Not yet. He's just looking at his best friend, and Metze's also still; not moving an inch, just being. There. With him, and Basti desperately wishes, for a second, that he could immortalize this moment in amber. Them, joined and not to be undone, ever. But then Metze bends down, ever so slowly and hesitant, and then his lips touch Basti – high on his cheek, a warm glow, and the midfielder closes his eyes. Then they brush against his lashes, and Metze's moving, slowly – as if Basti were a doll, made out of fragile glass. Basti's fingers paint simpletwisted patterns on Metze's back, feeling the skin give way under the slight pressure, brushing over the one mole on the left side, up towards the spine. Kisses all over his face; on his nose, on the very tip, then on that place where his eyebrows tend to draw together when he's brooding. His temple, brushing softly past the throb of his pulse, on his ear's conch, then right behind it, and Basti has to bite down on his lip as Metze starts to move, a slow thrust-slide rhythm. A wet lick down his neck, cool breath blown on it, and then a sharp nick at the juncture which sends lightning down his spine, whiteblindinghot, and Metze's ass feels so good, the warmsweaty globes clenching under Basti's hard grip, filling his palm perfectly. When Metze thrusts upwards again, harder this time, their cocks collideslide against each other, the precum easing the way, and Basti gasps for air, not able anymore to think a coherent thought – it's all just sensations, lightning up his mind – the rasp of Metze's thighs against his, the mingled breath, Metze's eyes wide open, drinking him in. Sweat collecting on Metze's forehead, matting his hair, plastering it to the temples, and the rapid pistoning of the brunet's hips burning against Basti's inner thighs. And underneath all of it is this great fucking sensation of drowning, drowning in desire and lust. And love, but then, this one goes without saying. Basti feels the waves crash over his head, the seductive torrent pulling him under, and he's that close to give himself up. But he wants even more; he wants what he needs - and it's also what Metze needs, too. So he says, voice shaking with hunger, "Fuck me," and Metze stills his movements, breathing hard. "N-no condoms," he sighs, "lube, neither," but Basti smiles. "My trousers." Metze raises his eyebrows at him, returning the smile. "Coming prepared, eh?" "What else," retorts Basti, giving Metze's ass a quick squeeze, "now get off me so I can get them, will you?" "I hear and obey, my lord," the defender quips as he rolls off Basti, who just rolls his eyes, but can't help the grin as he scoots off the bed to search for his trainers which have landed on the chair in the corner. The condoms and the lube are quickly located and Basti tosses them onto the bed, the condom strip narrowly missing Metze's head. "Here you go," Basti says, grinning as he quickly straddles Metze, feeling the slender thighs flex under his ass. Their cocks are almost touching, but just, and he looks down, watching Metze's hand close around them, the long dexterous fingers enveloping them in a firm hold, and he groans, his hands twisting in the bedspread, his hips rocking forward. Little slivers are pricking his spine, spreading upward and he swallows a groan, pressing his lips together and closing his eyes, only to open them when the hand disappears, but the click of the bottle of lube being opened and seeing Metze dipping his fingers into the liquid on his palm made him close them again, and when the hand is back, Basti can't suppress the loud groan as it's just so much better, slickwarmth and the friction increases by a thousandfold, making him shiver and the speed of his thrusts increases. The sound of their moangrunts throbs in his ears and just when Basti approaches the point of no return, Metze's hand on his hip tightens, stilling Basti's movements. The hand around their cocks gives them a last squeeze and disappears, and Basti sighs, opening his eyes. "Why did you stop?" "I distinctly remember you begging me to fuck you," Metze breathes, eyes half-lidded. He nudges at Basti with his knees as he's pouring some lube on his fingers, smearing it around evenly. Basti closes his eyes, levering himself up so that Metze'll have easy access – and sucks in a sharp breath when Metze's fingers have found their goal and the slight pain at the first intruder soon dissipates and he moves in rhythm to the fingerfucking, biting his lip as a second one slides in next to the first up to the second knuckle, crooking slightly and – oh my God, he shuddermoans as his head falls forward, yes, that's it. And then Metze hits the spot again and again, delving and moving around, and it's pure blisstorture, and Basti feels as if his whole world has rapidly shrunk, concentrated on this small area of his body and he has to burst because it's too much to hold in, too intense, and when Metze's fingers slide out, he hisses, his muscles clenching and he wants Christoph in him, right now. He feels Metze moving around underneath him, thighs brushing against his legs, the ripping of the condom foil impossibly loud in his ears. He opens his eyes to watch Metze rolling the thin latex sheath on his erection and then he hears a low, "Ready, Kehli?" "Get on with it, damn you," Basti hisses, closing his eyes again and then something blunt moves against his entrance, hotwet, and he swallows, expectant shivers coursing up his back as he pushes down, slowly. Metze's hands are stroking his thighs, fingernails rasping over the hair slightly. "Chris," Basti moans, drawn-out, as the thick head slips past the ring of muscle, and then Metze thrusts up, not able to hold back anymore, and Basti gasps out loud, his eyes scrunched shut and he's sure that he's broken his knuckles, the heady surge is that intense, almost painfully so, but he wants, needs even more and so he bucks up and down, settling into a fast rhythm with Metze's thrusts. "God," gasps Metze, his whole body taut as a whip, his hands gripping Basti's thighs, slamming up into him, again and again. Basti feels a sweatdrop running down his temple and he grunts, not able to be coherent anymore, every fibre of his being concentrated on the impending orgasm, feeling the first waves crash against his very being, white foam splashing up and then, with a last deep thrust, he's riding on the biggest wave, towards the cliff and then he's bursting into a million pieces, glitteringprickling. Metze's coming with him, too; a guttural moan half-swallowed accompanies his own loud cry, and Basti's arms give out, making him half-tumble onto Metze, breathing hard, still lost in the waves, being rocked by Metze's heaving chest, his eyes closed. When the softened cock slides out of him, Basti has to wince slightly. He feels like he can't move any limbs as they're soaked full. As Metze's arms envelope him in a hug, he just nuzzles the sweaty neck, sighing. "Are you that worn out?", Metze mumbles into his hair, his fingers combing through Basti's damp hair, smoothing over his back. "I'm an old man, Christoph. I'm nine months older than you, don't forget that," Basti sighs, his fingers tracing the pattern of the bedspread. Metze chuckles. "Well, then get off me, Grampa, so I can fetch something to clean us off." "Tyrant," Basti grumbles, but only half-heartedly and rolls over, flopping his arms out. "I'm so dead," he says. "Guess I have to take up necrophilia, then," Metze says as he returns from the bathroom, wiping himself off with a towel and then tossing it to Basti, who picks it up. "You're a freak," Basti says, but he's smiling back at Metze. ~~~ Lukas grasps the headboard, spreading his knees a bit further. "Like that?" he asks, looking over his shoulder at Bastian, smiling. Suddenly, Bastian has to swallow. How did they get to this point?, flashes through his mind. At some point in their shared past they had been only friends, more or less innocently enough, and it had been good enough. Now they are still friends, oh yes, but do friends get dry-mouthed at being offered their friend's great ass? "Yeah," he manages, squeezing his cock, unconsciously rubbing the hard length. Lukas raises and eyebrow and grins. "Get over here before you shoot your load, kochanie." "Don't worry," Bastian says, climbing onto the bed behind Lukas. "I have plans," and he bends down, planting his hands on Lukas' hips. The Pole has a magnificent arse, perfectly rounded, a light dusting covering the pale skin, thickening towards the cleft. Damn, he always has to avert his eyes whenever Lukas bends over in front of him at training – otherwise he'd have a real problem down there. There's a reason why he never tucks his jerseys in. Also, the memory of Frau Mayr, the elderly neighbour back home exposing herself accidentally when she thought no one would catch her scratching – ugh, but, well, there's only so many times this one will work, and what then? Anyway, yes. Perfect ass, not even Micha's can top that. Bastian bites down, just where thigh becomes ass, and Lukas' surprised gasp makes him grin. Another bite, this time following it up with a hard lick, and another, and he can feel goosebumps rippling over Lukas' skin. The quick flexing of the muscles, shifting under the smooth wetglistening skin, and the harsh breathing of Lukas', and Basti doesn't have to see his best friend's face now to know what he'll look like now – eyes scrunched shut, gritting his teeth and more often than not, he'll bite down on his full lower lip, drawing in breath sharply. A broad swipe with his tongue brings him close to the puckered opening, and this definitely works, considering Lukas' loud moan. Smoothing his hands over the ass, spreading the cheeks apart, Bastian's tongue darts out, flickering against it, teasing and rubbing. Another moan, followed up with a barrage of Polish – which means that Lukas must be pretty close. Bastian licks one last time over the cleft, the taste not too unpleasant – clean sweat, a bit of musk and a faint soapy essence which has to be the shower gel that Lukas had used. He raises himself up, glancing over Lukas' arse to see if he has left any visible marks – he should probably have been a bit more careful. Sliding a hand down Lukas' hip and around to the already hard and leaking cock, he closes his fingers around the hot length, precum slicking up his fingers. Lukas bucks up into his grip, drawing in a breath sharply, and Bastian shuffles closer, squeezing Lukas' cock in rhythm with the thrusts, until his thighs are flush against Lukas', his cock sliding in between them, the tip nudging Lukas' balls, and he has to stifle a groan by mouthing the skin between Lukas' shoulder blades, spit and sweat mixing. Bastian starts to move with Lukas, feeling the Pole's heartbeat thrum in his ears, interlaced with their heavy breathing and the slaps of skin on skin. His hand follows the ridge of the hipbone to delve underneath the slippery hold of his other hand, enveloping Lukas' balls. They are warmheavy in Bastian's hand and he squeezes them – not too hard, but also not too lightly, and is rewarded with a jerk of Lukas' cock and a shudder running over the forward's back. "Hurry the fuck up," Lukas groans, and his thighs clench around Bastian's cock, along with the ass muscles and Bastian has to hold on himself to not follow his first impulse of just going along with it and release himself into the wet warmth, rutting mindlessly. "Then don't tease me, jackass," he retorts, gritting his teeth as he shuffles back, his cock slipping out from between Lukas thighs, leaving behind a wet streak. "Where's the bottle, now?" "Table," Lukas says, spreading his thighs again and shuffling to get into a better position. "Towel, too." Bastian leans over, snatching the still damp towel up from the floor and flings it towards Lukas. "Hey!" – "Bear it like a man," Bastian says with a grin, holding the bottle in his hand and watching Lukas snatch it off his back with a mock-grumble and put on the linen underneath him. The bottle lid clicks open and Bastian pours some of the clear liquid in his palm. It's a rather expensive lubricant, one of the best in the market – water-based and guaranteered to not leave any stains, which was the main incentive to buy it. Chucking the bottle onto the pillow next to Lukas, he slicks his cock up with two, three quick strokes. He then nudges Lukas' thighs apart and rubs his slippery fingers into the cleft, spreading the lube around. His fingers slide in smoothly and Bastian watches Lukas bucking against them as he's scissoring them, mimicking thrusts. The sight is so fucking hot that he could come from it alone and he swallows thickly, squeezing his cock with his other hand, suddenly feeling as if every thought was sucked from his mind, leaving behind only a hazy red-clouded desirehunger feeding on the mingled sounds of pleasure reverberating in the room. Not capable of waiting any longer, Bastian pulls the fingers out and grasps Lukas' hips, settling himself into position – and then he's sheathed in Lukas with a long smooth thrust, his balls brushing against Lukas' thighs, and he moans at the tight hold; he has done that often enough, it's really nothing new yet it never ceases to be less than fuckinggreatamazing, and the world around him turns red, blurring more and more, drenching Lukas in a ruby glow and Bastian only dimly hears the hard slapping of his thighs against Lukas' arse, faster and faster, in rhythm with Lukas' own erratic thrusts. It feels as if his blood is boiling and he has to bite down hard on his lip to not scream and his sweatslippery hand sneaks around Lukas' hip, fingertips encountering the bobbing erection, already leaking copiously. At the small touch, Lukas grunts, muscles clenching around Bastian and this is it. He thrusts a last time into Lukas, hard, and then the red cloud just explodes, fiery streaks covering his vision, and he moans loudly, his cock spasming and spurting, and Bastian slumps forward over Lukas, all strength leaving him. His chest heaves against Lukas' back and he would love nothing more than to stay like that, half-prostrate, his hands trailing Lukas' sides up to the muscled shoulders, trailing in the sweat. Lukas hasn't come yet, though, so Bastian's fingers wander downward until they finally close around the hothard cock, jerking it two, three times – hard, as Lukas likes it – until his cock alarms him to Lukas' impending orgasm and he squeezes down, with a little twist and this does the trick, Lukas thrusting back one last time, groaning and every muscle in his body clenching up, which makes Bastian wince – not because of the copious amounts of come spurting onto the towel, but because of his now rather sensitive cock still ensheathed in Lukas' arse. He raises himself up a bit to let his soft cock slide out of Lukas, and if he weren't already flush with heat, he'd blush at the wetsmacking sound. "Fuck," Lukas says, shaking himself like a wet dog. Picking up the towel and cleaning himself up, he then hands it to Bastian who does the same and flings the towel into the bathroom afterwards. "Goal," he croons, and Lukas turns around, scooting lower and then he's pulling Bastian down to him, looking flushed and smiling. "Let's hope that won't be your only one at this tournament," the forward jokes, and Bastian snorts. "Look who's talking." It isn't meant as a jab, and Lukas knows it, too – they are that good friends that they can joke about things like that. But he nevertheless brushes his lips across Lukas', settling down at his side, his right leg sliding in between Lukas'. "You know what's the best thing about this?" Lukas says, and Bastian shakes his head. "No," he replies, "the fucking?" "How crude, Schweini," but Lukas' smirk betrays him. Bastian chuckles, his fingers tracing Lukas' biceps, the gentle slope of the muscle. "Well, tell me." "That I can fall asleep afterwards instantly. And snore. And fart. And not getting bitched out about any of that," Lukas says, grinning at him. Bastian laughs. "Too true." He pulls Lukas' head down for a kiss, a hard smack and then he's turning around, pulling at the bed sheets and then Lukas edges up behind him, a hand stroking his thigh and then their upper bodies are flush against each other, creating a cocoon of warmth underneath the thick blankets. Bastian can feel Lukas' breath against his neck, moistwarm, and smiles. Lukas is right, is his last more or less conscious thought before he's welcomed into Morpheus' open arms, Lukas' slight snore following him into his dreamless sleep. ~~~ "I'll give this one a ten," Basti says. "You can fuck like rabid bunnies and the people next door won't notice anything." Metze chuckles. "Doing your Kehl tests again?" His hand's resting on Basti's stomach, a warmheavy weight. Just lying there, and then Basti slides his own on top of it, interweaving their fingers. Turning and looking at Metze who's propped up on his elbow, his head resting in his palm, he grins. "Yeah, well, it's in my blood. Though I suppose my criteria wouldn't be very objective as I have some really special ones, you see." Metze smiles. "They're great criteria, though." "Yeah, you would say that. But honestly, this hotel is great. Like, the kicker tables and the pool table and everything, that big hut out there in the garden with pillows and such – it's really a superb idea. When I'm going to take over the hotel, I'll do something up in that style, too." Basti's now talking animatedly, his eyes sparkling. "I would do it up in a slightly more modern style – not too much so that the old clientele will still recognize it, though, and I'd do more sports, offer bike tours and hike tours and maybe do kids' weekend camps and such, when parents can unload them for a weekend and not worry, and then there could be theme weeks, too, for everyone. Yeah, and I'd do maybe footie days with little tournaments, like a mini World Cup –" and then Metze's cutting off his babble with a kiss. "You'll do that," he says, his hand cupping Basti's cheek, the thumb stroking the cheekbone. "You'll have the best hotel ever and you'll be booked out for years, decades even." Basti smiles up at him. "Yeah, and you'll be there with me, all along this ride, no?" "Always," Metze replies, and this time it's Basti who pulls him down for a deep kiss. ~~~ Two days later They're in the garden, enjoying the beautiful weather; and really, lazing around in these big chair-couches – it doesn't get better. Bastian gulps down the ice-cool water, the bottle resting on his stomach. "Still not finished?" he asks, looking at Lukas. The Pole had received a letter from his advisor, apparently something important about the transfer. At the sound of a 'click', Bastian flashes his grin at the advancing photographer. "Done," Lukas replies, grinning for the benefit of the photographer, "it wasn't really something important, but Kon likes to keep me updated about everything." "Can't go wrong with that," Bastian says. He raises the water bottle to his lips again. Swallowing, he adds, "You will so love it at Bayern, I promise," a wicked glint entering his eyes. Lukas laughs. "I'll hold you to that, Schweini," he says. And Bastian knows that if they weren't out here in the open, if the photographer and the others weren't there, Lukas would've kissed him then and here. And he knows that Lukas knows that he knows. Or something like that. He grins. "You do that. Hey, fancy a round of snooker?" Lukas shakes his head. "Nah, there's Metze and Thomas, as far as I know. Kelly told me when I saw him in the hall." "Oh," Bastian says. "Too bad. I've already played like ten rounds of table football, so. Kelly? Isn't he playing with Metze, too?" "No, he was heading out to relax in the wellness area," Lukas says. "Said that he'd have some quiet then." Bastian grins. "What, were we too loud this morning?" Lukas snorts. "I'd bloody hope not, seeing as he's on the ground floor. That would've been a racket!" "Isn't he on your floor, then?" Bastian asks, eyebrows raised. "I thought he was – I met him at the hall door when I was going downstairs to fetch the lube, you know, on Thursday." "You did? Huh," Lukas says, pursing his lips. "Whom would he visit – oh, of course. Metze is on the same floor as me; he's in room 4." "Oh, well, that explains it," says Bastian. "Best friends, and all that." Lukas grins. "What do you bet that they're as good friends as we are?" he asks, winking at Bastian, who just laughs, shaking his head. "In your dreams, kochanie," he chuckles, tossing the almost-empty water bottle onto the grass. It'd be pretty unlikely, really.

2011 Blaine meets Kurt’s father for the first time in Kurt’s living room. Kurt leads Blaine into the room by the crook of Blaine’s elbow. “Dad, this is Blaine.” Blaine steps forward and reaches for Mr Hummel’s hand across the coffee table. “Great to finally meet you, Mr Hummel.” Mr Hummel returns the handshake immediately. His grip is powerful and leaves Blaine with a sudden understanding of Kurt’s surprising strength. “Blaine. Nice to finally have a face to match to my son’s stories.” Blaine laughs nervously. “Good stories, I hope?” Mr Hummel’s expression doesn’t change. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Then he moves past Blaine and Kurt and heads toward the kitchen. “You kids want anything to drink?” “I’m fine, thanks,” Kurt calls. “No, thank you,” Blaine chokes out, still reeling. Kurt and Blaine are seated on the couch when Mr Hummel returns with a glass of water for himself and, smiling at his son but not looking at Blaine, he sits down in the chair in front of the television and turns it off with a flick of the remote. Kurt gives Blaine an encouraging smile, which is not really comforting at all. Blaine’s about to get the third-degree, he’s sure of it. “Thank you for inviting me, Mr Hummel,” Blaine says graciously, trying not to over-do it but at the same time seem polite and appropriately boyfriend-material. Mr Hummel just looks at Blaine with an extremely unsettling calculating gaze. Blaine quarrels with himself and determinedly does not look away. “Any hobbies?” the man asks. Blaine seizes on the subject with vigour. “Yes! I play lacrosse for the Dalton team, and I’m yearbook editor. And – well, you know I sing with Kurt in the Warblers.” Mr Hummel responds by taking a long sip from his water glass. He can’t possibly know how effectively he’s dashing Blaine’s attempts at dazzling the man with his extra-curricular activities. Blaine now realizes how stupid he was to think the yearbook or lacrosse would impress Kurt’s father. Kurt has mentioned Mr Hummel’s interest in football, so Blaine takes a stab at establishing familiar ground. “I’m a really big fan of football. I follow the Buckeyes pretty religiously!” he says, inwardly cringing at his over-enthusiastic tone of voice. “Yeah,” Kurt agrees, like an angel sent to rescue Blaine from his stupid nerves. “He’s been teaching me some of the rules.” Mr Hummel looks at Kurt as he responds. “Hm. I’ve been trying to explain the rules to you since you were four. Never seemed to stick.” Blaine decides it’s probably best not to inform Kurt’s very large, very foreboding father that Kurt had no more understood Blaine’s explanations, especially considering the lesson in question had taken place during a particularly memorable shared shower in the Dalton locker room. Mr Hummel so does not need to know the details. Great, now Blaine’s petrified Mr Hummel will somehow be able to read his mind and see for himself the ways in which he has sullied his only son. Apparently finished with the third-degree (for now, anyway), Mr Hummel releases the footrest of his armchair, leans back and returns to watching the television. Blaine turns a panicked look on Kurt, who rolls his eyes and shrugs, standing up and pulling Blaine to his feet. “Well, Dad, we’re going downstairs.” “Door stays open,” he grunts. As soon as they’re downstairs, Blaine sags against Kurt. “Oh my god,” he breathes. “Your dad is the scariest person I’ve ever met.” Kurt laughs brightly. “Oh, he’s not that bad. He’s pretty friendly once you get to know him. He’s just nervous.” “He’s nervous?” Blaine yelps, quietly, so as not to be heard through the open door at the top of the stairs. “That’s how he shows nervousness?” “You’re not the only one who’s new to this,” Kurt says with a gentle smile, sitting down on his bed and beckoning for Blaine to join him. “Just give him some time, and he’ll be your biggest fan. Next to me, of course.” “Oh, of course,” Blaine jokes, rolling his eyes but giving into the kiss Kurt’s coaxing him into. Kurt laughs into the kiss a few moments later. “You looked so scared up there,” he giggles. Blaine sighs in a long-suffering manner. “You’re so mean to me.” Kurt’s hand lands dangerously high-up on Blaine’s thigh as he smirks. “That’s a lie; I’m extremely nice,” he says, voice silky and sexy and completely irresistible. Blaine feels himself harden. “Your – your dad’s right upstairs,” he stutters, trying not to press into the weight of Kurt’s hand, even as it moves right over the bulge in his slacks. “Better be extra quiet, then,” Kurt murmurs, leaning in. - It turns out the real Spanish Inquisition has been saved for supper, and it starts just as Blaine’s taking his first bite of food. “Are you a good student, Blaine?” Mr Hummel asks over his plate of lasagna. “Burt,” Kurt’s step-mom admonishes lightly, placing her hand on his forearm. “What? I can’t ask if my son’s boyfriend is a good student?” “It’s okay,” Blaine says quickly. “I’m," he wipes his mouth on his napkin, "I'm actually on the Dean’s List at Dalton.” “Hear that, Burt? The Dean’s List! Very impressive!” Mrs Hummel remarks. “Blaine’s set to be valedictorian,” Kurt inputs, who is sitting across from Blaine and cutting up his food in a casual manner, as if this is no-big-deal, just any regular dinner. “College plans?” “Dad.” Kurt looks up and over at his father with extreme exasperation. “College plans? Really?” “I don’t get to ask about his plans for the future?” “Oh my god,” Kurt mumbles, looking to his step-mom for help. She smiles. “I’m sure Blaine has many possibilities in front of him. I’m much more interested to hear if you have any brothers or sisters, Blaine.” Blaine officially loves this woman. Loves. “Yeah, actually, I have an older sister, Sarah. She’s at Dartmouth studying Political Science.” “Wow!” she says enthusiastically, eyes wide. “And what field do your parents work in, sweetie?” Blaine abandons his plainly ridiculous notion of eating anything at all and focuses entirely on answering Mrs Hummel’s question. “Well, my father works in the financial sector, and my mother doesn’t work.” He laughs nervously. “Unless you count hosting cocktail parties as work, which she probably would.” Whoops. He hadn’t meant to say that. Mr and Mrs Hummel are giving him looks of mingled curiosity. He’s said too much. They definitely do not need to know all the details of his oddball family. “She’s the social elite type, so she has these boring cocktail parties every other week. It’s usually really busy at home,” he says, and then he shovels some food in his mouth to stop himself from nervously rambling on. “Blaine’s house is crazy-huge,” Kurt informs his parents. “I’ve gotten lost every time I go there. It’s like a house out of Gossip Girl.” “Have you met Blaine’s parents?” Mr Hummel asks abruptly. Kurt raises an eyebrow. “Well, Blaine is right there, so feel free to ask him.” Kurt and his father exchange a few unspoken words through hard looks, and then Mr Hummel turns to Blaine. “Has Kurt met your parents?” “He’s met my mother,” Blaine admits, feeling inexplicably anxious about the direction the conversation’s taken, “but not my father.” At their confused looks, he adds, “My father’s not home that much.” There he goes again, blabbing away. This time he can see that the looks they’re giving him are tinged with pity, and he feels extremely uncomfortable. “He - he spends a lot of time in Manhattan, so he hasn’t been there when Kurt’s around.” Kurt gives Blaine a small smile that’s just for him. Now their expressions are really pitying. “It’s no big deal; he’s just really busy,” Blaine explains. For some reason, he looks at Kurt’s father as says this. Mr Hummel sighs. “That’s no excuse.” And now Blaine’s embarrassed. It’s really not that bad; he stopped giving a shit a long time ago, once he realized that getting upset about his situation wasn’t going to change it. Besides, he rallies, it’s probably for the best that he’s not around that much. What would Blaine even say? ‘Thanks for coming to my birthday; this totally makes up for the fact that I haven’t seen you in nearly two months.’ Mr Hummel clears his throat. “More salad, Blaine? I'm sorry there’s no dressing on it; you can thank Kurt and my wife for that, they never let me eat anything that tastes good.” In the corner of his vision, Blaine sees Kurt and Carole roll their eyes at each other fondly. But Blaine’s busy taking the offered salad bowl with a soft, “Thanks, Mr Hummel.” “You can call me Burt.” Fighting the relieved smile that’s on its way would be useless at this point, so he wears it with conviction. He thinks he may just have won Burt’s approval; though how he managed that escapes him utterly. 2012 “Come on, hurry up and unpack; I want to show you everything.” “Okay, okay,” Blaine says with a shameless grin. He hasn’t seen Kurt in three and a half months, except over Skype, so he fully understands his boyfriend’s impatience. “You know what, I’ll unpack later; let’s go.” “Great, awesome,” says Kurt, ushering Blaine out of his closet of a Manhattan apartment and locking the door with a flourish. “Okay, your choice: Times Square, Broadway, or Lady Liberty?” “That’s a trick question, right?” Blaine laughs, grabbing his boyfriend’s hand and swinging their arms together as they walk along the New York City streets. “Broadway it is!” Kurt shouts triumphantly. “We’ll take the subway. It’s exciting!” Blaine's pretty sure anything – absolutely anything – would be exciting; he’d probably ride on the back of a garbage truck if it meant he was going somewhere with Kurt. It turns out the subway is pretty exciting, but walking along Broadway ends up capping out at number three on the list of Blaine’s Favourite Memories, the first being his and Kurt’s first kiss, and the second being very much X-Rated. “One hand in the air for the big city,” Blaine sings, pulling Kurt into an impromptu dance in the middle of the sidewalk, in broad daylight. “Street lights, big dreams all look pretty,” Kurt sings back, swaying back and forth with Blaine to their own soundtrack. “No place in the world that can compare,” Blaine croons, and then, with Kurt singing a delicious harmony, “Put your lighters in the air, everybody say ‘YEAH, YEAH’!” They double over with laughter, drawing the stares of passersby. Let ‘em look, Blaine thinks. Let ‘em look and be jealous. 2013 Blaine's phone rings as he's walking to class. He sees it's Kurt and scrambles to answer with a breathless, "Hey!" "Hi! Glad I caught you!" "I'm heading to class, actually; I'm glad you caught me, too. How’re things?” Blaine asks, dodging a kid walking really fast toward him and resisting the urge to bump him purposely on his way past. “Insane,” Kurt says loudly; there’s lots of noise on his end. “I’ve seriously spent the last six hours bent over a sewing machine, trying not to listen to this idiotic girl in my group describe her entire life story to another intern.” “Yikes. Too much information?” “Way too much. I definitely did not need to hear the details of how her boyfriend gives her multiple orgasms.” Blaine has to stop and lean against a wall to really concentrate on laughing hysterically at Kurt’s words and exasperated tone. He can just imagine the expression Kurt was wearing during that particular overheard conversation. “But, thankfully, she finally stopped when I turned around and asked if she returned the favour. Her tomato-red face was well worth the two hours I had to put up with.” Blaine seriously can’t breathe. He’s wheezing, clutching his stomach, and ignoring the stares of passing students. “Oh, I love you,” Blaine says cheerfully, when he can speak again. “I love you too,” Kurt says with warmth. “Ooh, hang on, gotta order my coffee.” Blaine waits, continuing down the hallway while listening to Kurt make his complicated order to the cashier. “Back,” says Kurt’s voice. A few moments later, he adds, quietly and amusedly, “Heh, this barista’s got a tattoo of a giraffe on his arm. I’m tempted to ask the significance, but I have a feeling that way leads madness.” Blaine chuckles. “My mom had a really long neck; it’s a tribute to her,” he quips. “I’ve always wanted to tower over everyone and eat leaves from the really high-up, difficult places to reach.” “It’s such a majestic animal!” Blaine enthuses. “They’ve got such big hearts!” The sound of Kurt’s loud laughter makes Blaine’s chest feel suddenly tight. God, he misses Kurt so much. He should have talked to Kurt about his college plans before accepting to attend college in Ohio; there are plenty of schools he could have attended in New York, especially since he’s studying in the education field. The seven months he has left before he can finally join Kurt seem like an awfully long time right now. “Awww, Blaine. I miss you so much,” Kurt says softly, like he can read Blaine’s mind. “Not as much as I miss you,” Blaine replies. “Damn, I’m outside my classroom. I gotta go, but I’ll call you tonight.” “Okay, talk to you then. Have a good class.” “Thanks. Good luck with the dress! Love you.” “Love you,” Blaine hears right before he has to hang up. He turns his phone off and buries it in his pocket, and enters his classroom with a wistful smile. Seven months. They can do it. 2014 Blaine hates traveling. With a fiery burning passion, Blaine hates traveling anywhere that requires him to do so in anything other than the confines of his own car. Five months ago, when he and Kurt first moved in together, the distance from New York to Ohio meant he had the perfect excuse to avoid airplanes altogether. And now that Blaine’s old enough, he can make the conscious choice to stay well away from the parents he has no desire to see, and: bonus! Not travel. It’s going to be their first shared Christmas without the need for transportation to spend it together, and Blaine’s looking forward to enjoying the holiday quietly, with his boyfriend, no traveling necessary. Unfortunately, in early November Kurt royally screws those plans up with a head around the door of their living room and one measly sentence. “My parents want to know when we’re arriving.” Blaine isn’t even sure what Kurt means, so he says, quite eloquently, “What?” “For Christmas?” Kurt says. Duh, says his tone of voice. “For Christmas?” Blaine repeats, mystified. Kurt’s respondent flat, exasperated expression is completely unnecessary. “Kurt. What about Christmas?” Kurt pulls his head around the corner of the entrance to the living room, and Blaine hears him say, “Dad? I’ll call you back in a few.” Then he walks back into the living room, but he doesn’t sit down. It’s foreboding. He stands there, hands on his hips, clearly ready for a conversation. “My parents want to know when to expect us for Christmas,” says Kurt. “It’s a pretty straightforward question, so what’s the problem?” Oh, good. This is Kurt’s modus operandi for how to get what he wants; just make it sound like Blaine’s being difficult on purpose. “We have not talked about Christmas at all,” Blaine points out. “So you coming in here and asking when we’re showing up at your parents’ place, and not if? Not cool. Especially while you’re on the phone with your dad. You framed the question so that I’m cornered into saying yes.” Kurt rolls his eyes, very maturely. “Ah yes, my nefarious manipulation tactics.” Blaine sighs. "I’m just saying, you didn’t ask what we’re doing for Christmas; you just waltzed in here with the assumption that we’re going to your parents’. I don’t like feeling tricked into these kinds of discussions. All you had to do was ask, and I probably would have said yes, but at least I would’ve had the option.” “Okay, let me see if I have this straight,” Kurt says, placing one delicate finger on his chin. “I asked the wrong question, and now you’re getting pissy.” Blaine’s up and on his feet in a split second. “Oh my god! Why can’t you just listen to what I said? Put away the bitch claws for a second and listen --” “Bitch claws!? Wow! Nice!” Kurt shouts. “You know what? Don’t play the innocent act, like you’re upset I didn’t ask properly; it’s so fucking passive aggressive! You just hate the idea of spending Christmas with my family, don’t you?” “No!” Blaine shouts. “That is not what I’m saying! Stop twisting my words!” “Why are you making this so difficult?” Kurt demands. “You couldn’t have said, ‘The 21st works for me’; you just had to make it into something. You always do!” “I do not! Don’t exaggerate! I hate traveling - you know I hate traveling, and you didn’t even ask. Just ask next time!” “No! You know why? Because there won’t be a next time! Fuck this!” He whirls around, stomps to their bedroom and slams the door behind him. That’s right about when Blaine starts to panic. They’ve never fought like that before, never. Kurt’s probably packing Blaine’s bags right now, and then he’s going to tell Blaine to get lost, and Blaine’ll have to stay at a motel. And then Kurt’s going to forget all about Blaine and find some really attractive boyfriend who models as a hobby and doesn’t make a fuss about traveling, and Blaine’s going to be alone for the rest of his life, replaying this fucking awful fight in his head. Kurt’ll call his dad later on and tell him they’ve broken up, that he’s coming for Christmas alone, and Blaine’ll be by himself for Christmas, and it’ll be his stupid fault because he just had to say something, couldn’t let it slide. He is such an idiot! Such a stupid, idiotic -- The bedroom door opens again, and Blaine flinches, terrified. This is it. Four years undone by plans for Christmas. Kurt bursts into the room and launches himself at Blaine, burying his head in Blaine’s shoulder. Blaine clutches at Kurt, tears imminent. He was so scared. His heart’s still racing. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean it, I swear,” Kurt whispers frantically, the words coming out watery and rushed together. “It doesn’t matter what we do for Christmas, just – I’m so sorry!” Blaine can’t even get any words out he’s so relieved. He can only cling to Kurt, trembling from the effort he’s making not to break down crying, and push his face into Kurt’s throat. Finally, Blaine finds the words, “The 21st works for me.” 2015 “Wow,” Blaine mutters, staring up at the Lima house decked out in every American cliché imaginable. “Yup, that’s Puck for you,” Kurt says cheerfully, linking arms with Blaine and leading them toward the front door. “All out, or nothing.” Kurt rings the doorbell, and a few moments later the door swings open to reveal Puck himself, with whom Blaine has had the briefest of introductions before. “Yo, homo!” Puck greets with a wolfish smile, yanking Kurt into an ultra-manly, backslap hug. “Hey dumbass!” Kurt says, pulling away with a fond smile on his face. “The house looks ridiculous!” “So does your outfit,” Puck shoots back, entering the house and letting Kurt and Blaine inside before closing the door behind them. “Oh, bitch, you did not!” Kurt snaps with sass, playing up the stereotypical gay part with scary precision. “I will cut you!” “With what? Your nails?” “Yeah, I’ll use them to gouge out your eyes.” “That’d get ‘em dirty, though. Then you’d faint.” “You’d have no eyes, Pool Boy! You’d be dead! But don’t worry; I’ll find you a lovely suit for your funeral. You’ll be buried in Armani.” “I have no idea what that means,” Puck says, grinning and leading the way through his mother’s house to the kitchen where the French windows are open on a nice-looking backyard, where shouts and laughter can be heard but the source of them still unseen. Blaine’s so taken aback by the insult-fest he’s just witnessed that he doesn’t even register the enormous American flag on the clothesline for at least several seconds. “Puck, you remember Blaine?” Kurt asks. Puck’s head is buried in the fridge, but he emerges with three beers, keeping one for himself and passing the other two to Kurt and Blaine. “Of course!” Puck crows. “Blaine, my man, how are ya?” He shakes Blaine’s hand firmly. Blaine’s a fair bit surprised by the enthusiastic greeting. “Uh, I’m good. How are you?” “Not nearly drunk enough! But I’m working on it. Come on outside, you two, we’ve been waiting.” Blaine widens his eyes at Kurt as they step out into the bright sun splaying the backyard with warmth. Kurt chuckles and takes Blaine’s hand, leading the way toward a cluster of people sitting in chairs around a table on the back patio. Blaine feels oddly nervous. He’s met Kurt’s high school friends before, of course; he came as Kurt’s prom date the year after he graduated, some time after Kurt had transferred back to McKinley. He has, at some point, been introduced to every former member of New Directions, but he’s never experienced them together as a group; even prom had been relatively split up. He doesn’t have time to dwell on that thought, however, because as soon as the three of them have reached the table, Kurt’s old friends are on their feet and embracing Kurt with cries of excited greeting. They’re shouting over each other, grinning broadly, and even though Blaine feels like the odd man out, it warms his heart to see Kurt so appreciated here. He watches from a distance until Mercedes sidles over. “Hi Blaine,” she says politely, hugging him. He’s always gotten the impression she doesn’t really like him that much, but she’s being pretty friendly, so he returns the hug happily. “Mercedes,” he says into her shoulder. “Good to see you. It’s been a while.” “For sure,” she agrees, pulling out of the hug and smiling kindly. "I'll have to come visit you guys soon." "Definitely," Blaine grins. Tina’s up next. She’s always been wonderfully bright toward him, and this time is no different; she tackles him fiercely. “BLAINE!” she shouts. “How are you? Happy 4th!” “Happy 4th to you! I’m great, how are you, hon?” “Oh, I’m great, too! You look fantastic. It’s thanks to all the sex, am I right?” she jokes, laughing outright. Blaine flushes deeply. He takes a sip of his beer. Wow. Finn makes his way over, clasping Blaine’s shoulder. “Good to see you, man. How you holding up?” “Pretty good, man,” he replies, trying not to smirk in amusement; Finn's such a dude. “You?” “Good, good. I see you’ve got a beer; that’s the spirit!” Blaine laughs, and proceeds to greet Kurt’s other friends, ones he doesn’t know as well as Mercedes and Tina and Finn, with more subdued handshakes and hugs. Eventually they’re allowed to sit down with the group. Kurt answers their rapid-fire questions with brimming energy. He looks so happy to be here with these people; Blaine knows it’s been nearly five years since they’ve all gotten together like this, so it makes perfect sense. It’s a treat to see, Blaine decides. He's already starting to feel more comfortable with this group of people who, by any outsider's standards, wouldn’t appear to click as amazingly as they do. When they start singing, taking turns at solos and duets, Blaine watches in wonderment and can’t help but wish he’d known these people in high school; had gone to school with these really interesting, fun people. If he had, maybe it would have been a much more endurable experience. - “So, gay boys,” Santana chirps once they’ve all settled down to eat, most of the attendants thoroughly on their respective ways to being decidedly drunk. “When’s the wedding? It’s legal in Ohio now, so you have no excuse!” Blaine chokes on his burger. Finn claps him on the back with an amused grin. Santana has such a way with words! Kurt looks completely unaffected. “Santana, just because we can get married doesn’t mean we have to.” “Kurt Hummel!” Rachel cries from across the table, tossing a roll at him with so much strength it bounces right off Kurt’s forehead. “My dads would have killed to have that right when they were your age. If you and Blaine are forever, you owe them, and all the couples who have fought for your right to marry the person you love, to make that commitment, you absolute ignoramus!” Everyone at the table openly stares at Rachel, who looks shocked at her own audacity, at her sudden outburst, and quickly casts her gaze to her plate. There’s a long moment of extremely uncomfortable silence, and then Brittany asks, “Is it legal to marry my cat yet?” - Blaine’s driving as they head toward their hotel in downtown Lima. Kurt’s a bit past tipsy, but he’s not prattling on like he usually does when he’s had a few celebratory drinks. The radio’s playing softly in the background, but there’s an unexplained silence between them that’s thick enough to make custard cream. About ten minutes into the drive, Kurt turns the radio off. Blaine glances over where Kurt’s slumped in his seat. He looks... almost dejected. “Hey. You okay?” Maybe Kurt has a headache? “Do you think Rachel was right?” he asks. “That we owe them something?” Blaine does not have to search for the thread of conversation; he’s been thinking about that moment for hours. He expels a breath. “No, I don’t think that. I don’t think we have to get married to honour other gay couples’ hard work. We were part of that struggle, too.” Kurt doesn’t say anything, which is good because it gives Blaine the courage to say the rest of what he’s been thinking about non-stop all evening. “I wouldn’t want to get married simply because we can, or out of some ethic obligation, or what have you.” He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, and his ears, like a dull roar. He swallows. “But I do want to marry you.” More silence. More heavy, terrifying silence. Then Kurt says, so quietly Blaine almost misses it –- but there's no fucking way Blaine’s missing it; he's listening so intently –- “I want to marry you, too,” and reaches across the divide between them to cover Blaine’s closest hand. Blaine releases his grip on the steering wheel and, utterly relieved, laces their fingers together, smiling tearfully at Kurt. His fiancé? His fiancé! 2016 Mercedes clinks her glass with her fork and gets determinedly to her feet. The happy chatter and laughter dies down as people turn to the wedding party at the front of the hall. Mercedes smiles out at the crowd and then turns that beautiful smile on Kurt and Blaine, who are seated with their hands clasped on the table, wearing complementary tuxedos and utterly content grins. “I’m not that great at public speaking,” Mercedes starts, “but my boy Kurt was very, very insistent that I give a maid of honour speech. And he has a point; I have known Kurt since we were sixteen, and I can safely say he’s my best friend. I flatter myself that he feels the same way.” Kurt lifts his glass in agreement. “Besides, you can’t fight with a diva on his wedding day!” The combined representation of Kurt and Blaine's family and friends all laugh together. “I first met Kurt when we were in our high school Glee club together. I’ll risk my own embarrassment and admit I had a huge crush on him." Laughter rings out. “Can you blame me? He’s cute and nice and he has always had the most fabulous wardrobe of anyone in the room. A girl’s dream.” More laughter. Kurt lifts his glass again with amused giggles. Blaine just grins; he hasn't been able to get rid himself of it since he said his vows. “But,” Mercedes says, and the laughter disperses, “after a run-in with Kurt’s car, my feelings for him broke along with his windshield, and from that moment on we were besties. He became the greatest friend I’ve ever known. And I have lots of great friends!” More smiles and laughter. Mercedes takes a sip from her wine glass and continues. “Then Blaine came along. I’ll be honest: I wasn’t a fan at first. Not like Kurt was, that’s for sure. You see, Blaine was, in my young mind, the enemy. As far as I was concerned, he was whisking my boy away, and I didn’t trust him at all.” There’s a moment of suspended silence while Mercedes takes another sip of wine. “I can tell you the exact moment that changed. It was also the moment I realized Blaine was perfect for Kurt. It was last year. Kurt and Blaine had found an apartment together and they were living in New York City. I drove up from L.A. to visit them for a week, but, to be honest, I felt like I was really visiting Kurt. So one morning, Kurt had left for work at the crack of dawn, and I was wondering how awkward it was going to be to spend the day with Blaine without Kurt as - as a buffer, a go-between. I was brewing coffee in the kitchen, and I started singing Beyoncé – my usual morning routine – and out of the blue, Blaine walked into the kitchen and started singing along. We cooked breakfast together and worked our way through her discography that morning.” Blaine’s smile is enormous. He remembers the moment well. Kurt, on his left, is grinning at his best friend, and then at Blaine, in a lopsided sort of way. “I decided then and there,” Mercedes declares, “that Blaine and Kurt were meant to be.” Kurt and Blaine share a long, significant look as Mercedes lets the poignant silence hang for a moment. “Boys,” she says with a fond smile, giving them her full attention. “I’m gonna finish this speech the only way that’s really fitting.” She takes another sip of wine, puts the glass down on the table and spreads her arms wide. “I hope life treats you kind,” she sings, “and I hope you have all you dreamed of. And I wish you joy and happiness! But above ALL this, I wish you love!” Her voice reaches to every corner of the room, and then there are sighs and cheers and applause, and above the din, Mercedes lifts her glass a final time and shouts, “TO KLAINE!” “KLAINE!” the crowd shouts in unison, and they toast and cheer for the newly married couple, who smile around at their loving community. Blaine feels fairly incoherent with happiness. It's just too good to be true. 2017 “What do you think the point is of packing ground beef into such tiny little containers?” Blaine wonders aloud, picking up a small tray and brandishing it in Kurt’s direction for emphasis. “Who eats this small an amount? Elves?” “Definitely elves,” Kurt mumbles distractedly, squeezing a pear to verify ripeness across the aisle. Blaine still doesn’t understand how the fruit and veggies have been arranged so close to the meat sections, but whatever. “I guess this one’s for an elf party,” Blaine mutters, picking up a slightly larger container. “Mr Anderson! Hi!” Blaine turns to find a student from one of the math classes he substitutes for standing a few steps away. Henrietta, he remembers. “Henrietta! How are you?” “I’m good, and you?” Blaine smiles. “Debating the sense of such tiny portions,” he says, holding up the aforementioned ground beef. “I see. I’m picking up some things for my mom for dinner,” she says by way of explanation, shaking a slip of paper in her hand; undoubtedly a list. “Well, that’s nice of you. I’m sure there’re plenty of teenagers who wouldn’t do that for their parents.” “Well,” she says wryly, “if I want dinner, that’s what I gotta do.” “Of course,” he grins. “Hey, d’you want to get some mango? It’s not the season, but I really feel like mango!” Kurt’s voice cuts in. Blaine turns to his husband to see him stop abruptly. “Hello!” he greets Henrietta politely. “Hi!” she says with an equally polite smile. “Kurt, this is Henrietta,” Blaine says, gesturing, “She’s in the math class I sub for sometimes. Henrietta, this is Kurt.” He doesn’t say ‘my husband'. He’s not entirely sure why. “Henrietta’s one of the brightest students in the class,” he adds. “Oh! Good job!” She blushes. “I don’t know about that.” “Oh, please, you’re an excellent student,” Blaine insists. “You always listen, and you volunteer answers.” “Well,” she says, grinning, “I guess it’s ‘cause you’re such a good teacher. You make the subject interesting. I wish you could be our permanent teacher.” “Extra credit for you! Oop, probably shouldn’t say that too loud. I could get in trouble!” She giggles. “I won’t say a word!” There’s an awkward silence. “Nice purse!” Kurt says. “Oh, thanks!” she gushes. “Got it in-season, which practically never happens. I’m always late.” “You don’t look it at all,” Kurt says kindly. She smiles, and she looks between them, expression thoughtful. “Well," she says, "I’ll leave you to it. Gotta get those groceries for my mom. See you soon, I hope.” “Someone’s got to get sick first,” Blaine jokes. “I’ll cross my fingers,” she says, doing so. “Nice to see you, Mr Anderson. And nice to meet you!” she adds, smiling at Kurt. “You too.” “Take care, sweetie,” Blaine calls, waving. She waves back, and then she walks away, ponytail swinging. “She was nice,” Kurt says, putting his mango in the basket Blaine’s carrying. “I expect most students just pretend they haven’t seen their teachers. Although, Henrietta? I didn’t realize people still named their kids after Jane Austen characters.” “I didn’t realize you’d actually read Jane Austen,” Blaine snarks, finally selecting a tray of ground beef at random and sticking it in amongst the eggs, milk, bread and mango. “Uh, hello? Mr Darcy? Captain Wentworth? I used to fantasize about one or both of them carrying me off into the sunset.” “Both?” Blaine gasps. “Two men? How selfish!” Kurt laughs and guides the two of them toward the cheese section. “Hey, stop worrying,” he says when he’s chosen a delicious-looking brie, put it in the basket, and gotten a good look at Blaine. “This isn’t 1970; you don’t have to worry about getting fired for being gay anymore.” “I’m not worried,” Blaine scoffs. “You’re picking at your thumb. You’re worried.” Blaine stops picking at his thumb. “I’m sure she won’t say anything.” “Even if she does,” Kurt says gently, tugging Blaine through a quieter grocery aisle, “you’re not in Ohio State anymore. It’ll be fine.” “Yeah." “Oh, I see a cherry pie with our names on it,” Kurt announces, plucking a box off a shelf and holding it out. Blaine takes it. “Pie,” Kurt sighs, looking at it fondly. “Uh oh. I guess I'll be sending out a mass-email to all your coworkers informing them of your love affair with pie,” Blaine teases. “Ooh, guess you won’t be getting any pie, then,” Kurt shoots back with a smirk. “More for me!” Blaine catches himself picking at the hangnail on his thumb five times on the drive home. - He actually forgets about the grocery store incident until, a month later, he’s subbing for a few weeks while Ms Feldman’s recovering from a hernia repair surgery. “Mr Anderson?” Jill calls from the back of the room, her hand high in the air. “Yes, Jill?” “Are you married?” Blaine hesitates for two seconds. “Yes.” “Told you!” Jill cries triumphantly. “Aw, geez,” her workmate, Alex, mutters beside her. “How long have you been married for?” Catherine asks from another group. “About a year,” he replies, trying not to look as uncomfortable as he feels with the topic at hand. “Awww!” coo a fair number of students, all of them female. “Was it a big wedding?” “How long have you been together for?” “What’s her name?” “Okaaay, we’re doing math, folks,” Blaine says, raising his voice to speak over the noise. The chatter and questions quiet down immediately, and his students go back to doing their work. Blaine looks around, checking to see that everyone is doing what they’re supposed to be doing, and not texting or doing something else un-math-related. He catches Henrietta’s eye from where she’s sitting with her group near the front of the class. She gives him a sweet, knowing smile and turns determinedly back to her work. Blaine really has to wonder why he was ever worried in the first place. 2018 During Kurt’s one-week summer vacation, they don’t leave the house once. Instead of going out, they use their free time to sleep in and watch back-to-back episodes of Buffy, wrapped around each other on their insanely comfortable couch. They use one afternoon, when the sun’s high in the sky and beating down on them, to spread out in their backyard, exchanging lazy kisses. Things heat up quickly, and it's not long before Blaine’s on his hands and knees, Kurt shoving into him deep and hard and wrenching harsh cries from Blaine’s throat. Blaine has to hold tight to the grass beneath him to remain in place, rocking forward each time Kurt thrusts. Kurt’s hand is like a vice around his dick, and he strips it fast, so expertly that Blaine comes with a loud shot of his husband’s name. He realizes, rather belatedly, that their neighbours certainly won't have missed the unmistakable sounds of that gay couple fucking in the backyard, and considering what a nice day it is it’s pretty likely there are at least a few people outside. “Bastard,” Blaine gasps, shivering as Kurt comes inside him with a deep groan. Kurt giggles uncontrollably while he pulls out, and then he lies down to spoon Blaine from behind, hand playfully exploring the hair on Blaine’s chest. “Nuh-uh, my parents were married,” Kurt quips, but with, Blaine’s happy to note, an equally scant amount of breath. Kurt’s time off is seriously Blaine’s favourite time of year. Fuck Christmas and birthdays; nothing gets Kurt riled up like a week with nothing to do except Blaine. 2019 “Blaine!” The loud shout is accompanied by a loud slam of the front door, and Blaine, folding laundry upstairs, jumps and drops the sweater he’s holding with a muffled curse. “Yeah?” he calls back. “Get down here! Hurry!” Blaine scrambles down the staircase. “What is it?” he asks, perplexed. Kurt’s practically vibrating with excitement. “Oh my god. Oh my GOD!” “What?” “Okay, so, I overheard an intern, Kelly, talking to another intern today, and she happened to mention that she just found out she’s pregnant, and she doesn’t know what to do, but she doesn’t want to have an abortion so she was thinking about putting the baby up for adoption, and I overheard, and I asked if - if she'd think about giving the baby to us, and she said she’d be delighted to give us her baby!” The words come out so quickly and without even a pause for breath (or thought, in Blaine’s case), that Blaine takes an actual step back. “Whoa,” he mutters. “A baby. A baby we can adopt,” Kurt enunciates carefully. Blaine’s pretty sure his heart’s stopped. “You’re kidding!” “No! I said I’d talk to you and let her know!” “What? Yes!” Blaine yells. “Ohmygod, what are you - yes! Call her right now and tell her yes!” Kurt's smile is dazzling. He backs Blaine into the wall, arms going securely around Blaine's waist. “A baby?” Blaine says, and his voice cracks on the second word. “A baby,” Kurt repeats, sounding just as choked up. Blaine wraps his arms around his favourite person in the world and holds him tight. “A baby,” he echoes, awed beyond belief 2020 “I know it’s hard, baby,” says Blaine, squeezing Kurt’s shoulder. “It’s fine, I’m totally fine, I'm fine.” Kurt picks up the pen on the desk in a resolute sort of way and scrawls his signature on the dotted line. Blaine holds his breath, and he’s absolutely certain Kurt’s doing the same. Kurt slams the pen down on the mahogany. "It's done,” he says gravely. Blaine almost can’t believe Kurt’s just signed his Lexus over to a couple in their neighbourhood. He’s actually, willingly given away what he’s referred to as his baby for over three years. "I need a drink," Kurt says morosely. Blaine bites his lip on a smile. Only Kurt could make the parting from a car seem like a deeply significant moment in his life, and, on top of that, manage to convince Blaine of its significance. --- “What’s this, Daddy?” Olivia squeals, scrambling up on to the desk chair in Kurt’s office to get a better look at the half-finished dress Kurt’s been working on for three and a half weeks. The problem is, she’s got one hand around a cup of juice, and she’s trying to climb on to the desk chair with a full cup of juice. “Olivia!” he calls, throwing a hand out uselessly from his spot just inside the door. “Stop!” His shout is what does it. Olivia looks up in surprise and wobbles on the chair on unsteady feet, and then the glass of juice is no longer in her hand, but instead splashed all over the piece Kurt’s been working on for three and half weeks. Kurt whimpers and claps his hand over his eyes in the hope that, when he looks again, the whole thing will have been a ridiculous imaginary scenario. When he looks up and sees Olivia standing over the mess and looking every inch that little-girl shock he’s seen several times before, his mouth falls open on a silent scream of anger. Without further ado, he backs right out of the office, marches down the staircase and bursts out on to front porch, letting the door bang shut behind him. That's when he lets himself vocalize his frustration. He’s abruptly flooded by a memory of spilling milk all over his dad’s worktable when he was seven, and how sad he'd been when his did had scolded him for it. Obviously, Kurt still remembers it; he doesn’t want to lose his temper completely, no matter how much he’s trying not to burst into tears over the completely ruined dress he’s been sewing -- and it was supposed to be Dakota Fanning’s Oscar gown! Kurt inhales and exhales sharply for several long moments before he’s got himself under control, and then he turns around and heads right back into the house and up the stairs. It’s his own damn fault for leaving it there in the first place. When he reaches the top of the stairs, he finds that his daughter has gone to get paper towels, and is trying to mop up the accidental mess with no luck whatsoever. The sight is touching and adorable. “Sweetie, you don’t have to do that,” he says softly. “Come downstairs with me, okay?” Olivia looks up, her bottom lip trembling, and slowly lowers herself to the ground. She walks toward him with her head bowed, and when she’s reached him, Kurt grabs her up, secures her to one hip and descends the staircase carefully. He deposits her on his lap once he’s seated on the couch. “Daddy, I’m sorry,” she gasps in a watery voice. “I – I made a big mess, and now you’re sad.” “Baby, it’s okay,” Kurt replies, even though it is so, so not okay. “You didn’t mean to. Accidents happen.” He squeezes her and smiles. “Wanna watch Sound of Music?” “Yeah,” she sighs, plopping her head on to his shoulder. Kurt turns on the television and the DVD player with the respective remotes. The Sound of Music has been their go-to movie for several weeks now; it’s always in there because they never watch anything else. For now, anyway. Next month it’ll be a different musical. Pretty soon she’s humming along and singing the few words she knows, the dress mess forgotten, and for a while Kurt forgets about it, too. A good ways through the movie, around eight o'clock, Blaine walks into the house, home from meeting with anxious parents; meetings designed to discuss their children’s academic success (or lack thereof, Blaine had joked before he'd left). Olivia’s asleep on his shoulder when Blaine enters the room, and Kurt’s sniffling, as he always does, at Maria’s rendez-vous with the children and, as always, marvelling at her beautiful green dress. “Hey,” Blaine whispers. “Hey,” Kurt whispers back. Blaine sits down beside him and pushes Olivia’s silky dark bangs off her forehead, leaning forward to plant a warm kiss on Kurt’s mouth. Kurt hums into it. “How’d it go?” Blaine rumbles. His stubble feels perfect on Kurt's face. Kurt considers the question. Apart from the spoiled dress... “It went fine,” Kurt says. He’ll just have to make sure, from now on, that Olivia stays far, far away from his office. At least until she’s too big to climb on desk chairs.

Dean lets Sam hold him for a while and then he pats Sam’s shoulder and says, “Dude, I reek. Gotta shower.” He does, too: that smell of his near-miss with death is all over his skin, hiding the summer strong, comforting Dean-scent beneath. But Sam doesn’t let go. “Sam,” Dean sighs when he realizes that Sam isn’t going anywhere. “We can’t just lie here forever.” “Yeah, I know, I just—maybe we could—you know, shower together?” That way Sam won’t have to let go just yet. Because he knows—knows it deep and sure in his bones—that as soon as Dean gets a few minutes to himself he’s going to shore up his walls and leave Sam on the other side. Dean shifts underneath him. “I can wash myself.” Sam winces at how uneasy Dean sounds, but isn’t really surprised. His brother is one with Geri now, in mind as well as in soul, but that doesn’t erase six months of abuse. It doesn’t mean that Dean is going to be any more eager to have anyone—even Sam—near his naked body. Even now, Dean is getting more anxious by the second: Sam’s body draped over his, caging him in. Sam makes himself sit up and let go. Dean’s hand immediately falls free from his shirt as Dean rolls off the other side of the bed and stands up. He doesn’t disappear into the bathroom with the wolf’s speed, but Sam suspects that’s only because he doesn’t have the energy to manage it. Sitting where he is on the edge of his brother’s bed, Sam runs his hand over sheets that are still warm from Dean’s body and tries to resign himself to the uphill battle that’s coming. Sure enough, when Dean comes out of the shower, he’s all easy slaps on the back and smiles. He makes them both breakfast—scrambled eggs and cheese wrapped up in pieces of white bread—and then tells Sam to get his shit packed and in whatever sorry excuse for a car they have. They’re going hunting. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Sam is certain at first that it can’t last. Dean’s too damaged to keep up the front for long. But days become weeks become months and his brother is still coasting along. Hunting is easier these days. They’re faster, stronger, and harder to hurt. They can smell unnatural things the same way that Sam used to be able to smell bonfires or gasoline. They still have to research if they’ve never scented something before, though, and they still have to salt and burn the bones of any ghost they come across, which means more digging through newspapers in the musty backrooms of small town archives. Dean still likes his shotguns and pistols, and with the wolf’s help he’s such a good shot that it’s eerie. There’s no real need for that kind of weapon anymore, of course: not with their increased speed and strength. Dean is just used to them, and Sam guesses that his brother takes no small measure of reassurance from the familiar weight in his hands. Sam himself switches almost entirely over to knives. He has a set of curving claws made at a custom knife dealer: someone they heard of before everything went to hell but never did business with. The claws are almost identical to the ones Dean wore in the cage, and Sam catches his brother looking at them sideways sometimes, but they’re too good a weapon for Sam to give them up. Besides, those looks are one of the few indications Dean gives that anything happened at the Arena at all. He tosses fries at Sam’s head to get his attention when they’re in diners, and mouths off to everything in sight, and won’t let go of the keys to Charlie’s pickup. He blasts every Classic Rock station he can find and sulks when they drive through a stretch of the country where they can’t get anything but Reverend Roy’s sermons on the perils of sin. He flirts shamelessly with every half-pretty girl they come across and somehow leaves them smiling even when he always goes home with Sam. Where he belongs. Sam’s pretty sure that Dean is trying to provoke him. Probably so that he can take the opportunity to lie and tell Sam how fine he is, and geez, jealous much? Sam already knows he’s jealous. He doesn’t need Dean to tell him that. He’s jealous of the girls in the bars and diners: occasionally of men with whom Dean’s overly friendly. He’s jealous of the bedspread and the shower and the driver’s seat of the fucking pickup. Dean hasn’t touched him as anything but a kid brother since he stepped out of the cabin’s bathroom in Quinault. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Late winter: the grey days of February. They’re driving through North Dakota on their way to a possible hunt—neither of them calls it a ‘job’ anymore—when Dean suddenly swerves the pickup off an exit ramp and onto a connecting southbound highway. “What the hell?” Sam demands. Inside him, the cougar hisses its displeasure at the sudden movement. Dean shrugs, careless. “I want my car back.” Oh, for crying out loud. “Bobby’s not just going to hand over the keys, Dean.” “Why not? It’s my car.” “For the same reason we couldn’t go visit him the last four times we were in the area,” Sam says flatly. “He’d be too busy trying to put holes in us.” Dean’s eyes darken at that, and Sam feels like an asshole, same way he did when he had to put his foot down about this before. Personally, he doesn't care one way or the other if he ever sees Bobby again—still hasn’t forgiven him for lying about Dean: for being willing to kill Dean—but Dean misses the man. Sam should have realized that they were going to have a problem when Dean insisted on calling Bobby first thing once they left the cabin. Bobby wasn’t home, but Dean left him a brief message telling him that they were both okay, and to thank him for everything. At the time, Sam thought that would be closure enough, but Dean has proved him wrong by continually attempting to stop by as if Bobby would invite them in for a beer and a few steaks if they rolled up in his front yard. Funny what Dean picks to be optimistic about. “Fine,” Dean says finally. “We do it your way. But I’m not going another damn day without my baby.” “My way,” Sam repeats blankly. “What the hell is ‘my way’?” As far as he remembers, he’s never had a plan for this. “You’ll figure something out,” Dean says, and does his best to get the pickup up to sixty. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Thankfully, Sam doesn’t need to come up with a brilliant plan. When they call Bobby’s place, no one answers, and a cautious tour of the perimeter of the property tells them that the man isn’t home. Hasn’t been home for about a week judging by the papers Sam can see piled up on the porch. “He’s out hunting,” Dean says. “Wonder what he’s after.” Sam’s pretty sure he knows what Bobby’s hunting, and it’s standing right here in his backyard. This is a monumentally stupid idea, he realizes. “The Impala’s going to be easy to track,” he points out, glancing toward his brother. Dean shrugs and starts toward the salvage yard at an easy lope that Sam matches. It always feels good to run like this, and despite Sam’s apprehension about this entire situation, his chest floods with a warm burst of pleasure. The cougar purrs inside of him: a gentle vibration that rolls through his entire body. “We’ll change the plates,” Dean tells him as they move past the first outlying cars. “Oh yeah, brilliant plan,” Sam says sarcastically, keeping an eye out for the pack of watchdogs Bobby’s been keeping ever since Meg proved that one just isn’t enough. “Change the plates. I bet Bobby wouldn’t ever think of that.” As he slows to a stroll, Dean shoots him a condescending look. “He’s not hunting us, dude.” Sam is saved from having to point out all the ways that Bobby is—that he must be, that there’s no other logical thing for the man to do—by the fact that Dean picks that moment to spot his precious car. Sam is slightly surprised by the way that his own gut warms at the sight of those sleek black lines. ::Blackrumblefastrunnerhome,:: the cougar says with a note of supreme satisfaction. “Did you miss me, baby?” Dean coos, running one hand along the Impala’s hood. Then, with a good-natured snort, he mutters, “No, I don’t love her more than you, furrball.” Despite himself, Sam relaxes even further. Dean doesn’t talk to the wolf out loud much, and it’s always nice to hear. Although the cougar routinely shares Sam’s mouth and his motor controls, so far Dean has been as much of a control freak about driving his own body as he is about their transportation. Sam understands why Dean and the wolf would be moving more carefully in that department, but he misses Geri’s curiosity and eagerness. Especially now that the cougar has told him stories about ‘littlerunner’ from its time as pure spirit. He really wants to hear from Geri just how an incorporeal being manages to get itself stuck inside a beehive. Smiling slightly, Sam comes up to lay a hand on the Impala himself. The metal is chill against his skin despite the sun, but he remembers how hot it can get in the summer. Remembers the car overheating one year in Arizona when he was twelve: steam pouring from underneath the hood while Dad swore at it and Dean dug around in the trunk for a bottle of coolant he swore was there. “How does she look?” he asks. Dean pops the hood and disappears. A moment later, his voice comes back with, “Nice. Looks like Bobby replaced that damned fan belt. Or was that you?” Like Sam was in any kind of condition to work on the car when he had it. But they have an unspoken agreement to let sleeping dogs lie when it comes to those horrible six months when Sam thought Dean was dead, so all he says is, “I didn’t do anything.” “Huh. Oil looks good. Wiper fluid, coolant … if she’s got fuel, we’re set.” “And you’re going to start her how?” Sam asks, leaning on the roof. It feels good to do that. To do it here, in the salvage yard with Dean under the Impala’s hood. It’s just a stolen moment, an illusion of normality, but Sam will take what he can get. “Key. You remember where the pegboard is, right?” Sam sighs. “Bobby wouldn’t leave the key to the Impala on the pegboard, man.” When is Dean going to get it into his head that, as far as Bobby is concerned, they’re just another thing to hunt now? “Just go check, all right?” Dean mutters, cross, and Sam goes. He kicks at the dust as he walks, frustrated by his brother’s refusal to face up to reality in this—in everything—and the cougar offers, ::DeanMate knows BobbyHunter better. Maybe—:: Maybe nothing, Sam shoots back. The cougar sniffs. ::He would not be able to hurt us anyway. He is too slow and old and fat.:: Have you even looked at my memories? Sam demands incredulously. Bobby has a fucking steel trap for a mind. He’ll come up with something. The cougar considers that for a moment, and Sam catches the familiar, ghostly sensation of it rifling through his mind. See? he thinks. He’s dangerous. ::He would make a good ally.:: Sam clenches his jaw. Oh, for fuck’s—not you too! We’re not talking to him. End of conversation. The cougar floods him with knowing amusement as he edges carefully into the oversized steel shed that Bobby uses as his garage and workshop, but doesn’t push the subject anymore. Good thing: Sam’s too busy looking for any traps to hold up his end of the conversation. The garage seems safe enough, but nervous adrenaline still floods Sam’s body when he comes to a halt next to the lopsided desk Bobby uses as his office. There’s a pegboard on the wall behind the desk where Bobby keeps the keys of the cars he’s working on, and Sam scans them quickly, ready to tell Dean he’s going to have to hotwire the Impala. He’s so sure the keys won’t be there that he’s already turning around when what he saw registers. The Impala’s key, hanging on the very first rusted nail on the board. It’s a trap—it has to be—but nothing happens when he gingerly grabs it down and skitters back half a dozen steps. What the fuck is Bobby playing at? He had to know that they’d come here—Dean’s like an obsessed parent with the damned car, and nothing in the world could ever change that. And yet Sam is suddenly certain that there’s going to be gas in the Impala’s tank. He heads back outside slowly, frowning and turning the key over in his hands. Dean is already sitting behind the Impala’s wheel, and when he sees Sam, he leans out the window and shouts, “Dude, he kept my tapes!” in the same, excited voice that Sam guesses most kids use on Christmas morning when they discover Santa Claus has come and gone. Sam finds the note three hours later, when Dean is inside a Wendy’s picking them up dinner. It’s tucked inside the front cover of their father's journal, which was lying underneath the passenger seat in an oversized envelope addressed to him in Bobby’s meticulous handwriting. Sam, If you’re reading this, then you aren’t too far gone yet to understand what I’m telling you. I ain’t gonna chase after you unless you make me. So don’t. Stay away from people best as you can. Keep your head down. And for God’s sake stay away from hunters. Sam reads the note four times and then crumples it up and tosses it in a convenient trashcan. As he strolls back to the car, hands shoved in his pockets, he finds himself thinking well of Bobby for the first time in almost a year. It isn’t enough to make him feel safe contacting the man—and he’s pretty sure Bobby doesn’t want them to: wants to be able to plead ignorance if anyone comes looking for John Winchester’s boys—but it’s a start. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Having the Impala back is good in some ways, worse in others. It’s comforting: familiar. With the windows rolled up and the heater cranked, the old smells in the car leave him feeling almost boneless. He keeps falling asleep and waking up with a ghostly purr rumbling through him. But with the Impala stirring up all his memories of before—before Vincent, before the wolf, before Stanford—the differences are that much more evident. The cocky, easy-going mask that Dean never takes off looks more and more like a caricature. Sam talks and words come back from the driver’s side—with the right cadence and inflections and that smirk firmly in place—but there’s nothing behind them. No connection. Either Dean is receding from him or Sam himself is fading, and sometimes he feels so damned alone that the cougar has to stretch itself painfully wide to fill up all the empty spaces inside of him. He misses his brother. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ In Finhberg, VA, they run into their first demon. It smells exactly the way Dean described it to him—like misery and loss and everything hurtful—and when they see the girl in the light blue summer dress they both know what she is. If Dean had been one with the wolf back in Jefferson, Sam realizes, he would have known the yellow-eyed son of a bitch was in Dad from the second they threw open the door. They tail the demon back to an apartment—the girl’s, or maybe someone else’s that the demon killed—and Sam shoves it up against the wall and holds it there. He doesn’t want to kill the girl unless there’s no other option. The demon snarls at him, wordless cries of rage and hate, but Sam ignores it and turns his head to his brother. “Get the journal, would you?” “What for?” Dean asks. He’s all deceptive laziness and the white flash of teeth as he studies the demon. It pushes forward, both body and mind, and Sam slams the girl’s body back into place while the cougar folds the power harmlessly around them. “I’m gonna exorcise her,” Sam grunts. Dean clears his throat and says, clearly and distinctly, “Sacerdos ab Ordinario delegatus, rite confessus …” He memorized it. Sometime between the Arena and now, Dean memorized an exorcism. The precaution speaks of a deep-seated fear, and a determination to protect himself, and for a moment Sam is back in that hallway with Dean trembling beside him: demons lining the walls and no way out, no strength left to fight, no words to ward them off. Of course he memorized— And that’s when the demon shoves, sending him flying. Sam hits the wall heavily enough that the plaster cracks in a near-perfect indent of his body. He falls to the floor and then shakes his head to clear it. When he looks up, the demon has Dean pinned to another wall. It doesn’t make sense. Dean is easily stronger than a single demon, but for some reason he's just standing there: silent and unresisting as the demon whispers in his ear. Then Sam picks up on what it’s saying and everything makes sense. “… slut. Oh yeah, I heard all about you, baby. Trained you up good, didn’t they? Pretty whore. Lilith’s going to love you. Pretty little puppy to play with.” Then Sam is there, ripping it away from his brother. This time he doesn’t hesitate, curling his hand around its throat and gripping. It claws at his arms, eyes bulging as he chokes it, and he tightens up further. The demon can’t make its body breathe anymore, but there’s nothing stopping it from exploding out from the girl’s mouth in an attempt to flee. Sam drops the girl, using every bit of speed that the cougar offers, and reaches into the smoke. At the same time, the cougar shoves forward with a shrill hunting whistle and gold light sheathes Sam’s fingers. The demon feels like cotton against his skin, and he rips at it easily. The consistency changes as he tears, thickening into something viscous and oily. Its dying shriek fills his head for a few seconds and then cuts off. Pulling his hands free, Sam watches what’s left of the demon dribble to the floor in a puddle. In a few minutes, it will have dried out again and there’ll be nothing left but a thin coating of dust. The girl the demon was possessing is coughing weakly, one hand against her throat and the other propping her up against the floor. After a single glance to make sure she’s still alive, Sam hurries back to his brother. Dean is still leaning against the wall, staring off into space with glassy, shadowed eyes. Griping his arm, Sam shouts, “Dean? Dean!” “I’m fine,” Dean mumbles faintly. Then, shaking himself, he tries for a smile. “Spaced out for a second there. Sorry.” No, don’t do this. Fucking talk to me. Heart still beating too quickly, Sam swallows and starts, “Dean—” “Let’s get out of here before she calls the cops on us,” Dean interrupts, and ducks out from between Sam and the wall to start for the door. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Sam watches his brother carefully for the rest of the day. Dean’s a little dulled around the edges at first, but he perks up after a few hours. By the time they pull back into the motel parking lot, he’s his usual, artificially cheerful self again. Sam would think that his brother managed to completely shore up his walls again, except for the fact that Dean slides out of the Impala and then tosses him the keys for the first time since they got it back from Bobby. “Go get dinner, bitch,” he says, heading for their room. “I’m taking a nap.” Sam stands on his side of the Impala for a moment after Dean disappears inside, debating whether or not to go in after him. ::He will talk when he is ready,:: the cougar tells him. “Yeah,” Sam sighs, finally shutting his door and heading around to the driver’s side. “But he’s gonna drive us nuts first.” *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Dean is sitting on the edge of his bed when Sam comes back in with the pizzas. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, and Sam knows. He can smell it. Heart beating too quickly in his chest, he walks to the table with measured, deliberate steps and sets down the pizza boxes. Then he turns to look at his brother. Dean’s eyes are wide and unfocused. His skin is pale. There’s a fine tremor in his hands. “Dean,” Sam says, and Dean jumps as if he hadn’t noticed Sam was in the room. Probably didn’t. Dean blinks twice, confusion warring with the fear on his face, and then he tries, “Hey, is that pizza?” Enough is fucking enough, Sam thinks, and now that it’s clear Dean will go on denying this to his grave if they let him, the cougar finally agrees. ::We will talk now,:: it says. Sam moves toward his brother, meaning to sit down next to him, and Dean shoots off the bed before he can get close. “Don’t touch me!” he snaps, and instantly looks surprised by his own reaction. Faltering, he says, “Look, I’m sorry. It’s been a long day, and—” “Don’t,” Sam says sharply. “Don’t keep lying to me, Dean, don’t you dare. I was there, and I know what they did to you, and you aren’t going to get over it until you talk to me.” “I’m fine,” Dean protests. “I call bullshit.” “I am. Really.” Sam looks at his brother’s pale, pinched expression, and understands that even now, with his defenses crumbling to dust around him, Dean isn’t going to give in unless Sam makes him. And he knows exactly how to do that. He just doesn’t want to. ::We have to,:: the cougar says, but it doesn’t come forward. This is something that Sam needs to do himself, and they both know it. Okay, Sam thinks. Okay. Squaring his jaw, he makes himself start forward again. “Okay, great,” he says, keeping his voice light and unsympathetic. “You’re fine. Let’s celebrate.” “What?” Dean licks his lips, watching Sam’s approach warily. He hesitates until it’s too late to get away and then Sam is there, pushing him up against the wall and unbuckling his jeans. “Wait,” Dean babbles, going even paler. “Jesus, Sam, hang on, I—” “Why? You’re fine, I’m fine. Come on, Dean. Let’s fuck.” Dean jerks as though Sam just slapped him, eyes going wounded and betrayed. He still hasn’t said it, though, so Sam unzips him and reaches inside his pants. Dean’s hands scramble at the wall and he blurts, “No, stop!” Sam immediately takes his hand back. His heartbeat is painfully fast in his chest, and all he wants to do is apologize. Instead, he hardens his expression. “You aren’t fine,” he says. “Say it.” Shutting his eyes, Dean turns his head away. His throat works as he swallows. “I-I’m not,” he whispers haltingly. The admission sends shudders through him and suddenly he’s crying. “I’m not fine, I’m not—” Sam stops his increasingly panicked words with a kiss. It’s a light, careful thing—just a brief press of lips—and he’s going to pull back at the first sign that this is making it worse, but Dean’s mouth opens for him. Dean’s hands come up and hover inches away from Sam’s face like he’s afraid to touch, or maybe isn’t sure he’s allowed. Sam kisses him until he tastes his brother’s tears on his lips and then pulls back. He cups Dean’s face and wipes across his cheeks with his thumbs and Dean cries harder. “Do you want me to stop?” Sam murmurs. “I’ll back off if you want.” In answer, Dean yanks Sam closer and buries his face in the side of his neck. Sam ghosts his hands down his brother’s sides and then, scenting Dean’s sudden spike of apprehension in the air, puts them up on the wall instead. He lets Dean cling to him, doing his best to radiate calm. The cougar’s purr fills Sam’s head, and he thinks that Dean might somehow be catching it as well because his brother’s desperate clutch loosens and his tears start to taper off. When Dean has been quiet and still for a few minutes, Sam says, “I’m not going to force you to talk about it. But I want you to stop pretending with me.” Dean mumbles something into Sam’s shoulder that comes out so soft and garbled not even his sharpened hearing can pick it up. “Didn’t catch that, man,” he says. Dean lifts his head a little, eyes fastened on Sam’s shoulder, and repeats, “I pretended. With them. That it was you. It … helped. Sometimes.” Sam isn’t sure what to say to that, so he’s silent. Taking a shaky breath, Dean continues, “And now every time I—I think about touching you, I—it’s like their hands on still on me.” If Sam gets the chance, he’s going to hunt down every one of those bastards and make them hurt. The cougar rumbles in agreement. “We don’t have to do anything,” Sam says. “I love you, and nothing’s gonna change that.” “Damn it, Sam, you don’t—” Dean’s eyes flicker up to him finally, gleaming gold, and Sam can taste his brother’s frustrated anger on his own tongue. “I want you. I want you so fucking much, and I can’t get my damned head in the game.” “You will,” Sam says, and starts to move back. “You just need time.” “No.” Dean’s hand shoots out and catches his wrist. His eyes are still terrified, but his mouth is set in a flat, determined line. “Now. I want.” He brings Sam’s hand down to his gaping pants. “Please.” Oh God. Sam bites his lip and makes himself look at the wall instead of his brother’s face. He isn’t strong enough to resist the pleading there. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” he says, but he isn’t pulling his hand free. In fact, he’s slowly worming his fingers down beneath the warm denim of Dean’s jeans. Looks like staring at the wall isn’t doing much for his willpower after all. “Fuck you, Sam. This is my choice, and I’m not letting those sons of bitches fuck us up.” Sam’s fingertips brush against something hot and smooth—something that twitches when he touches it—and his mouth goes dry. “Slow,” he manages. “We’ll go slow.” Dean widens his stance and squares his jaw. “Just get me off, asshole.” Sam can tell from Dean’s voice that he’s looking at this like some magic fix: one quick hand job and he’ll be fine. It isn’t going to be that simple, and if Sam was any kind of brother he’d put his foot down. Then again, if he were any kind of brother, he wouldn’t be getting hard wrapping his hand around his brother’s dick. ::Mate,:: the cougar purrs. ::He needs to feel good. We can make him feel good.:: It’s right. In a way, Dean’s right as well. He needs to be reminded that sex can be something good: a release instead of a chore. It isn’t going to be the cure-all he wants it to be, but it will help. ::Go slow,:: the cougar reminds him, and then withdraws, giving him the illusion of privacy. It isn’t strictly necessary—half the time Sam can’t remember what it was like to be alone in his head anymore—but he appreciates the thought. Sam focuses on his brother again, watching Dean carefully as he draws his cock out from his pants so that he can get a better grip. When he tightens his hold, wrapping his hand around that half-hard flesh, Dean’s face goes stiff. He’s still hardening in Sam’s hand, but his eyes are starting to glaze over. A quick glance down tells Sam that his brother is also digging his fingers into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster. “Do you need me to stop?” he asks, unsure if he’ll be able to at this point. Dean feels so good in his hand: full and thick and beautifully curving. He’s so fucking irresistible, leaning against the wall with his head back and his lips parted and his hips tilted toward Sam. Dean shakes his head sharply. “No, I can—I can do this.” Rubbing his thumb across the unbelievably soft crown of his brother’s cock, Sam says, “Are you sure?” “Stop pussying around and do it, bitch.” The words are all Dean, but the voice is wrong: at once too breathy and too tight. Sam draws his hand slowly down his brother’s length, testing, and Dean thumps his head against the wall with a swear. Readjusting his grip, Sam pulls again, and then again. He sets up a slow rhythm, watching his hand slide over his brother’s swiftly rising cock. His hand seems made for this, strong enough and large enough to hold Dean easily: to surround him while his thumb moves in a teasing path over the slit and then down underneath the head. He gets caught up in the sensations and the sight of it—of how responsive Dean is for him—and when he glances up again Dean’s face is screwed up like this hurts. He hasn’t said to stop yet, though, and Sam is pretty sure that if he does try to put the brakes on without Dean’s say-so, he’s going to have Dean pissed at him as well as splintering apart. That’s the last thing he needs. So instead of stepping back he slows his caresses. Then, keeping his voice low and soothing, he calls, “Dean.” Dean shudders at the sound of his name, turning his face to the side a little. “No,” Sam says more sternly than he means to. “No more hiding. Look at me.” Dean’s eyes are wide—dazed—and his mouth gapes as he pants. There’s an edge of panic in his expression, and confusion, as though he isn’t sure where he is. Who he’s with. Still working Dean with measured jerks, Sam cups his brother’s face with his free hand. “Hey,” he says. Dean blinks, struggling to focus. “Hey, man, it’s just me. It’s Sam.” “Sammy?” Dean breathes. His voice is folded in on itself: uncertain. Then he blinks again, and Sam feels seen for the first time in months. This is his brother. This is Dean. Sam’s chest loosens and then seizes up again when Dean’s eyes immediately dart away. “No. With me.” He strokes his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone. “Right here.” Dean brings his gaze back slowly, and there’s still a cringing fear there. Even worse than the fear is the open vulnerability Sam can see in those wide, green eyes. In the trembling of Dean’s lips and the way he has to work to swallow. “It’s only me,” Sam tells him, leaning in to leave a lingering kiss on the bridge of his brother’s nose. He moves his hand and Dean’s whole body moves with it, like a wave. His brother’s eyelashes flutter. “I—Sam, I can’t, I—” But Dean’s hands are on Sam’s hips now, holding him there, and Sam can smell his brother’s arousal rising through the edgy fear. And he knows Dean well enough to know when he means ‘no’ and when he means ‘don’t make me look at myself’. When he’s terrified of being pushed into something he doesn’t want to acknowledge. Sam wants—he needs—to know what that is. It can’t be an admission of how much what happened to him in the Arena hurt because Dean already admitted as much. No, there’s something else here: some last, festering bit of shrapnel in the wound. It has to come out. “Why?” he asks, speeding the stroke. Dean gasps and widens his legs a little. When Sam’s fingers drag over the head of his cock, there’s a smear of precome and a moment later he can smell it in the air: heavy and full of that solid, Dean scent. “Why can’t you?” Sam prods. If Dean pushes him away, he’ll go. As much as he thinks that his brother needs this, he’ll stop if Dean really wants him to. But Dean keeps hanging onto Sam’s hips: the trembles in his muscles and the rapid rise and fall of his chest his only movement. “Please,” he begs, and this is it. Dean is finally shaking apart, all the pieces that have been broken or bent are dropping away and Sam is here, hands out and ready to catch them. “Why?” he pushes. “Because you don’t want this?” “You shouldn’t—not with—not with me.” “I love you, Dean,” Sam says. He’s made a point of saying it at least once a day, but from the way that Dean shudders violently, this is the first time he heard it. He tries to turn his head away again and Sam slips his hand from his brother’s cheek to cup his chin. “You’re my brother and my mate and I love you.” That shudder rips through Dean’s body again and he pants, “I don’t—you deserve someone—I’m not—I’m just—” He shuts his mouth, eyes frantic and darting for somewhere to run. Sam stills his hand but continues to hold Dean’s cock loosely. “You’re what?” “I—I don’t know, I wasn’t—” “No lies,” Sam says sharply. “What are you, Dean? Tell me.” “Whore,” Dean breathes. “I’m a fucking whore.” “Because of what they did to you?” Sam presses. They’re close to it now: the infection. He can almost smell it. “Because I liked it,” Dean gasps out. And there it is. Sam takes his hand off of his brother’s cock and cradles his face. “You’re not a whore.” “I liked it,” Dean repeats, obviously appalled by his own words, “I got off on it.” “Because it was sex, Dean. It was sex, and your body doesn’t always distinguish between things you want and things that feel good. And,” he adds as something occurs to him, “You were drugged twenty-four hours a day. How much do you want to bet Vincent added something to the Gleipnir to up your libido?” “I shouldn’t have,” Dean repeats stubbornly, and then, “You should—Sam, you can find someone else, someone better—” Sam tightens his grip on his brother’s face, cutting off his words. He’s certain that particular thought has been running through Dean’s mind ever since he first brought it up months ago at the Arena, but this is the first time since they’ve both been made whole that he’s actually voiced it. Sam is surprised at how much more it hurts now, like a piece of his soul is threatening to tear loose. He understands, wholly and completely, why true berserkers never survive the loss of their mate because the mere thought of having to go without Dean makes him feel like he’s bleeding out internally. Speaking very quietly and carefully, he says, “Don’t you ever suggest that to me again, do you hear me?” “Yeah,” Dean says in an uncharacteristically meek voice. Sam glances down at Dean’s dick and it’s still half-hard, despite the turn their conversation just took. He debates leaving it for now, considering this new problem, and then decides that it would be stupid to stop. If he doesn’t finish this, Dean’s going to find some way to twist it around until he thinks the reason Sam stopped is because he was disgusted by Dean’s admission. “I’m going to finish this now, Dean, and then we’re going to take a shower and you’re going to get in bed, okay?” “Sammy—” “That wasn’t really a question,” Sam tells him, and then reaches down to take him in hand again. Dean’s breath punches out audibly and his hands scramble for Sam’s shoulders. He isn’t trying to push him away, just anchoring himself, so Sam ignores it in favor of stroking his brother back to fullness. This time, there’s no teasing. He uses the rough strokes that he knows, from years of growing up in too close quarters, are the ones Dean likes best until his brother’s hips are pumping him forward into Sam’s hand and Dean is making breathy little sounds that are almost, but not quite, moans. Then Sam slows, sliding his thumb over the head of Dean’s cock and pressing against the slick slit. “I want you to keep your eyes on me, okay?” he says. “I want you to look at me, and feel my hand. Only me.” Dean nods his head jerkily, and Sam can see him fight to focus. When Dean’s eyes are as clear as he thinks they’ll get, he starts working his brother’s cock harder. The renewed speed and roughness drag a harsh, needy pant from Dean’s throat and his hands slip from Sam’s shoulders to bunch in his shirt. It’s ludicrous, but Sam is just as on edge as Dean from nothing more than the sight of what he’s doing to his brother. Dean’s bruised, hesitant eyes are locked on his face, and there are no more walls between them: no more barriers or lies. Just Dean’s reluctant moans and Sam’s increasingly rapid breathing. “Love you,” Sam pants. “Always. Not getting rid of me again, not fucking ever—Dean—mine, my mate—my—” He jacks his fist again and Dean quakes. A hot wash of semen spills over Sam’s wrist and against his shirt and Dean cries out. Sam’s name spills from his lips like a benediction, like an affirmation, and Sam follows him over with a noise that sounds foreign to his own ears: half-yowl and half-guttural moan. He wants to slump forward over Dean’s body and doesn’t, still cognizant enough not to want to block Dean in too completely. He does brace one hand on the wall, though, and gently rests his forehead against Dean’s as he strokes his brother through the aftershocks. Dean’s eyes are startled on his, but the fear scent is finally fading. “You okay?” Sam asks, rubbing his cheek against Dean’s affectionately. “Just you,” Dean breathes. Wonder smoothes his face, making him look almost innocent. “It was just you.” Sam kisses him.

Sam doesn’t want to fall asleep. He’s frightened of the nightmares that are waiting for him, and after his failure to help Dean in the cage, he’s even more desperate than before to get the telekinesis under control. He sits with his back against the headboard and a tray of sandwiches next to him: eating while he practices helps to ward off the headaches. Sam is going to stay awake all night if he has to: push until he manages consciously what he was able to do in his sleep and lifts the entire room off the floor. As determined as his mind and spirit are, however, the old saying about the flesh being weak is true. Before the clock turns over to midnight, Sam shuts his eyes—just for a moment, just a short break. The slide into sleep is seamless. It isn’t a dream, but it isn’t a vision either. This is something new—some kind of mental or spiritual travel—and Sam is looking at his brother in what he knows to be real time. And there’s no doubt in him that it is real, all of it, because he was flexing that inner part of himself (which he’s also beginning to think of as the dark part of himself) when he drifted off. The room in small, and square, and that white, sterile color which smacks of pain and anesthesia. Dean is lying on a hospital bed, both sidebars up to keep him from rolling off. He’s hooked up to a series of machines that measure his life in steady trills and beeps. The bandages covering his body are soaked red in places, and his entire face is swollen and bruised. On top of that, Dean’s nose is broken, his lower lip is split in three places, and the skin over one arching cheekbone is held together by neat, black sutures. Sam steps toward the bed with an outstretched hand. He doesn’t know what he intends to do—isn’t sure if he can even touch his brother here: if Dean will be able to feel the offered comfort—but in the end it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because a rough hand clamps down on his wrist before he can reach past the guardrails. Startled, Sam jerks back and the hand releases him. A broad-shouldered, slim-hipped body slides between him and the bed. A body with a freckle-spattered chest, short tousled hair, and startling gold eyes. “Dean,” Sam blurts, his own eyes flicking from the brother standing before him to the one lying in the bed. Dean (and why the hell is he naked?) narrows his eyes. “DeanmeMINE!” he snarls, baring teeth that are a little too sharp to be human. Oh crap, it isn’t Dean at all. It’s the wolf. For the first time, Sam finds himself face to face with the thing that destroyed his brother’s life: the reason Vincent took an interest in Dean in the first place. His chest clenches with rage. “Get out of that shape,” he growls. “You don’t get to wear him.” The wolf cocks its head with a sharp, hostile motion and doesn’t say anything. Sam’s eyes dip minutely of their own accord—it might not be Dean standing there, but it’s his body, and for the first time Sam is free to look without repercussions—and then catch on a thin, raised line running just under the wolf’s left nipple. He remembers when Dean received that particular wound, pushing Sam out of the way and catching the ghost-hurled shard of glass himself. The fact that the son of a bitch is even wearing Dean’s scars makes Sam burn hotter. “Stop it!” he shouts, curling his hands into fists. “Stop what?” There’s a kind of grudging curiosity in the wolf’s voice. It’s Dean’s voice almost exactly: just a fraction deeper, a hair rougher. “Stop looking like him,” he grounds out. “Look like me,” the wolf corrects. “How else should look?” “Like a body-snatching wolf!” The wolf remains unperturbed in the face of Sam’s anger. “Am both,” it says. Its form flickers: Dean’s body flashing out into an oversized wolf and then reappearing. “Am two as one.” It glances over its shoulder at Dean’s too-still form on the bed and there’s such profound misery in its expression that Sam’s anger slips a notch. “Still can’t touch,” it mourns. “Can’t hunt.” It reaches a hand toward Dean and there’s a blinding flash of blue light. When Sam can see again, the wolf is cradling its hand against its chest. The tips of its fingers are charred as though it stuck them into a fire and held them there. With tears running down its cheeks, the wolf opens its mouth and lets out a keening cry that is some misborn mixture of human and beast. The sound of it raises Sam’s flesh in goose bumps. “Can’t help,” the wolf sobs. “Deanmemine chained. Hurt. Smells like sickness all the time. Wants earth. Wants earth and dark and nomorenomore.” It keens again and Sam presses his hands to his ears. “Stop! Jesus Christ, shut up!” He doesn’t know if the wolf is paying attention to him or not, but the keening softens into a whine. It reaches for Dean again and there’s another burst of brilliant azure. This time the noise that the wolf makes is half howl and half scream of rage. “Tear flesh wide,” it says. “Rip slick meat open and drink down blood. Rend him bite him. Peel off toobrightskins and leave body for worms of earth and carrion wings.” There’s only one person that the wolf could be talking about. Its voice is filled with the same impotent fury that Sam feels whenever he thinks about the man, and Sam doesn’t think that anyone but Vincent could put a look of such utter loathing on anyone’s face. His anger at the wolf banks almost completely. It’s difficult to stay angry with something so pitiful. “Do you know what’s happening?” he asks. The wolf turns wet eyes toward him, and the hate that twists its features is gone instantly, replaced by a deep-seated pain. Sam’s chest gives a weird little flutter at seeing his brother’s face so open and emotional. “Caged,” the wolf moans. “Caged in blue.” “Vincent’s drugging him,” Sam says, speaking deliberately and slowly, as though to a young child. “If Dean fights for him, he gets a shot to keep you away.” “Drown in blue,” the wolf agrees. Then it adds, “No fight, drown in red. Walls everywhere. Caged tight. Pinned down.” It’s panting now, chest heaving and muscles trembling on the verge of panic. Its eyes dart around the room, settle on Dean, and Sam knows what it’s going to do before it moves. He tries to stop it this time, but isn’t quite fast enough to catch the wolf before it triggers another blue flash. Grabbing it by the arm belatedly, he pulls it away from the bed as it lets out an all too human sob. Sam can’t not respond to that sound, and once they’re far enough for safety, he shifts his hold on the wolf: pulling it toward him and sliding his arms around its shoulders in a hug. Dean would have tried to get away, maybe punched Sam for taking liberties, but then again Sam never would have tried this with Dean. The wolf does resist, but Sam thinks that its hesitation is due to the fact that it doesn’t understand what he’s doing and isn’t meant as an actual objection to the offered comfort. A moment later, he’s sure of it when the wolf turns into him and presses its face into his collarbone. It’s an awkward hug with the wolf stiff cradling its injured hand between their chests, but Sam doesn’t care. This isn’t Dean—hell, it isn’t even human—but it feels like him. As Sam strokes a hand down the curve of its spine (Dean’s spine), feeling the rough edges of old scars and new underneath his fingers, his eyes feel hot and overly moist. The wolf whimpers at the touch, pushing closer and fisting its good hand in Sam’s shirt. Its injured hand trembles between them, brushing Sam’s chest like a frightened bird, and the whimper rises to a whine. “Hey, let me see, okay?” Sam says, pulling back slightly and reaching for the wolf’s wrist. The wolf jerks its hand back, but Sam still has a hold of its right shoulder and it doesn’t pull away completely. It stares at him with flat, distrustful eyes, and Sam shows it his empty palm. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to see your hand, okay?” The wolf eyes him a moment longer and then, hesitantly, offers its hand for inspection. Sam grasps its wrist (so delicate, so fragile for a man Dean’s size) in one hand and brings it closer. The tips of the wolf’s fingers are burnt black, and charcoal flakes tremble down at Sam’s breath. Down to the second knuckle, the skin is covered in third degree burns. “Jesus,” Sam whispers. “Hurts,” the wolf moans, looking at him with wet, pleading eyes. Begging him to do something about it. That expression on his brother’s face is all but unbearable, and Sam’s voice is harsher than he means it to be when he says, “If it hurts, then why the hell do you do it?” The wolf gives him a miserable look and then turns its face toward the bed. “Deanmemine,” is all it says: all it needs to say. The depth of longing in its voice is clear as day. It hurts the wolf to try to touch Dean, but being without him hurts too. The wolf is damned either way, trapped here where it can look but not touch. The entire set up is too strongly reminiscent of Tantalus for Sam not to make the comparison in his head. For the first time, he’s forced to consider the possibility that there may be two victims here instead of just one, and he doesn’t know how he feels about that. On the one hand, the wolf doesn’t seem like the monster that Dean and Bobby and Sam himself have made it out to be. It seems a little slow-witted, actually, or maybe it’s just naive, strange as that might sound. On the other hand, this thing practically raped his brother’s soul, forcing its way inside without permission. It’s responsible for Dean being kidnapped and then forced to fight and fuck for a man with no conscience. And Sam knows what happens to berserkers once the soul bleed is complete and the madness begins to take over. At least he doesn’t have to worry about the wolf’s hand anymore: the burns are already healing with the speed of dreams—or maybe this is normal for animal spirits. Why the hell did Sam’s mind have to take him here, anyway? It’s only complicating things further. Turning away from Dean abruptly, the wolf shoves its face against Sam’s chest again. He can feel its breath heavy and moist against his shirt: deliberate, deep inhalations. “Are you sniffing me?” he blurts. “Smell good,” the wolf answers, voice muffled, and then sniffs again. “Smell like SamBrotherHomeLoveFriendPartnerSammy.” Well shit. Sam remembers very suddenly that the wolf isn’t his biggest fan. Remembers Dean warning him: telling him what the wolf tried to do in St. Louis. “Um,” he says, stalling. But when the wolf raises its head, its eyes are bright and filled with so much hope it hurts to meet its gaze. “Sammy?” it whispers. “Yeah.” The wolf lets out a small, happy sound and nuzzles his cheek. Looks like sometime over the past two years it changed its mind about him. Or maybe it’s just deep enough in Dean’s soul by now that it doesn’t feel threatened anymore. The wolf nuzzles again, harder, and then licks his jaw. Sam’s muscles tense with an abruptness that’s painful and he’s suddenly hyper aware that his brother’s naked body is pressed up against him. No, he reminds himself. This isn’t Dean. It doesn’t stop his hands from settling on the wolf’s (Dean’s) hips: from noticing how perfectly they fit there, like complimentary interlocking pieces. “Came for us,” the wolf says, oblivious to the effect it’s having. “Pack.” “Yeah.” It’s a low, reluctant sigh. In spite of the things the wolf has done—the things it is—Sam has to admit that the mission has changed. Against every one of his expectations, he actually likes the wolf: feels sorry for it. He isn’t just here for Dean anymore. The wolf shifts against him, all energy and exuberance like a puppy, and Sam flushes. He uses his grip on its hips to move it away before it can feel the hard press of his rising erection. It blinks at him, crestfallen at the separation, and he gives its shoulder a quick, reassuring pat. “It’s okay, I just, uh, I was wondering what I should call you.” It tilts its head in confusion. “Am Deanmemine.” “I can’t call you that.” “Why?” Oh, let Sam count the reasons. “Because—look, I just can’t.” “Don’t need name,” the wolf says dismissively. Sam’s jaw clenches with a flash of irritation. Now he understands how Dean could get so ticked off trying to hold a conversation with something that is at once so human in emotion and yet so alien in mind. “Humans need names,” he explains. “Not human.” “Yeah, well I am, and I have to have something to call you.” Sam thinks for a moment and then says, “Geri.” The wolf’s mouth cracks open in a wide smile. One of those wide, eye-crinkling grins that Sam sees so rarely on his brother’s face. “Odinwulf,” it says. “Eat best meat. Roam far.” Sam isn’t sure whether it knows the story of Allfather Odin and his two wolves, Geri and Freki, because it found the information in Dean’s mind or if it already knew on its own. Right now, all that matters is that it isn’t offended by the name, and that the frustration has helped to refocus Sam on more important things than his own fucked up libido. “Right,” he agrees. “Now I need to ask you some questions, okay? To help Dean?” Geri cocks its head. “How much can you see? Of what happens to him?” “Some. Not all. Like echoes on the wind. Everything is blue. Sometimes red.” Sam frowns. “What do you mean, ‘sometimes red’?” Geri scrunches its face in concentration as it searches for the words to explain. “Am alone. Everything hurts. Everything is angry. Red. Want to rendbitetear. Can’t think. Like bees under skin, in head. Smells like burning earth.” “Okaaaay. And how often does that happen?” Geri hitches Dean’s shoulders in a shrug that looks awkward: probably because the motion is unfamiliar to the wolf. “No time here. Don’t know.” Sam wonders if the ‘red’ comes when Dean is in the ring, fighting and drawing on the wolf’s energy to stay one step ahead. There’s no way to be certain, of course, but it makes sense. The wolf must be sensing Dean’s adrenaline rush and responding to it. He could keep dancing around what he really wants to ask all night, but the truth is that he has no idea how long he’ll be able to stay here. And as much as he fears the answer, he has to know. “If I can find a way to get Dean out of there, will he come?” “Yes.” No hesitation, and Sam doesn’t think the wolf can lie anyway. Doesn’t think it knows how. Relief floods him, leaving his muscles weak and trembling in its wake, but he can’t stop from pressing, “Are you sure?” “Yes. Can’t lose SamBrotherHomeLoveFriendPartnerSammy again. Can’t stay. Hurts here.” It touches its chest with its hand at that last, and Sam’s own chest gives a hollow, aching clench. “Then why is he trying to push me away?” he asks, voice a hoarse whisper. Geri drops its eyes and, shifting its weight from one foot to the other, mumbles, “Don’t know.” Apparently it can lie. Just not very well. “You do know,” Sam says more strongly. “Why is he trying to get me to leave?” “Can’t say.” It gives a little half step toward the bed, one hand reaching out, and then catches itself. “Deanmemine doesn’t want SamBrotherHomeLoveFriendPartnerSammy to know.” “He’s trying to protect me from something, isn’t he?” Sam guesses, and the wolf’s guilty flinch confirms it. God, like Dean hasn’t already fucked things up enough doing that. “Well, what is it?” Remembering Vincent’s not-so-subtle warning on the Gymnasium catwalk, he adds, “Does Vincent know who I am?” “Yes.” Eyes to one side, fidgeting. “You’re lying again.” “Am not.” “Just fucking tell me!” Sam snaps, and the dark place inside of his mind flexes, pushing outward and demanding an answer. The power parts around Geri like water around a rock, impotent. The wolf jerks as if he slapped it, though: nostrils flaring and lips drawing back from its teeth. “Deathlessdark!” it growls. The hard lines of Dean’s body fold in on themselves and sprout thick, grey fur. An instant later it’s the wolf before Sam, snarling and edging closer. “I’m not—whatever you think, I’m—” But Geri isn’t listening. It’s gearing up to launch itself at him, hind quarters bunching and wriggling a little from side to side. If it kills him in here, does his body die? Sam thinks yes. Out, I need to get out of here, he thinks desperately, and reaches for the dark place inside of him again. The power comes easily and begins to rip him away just as the wolf leaps. He feels its claws sink into his chest and then he’s jolting awake, heart going a mile a minute and chest burning. Sam scrambles upright and pulls off his shirt with a hiss. When he looks down at his chest, there are shallow gouges in his skin where the wolf clawed him. Sweating and shaking, he goes into the bathroom and washes the wounds. They’ve stopped bleeding by the time he’s finished, but he bandages them anyway: he doesn’t want to have to answer questions if they open up on him again in front of Bela and Bobby—or worse, Vincent or Dean. When he’s done, Sam stares at his face in the mirror: hair wild and desperately needing a cut, eyes shell-shocked. “I was in Dean’s head—or his soul. Somewhere deep.” Saying it out loud makes it real in a way not even the claw marks could, and he bites his lip. It wasn’t intentional, but he definitely invaded his brother’s privacy for the second night in a row. He knows exactly what Dean would say if he found out—especially if he knew that Sam talked to the wolf. Worse than the guilt, though, is the unease caused by Geri’s reaction to Sam’s powers. Sam didn't threaten it—he doesn't think he did, anyway—but it acted like he had. It looked at Sam with a snarling, hate-fueled fear that Sam has seen on his brother’s face only once before: in the cabin, when the yellow-eyed son of a bitch had them both pinned against the wall. Even without that memory for reference, Sam would have known what the wolf meant by ‘deathlessdark’. There’s only one thing that would provoke such a knee-jerk response from an animal spirit. Demons. Sam has known since the church in New York that his powers come from nothing good, but he never quite dared (consciously, anyway) to consider they’re demon-driven. Refused to even entertain the possibility that any part of him could come from something so dark and twisted and evil. He looks deeper into his eyes, searching for a hint of black—or maybe the sickly mustard of the yellow-eyed demon’s irises. It’s funny how similar in shade that color is to Geri’s golden gaze, and yet how different meeting the demon’s stare was from meeting the wolf’s. There’s power in both, and an alien intelligence, but Geri’s eyes are the baking warmth of the sun. The demon’s burned and yet shed no heat: stole it instead and left Sam’s skin chilled to the touch. He shakes his head slightly. Searching his reflection is pointless. The change—and there is one: Sam can feel it now that he’s looking—is inside. Hidden down deep like a cancerous growth of cells. With a thought, the bloodied face cloth that Sam used on his chest lifts from the edge of the sink. He floats it across the room and drops it in the clothing hamper. Something that small is effortless now: leaves him feeling exhilarated rather than exhausted. Leaves him wanting to do more. I should stop, Sam thinks, watching as a drawer opens itself and the leftover bandages and the tube of antiseptic cream disappear inside. Dean would want me to stop. But he already knows that he won’t. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ “What the hell were you thinking?” Bobby’s voice. Softer, unintelligible murmur of Bela answering. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, and believe me, lady, I’ve heard plenty.” Sam opens his eyes and sits up. When he glances at the clock next to the bed, the red numbers tell him that it’s 10:32, which means that he’s gotten about five hours of dreamless sleep. It’s five hours more than he expected after the wolf’s revelation. He’s still tired, of course: body begging for a little more downtime. His mind seems to be working again, though, and Bobby’s still yelling at Bela. Sam has no idea what this particular fight’s about, but he’d prefer it if the two of them didn’t kill each other before they have a chance to rescue Dean. As he pushes out from underneath the covers, he grimaces at the twinge of pain from the scratches on his chest. He brushes his knuckles against the back of the bandage and then pulls on a t-shirt before hurrying out into the main part of the suite. Following the sound of hostile voices, he tracks Bela and Bobby down in the conference room. Bela is standing on the far side of the table when Sam pokes his head in, but all of her attention is focused on Bobby, who has his back to the door. “—damned sight more useful than you, you toothless old mongrel,” Bela is hissing. Sam clears his throat, drawing Bela’s eyes and making Bobby jerk around. For a long moment, they both stare at him silently: too caught up in their argument to adjust with any speed to the intrusion. “Morning,” Sam says finally, and that breaks their paralysis. Bobby’s face darkens with a mix of outrage and disbelief and he demands, “Do you know what this crazy bitch did?” “I got us the help we need,” Bela snaps before Sam can say anything. “Or did you think that Vincent was just going to let Dean go if we asked nicely?” “The man’s rabid,” Bobby growls, whirling back to face her and slamming both hands down on the table. “If it’s supernatural, he kills it. No questions asked. What on God’s green earth gave you the brilliant idea to ask him to help rescue a berserker?” Sam has never seen anyone actually look down their nose at someone else before, but Bela’s doing a pretty good job of it now. “I asked him to help rescue a hunter. There’s no reason he ever has to know that he’s doing more than that.” “He isn’t stupid, Bela! He’s gonna—” “Would one of you please tell me what the hell you’re talking about before you start putting holes in each other?” Sam breaks in. “Gordon Walker,” Bobby answers immediately, angling his body so that he can see Sam without completely losing sight of Bela. His voice is shaking with disgust. “All the hunters in the world and she decides to invite Walker and his friends to the party.” The name sounds familiar, and it only takes Sam a few seconds to realize that’s because he knows Gordon. “You called Gordon?” he says, frowning slightly as he looks past Bobby to Bela. Bela opens her mouth to respond but Bobby gets there first. “You know him?” “Dean and I ran into him on a job a few weeks before you helped Dean fake his death.” Bobby ducks his head a little at the harshness of Sam’s voice, but Sam is too busy remembering to really notice. He and Dean went to Red Lodge to investigate a string of cattle mutilations and beheadings and found vampires. With the wolf awake and his senses heightened, it didn’t take long for Dean to track down the nest, and after that it was almost child’s play to take them out. Almost too easy, actually. Sam never could get that job to sit right with him: kept thinking of the way that one of the vamps—a girl with long, dark hair—kept shouting for them to stop, to let her explain. Dean cut right through her mid-yell, adding another splash of glistening blood to what was already slicking his skin, and that was when the door burst open again and a black man wearing a dark flannel shirt and clutching a machete of his own joined in. Dean slowed at the interruption—refused to use the wolf’s power in front of people if he could help it—but with the three of them fighting side by side, the remaining vampires never had a chance anyway. After, the stranger let out a whoop of exhilaration, grinning through a splatter of blood, and stuck his hand out. “Gordon Walker,” he said. “Damn, you boys are good.” Over several celebratory rounds that night, Gordon told them how he’d been hunting this particular nest for weeks: searching fruitlessly for the nest. He’d heard them asking questions in the bar and was following with the intent of introducing himself when he realized that they’d found the very place he’d been looking for. “How’d you manage that, anyway?” he asked in that strangely soft, calm voice he had. Dean grinned at him, carefree mask firmly in place, and lied, “We saw one of them leaving the bar and followed. Guess we just got lucky.” “Naw, luck didn’t have anything to do with it,” Gordon replied, offering Dean a warm smile in return. “You’re just John Winchester’s boys through and through.” Sam put up with a few more minutes of watching his brother and his new ‘friend’ slapping each other on the back and then split. Something about Gordon set Sam’s teeth on edge, and it wasn’t just the way the man couldn’t seem to take his eyes off his brother. Sam might be more prone to jealousy than he thought—especially where Dean is concerned—but he can tell the difference between that green-tinged emotion and the uneasy stir he feels now when he thinks of Gordon. Talking with the man, however pleasant Gordon was being, had been like taking a bite out of a candy bar and crunching down on the unpleasant, metallic ting of tinfoil. And Dean—Dean, who’d been sullen and uncommunicative for weeks—was laughing with the son of a bitch. Okay, so maybe Sam’s a little jealous. That doesn’t negate the fact that he has some very valid, if vague, concerns about the man’s character. “Gordon’s good at what he does, Sam,” Bela pipes up, pulling his eyes back to her. She’s giving him her best ‘now, let’s be reasonable’ face, which makes him wish that the sweats he’s wearing had pockets to shove his fists into. He doesn’t try to hide his irritation, but Bela either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, blithely continuing, “And he’ll be bringing at least two other men with him. We need as much muscle as we can get.” She hasn’t said anything outright, but Sam’s known her long enough to catch the prodding note in her voice. His irritation subsides as he figures out what she’s hinting at and he comes further into the room to sit down. “He’s the fanatic you were talking about,” he says. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bobby look at him sharply, but all of his attention is on Bela, who gives him a nod. Well, that explains Sam’s unease with the man, anyway. Call them what you like—zealots, fanatics, idealists—but Sam’s never been comfortable dealing with people who are willing to die for an idea. He’s seen too much of that martyrdom in his own family to appreciate it in others. Sighing, he asks, “We need him?” In answer, Bela pushes her laptop across the table toward him and then leans after it. Her hair brushes the back of Sam’s hand as he reaches out and tilts the screen back so that he can see it. Ten thirty in the morning and Bela’s already wearing make-up and perfume. Sam is beginning to wonder if she rolls out of bed that way. “What am I looking at?” he asks. “I assume you recognize the layout of the twelfth floor?” Sam’s thumb ghosts over the edge of the screen. Over the cells that have been his brother’s home for the past six months. “Yeah.” Bela leans even further, giving him a better view of her cleavage than he ever wanted, and hits a few buttons on the keyboard. Yellow lines pop up on the screen, overlaying the initial blueprint. One of them, running through the outer wall and off the edge of the map, is slightly thicker than the rest. “Water lines,” Bela tells him. “Now, watch closely.” She hits another button and the lines turn blue. “These are the lines that are actively in use. Notice anything?” “One’s missing,” Sam answers. He traces the place where the thicker yellow line ran. Where there’s nothing but wall now. “Vincent’s a bright boy,” Bela says, clicking the keyboard once more and bringing the yellow lines up again. “He isn’t going to put his prize possession at the bottom of an underground installation without some kind of back-up extraction route in case of emergency.” Now that she’s pointed it out, it’s completely obvious. Vincent is one of the most compulsive men Sam has ever met when it comes to having his ass covered: of course he’s going to have a secret escape route. The tightness in Sam’s chest, which has been building since he saw the extent of Vincent’s set up yesterday, loosens. He can see the tunnel in his mind: wide enough for a man to walk without bending over, running at a slight upward angle until … “Where does it come out?” “I don’t know,” Bela admits, straightening again. “It doesn’t appear on any of the other maps. I’m willing to bet that wherever it comes out we’ll find transportation waiting, though. Most likely a Jeep or some other off-road vehicle. There will likely be emergency supplies there as well. But we won’t be taking your brother anywhere unless Vincent’s attention is otherwise occupied.” What Bela is proposing is the oldest trick in the book, performed by magicians and thieves since the earliest days of human history. ‘Look here!’ the con artist says, and snaps his fingers to create a spark and a puff of smoke with one hand. Meanwhile, of course, he’s robbing you blind with his left. As a Winchester, Sam has had extensive training in this particular form of misdirection, although he’s used to playing right hand to Dean’s left. “You’ve been planning this the whole time,” he says slowly. “You knew there’d be some kind of back exit; you just needed to know where.” “Planning what?” Bobby asks. There’s a suspicious sharpness to his voice. Sam continues to meet Bela’s uncompromising gaze. “We’re going to throw Gordon and his friends at the front door while we slip out the back. Aren’t we, Bela?” Whatever Bela sees on Sam’s face pleases her. The smile she offers him is almost genuine. “Essentially.” “Are you two insane?” Bobby hisses. “That’s suicide!” Sam shrugs and traces the proposed escape route with his fingers. Bobby drops his hands down onto the table mere inches to Sam’s right, demanding his attention. Sam clenches his jaw and continues to stare at the computer screen. “Look,” Bobby says, “I don’t like Gordon any more than the next guy, but you can’t be serious about this!” A disorienting wave of déjà vu washes through Sam: he just had this conversation with Bela a few days ago and the irony of the situation isn’t lost on him. But that version of himself seems years distant, and he was only putting up a fight for the sake of appearances, anyway. Now … now the only problems he has with Bela’s plan are whether Gordon and his two, maybe more, men are going to be able to keep Vincent’s attention long enough. “Sam!” Bobby barks, pounding one hand against the table. Turning in his seat, Sam finally looks up at Bobby. He doesn’t try to hide what he’s become: face empty of everything but purpose and eyes desolate with need. Bobby stares at him for a few seconds, taking it in. Then his breath punches out and he backs up, his face set in stiff, horrified lines. “You are serious,” he breathes. “Jesus Christ, Sam.” “He’s my brother,” Sam says. “I love him.” “You don’t think I love him too?” Bobby shouts back. “I would lay down my own life to get him back, no hesitation. But you can’t make that decision for other people!” Sam’s getting a crick in his neck from sitting like this. He pulls his chair out and around a little so that he can face Bobby better. On the other side of the table, Bela’s being smart and keeping her mouth shut for once. “Gordon’s not stupid,” Sam points out. “He won’t let me send him into certain death.” “No, he wouldn’t, but you aren’t planning on letting him know the odds, are you? You’re gonna twist things around until it looks real feasible.” Sam’s eyes don’t waver. “Yes,” he answers. Bobby looks at him like he’s trying to find the old Sam somewhere: the man who flinched when his brother backhanded a demon. But that Sam is gone: scraped away by painstaking effort on Sam’s part. Maybe burned away by the dark, unfurling power inside of him. “You do this,” Bobby warns, “and you won’t be any better than them.” Sure he will. It isn’t like he’s planning on whoring Gordon out, after all. But what Sam says is, “I need him back.” He can hear the depth of his yearning coloring his voice: knows it’s also seeping into his expression from the minute shift in Bobby’s face. Reluctant suspicion creeping in around the edges of the man’s gaze. Sam could still pull this back: could salvage the situation. Bobby would let him for the peace of his own mind. “I love him,” he repeats instead, and Bobby jerks. “You—Goddamn it.” Bobby drags a shaking hand across his mouth and Sam knows that he heard that confession for what it was meant to be. Now it will come: shouts of revulsion and disgust before Bobby walks out of the suite and leaves them on their own. Sam would welcome it—hell, he thinks he may have been gunning for it. It was a mistake to bring the man in on this. Bobby’s reasons for being here aren’t wrong, not completely, but they’re colored by the promise he made to Dean: a promise Sam isn’t going to let him keep. Besides, the man has too many scruples for this business. But instead of yelling, Bobby pinches the arch of his nose with two fingers, bows his head, and whispers, “Jesus.” From the corner of his eyes, Sam catches Bela’s wrinkled forehead and confused frown. He ignores her: doesn’t particularly care if she figures out what’s going on. She needs him, and even if she didn’t, Sam is pretty sure that a few incestuous urges wouldn’t faze her in the slightest. “I’m not going to apologize for it,” he tells Bobby. “I’m not ashamed, and it isn’t really any of your business. I told you because I want you to understand that I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get him back.” When Bobby raises his eyes, it’s to look at Bela. “Get out,” he says. She stiffens. “I’d like to remind you that I’m paying for this—” “Get the fuck out now,” Bobby repeats without raising his voice. He doesn’t need to raise it. Sam shifts his gaze a little to see how Bela is reacting to that dangerous, hostile tone and catches her gaping. It isn’t a flattering expression. She flicks her eyes to Sam, maybe catches something of his thoughts on his face, and clenches her jaw. “Fine,” she bites out. Leaning over the table again, she pushes her laptop shut and strides toward the door. “And shut the door behind you,” Bobby adds. Bela doesn’t so much shut it as slam it, but Sam was expecting as much and doesn’t jump. Leaning back in his chair, he waits for Bobby to gather his thoughts. It doesn’t take long. “Does Dean know? Is he—are you two … ” He trails off, unable to finish the question. “Are we what?” “You know what,” Bobby grunts. Sam does. But although Bobby’s voice holds no condemnation, the entire conversation has a hint of moral superiority that Sam doesn’t much care for. He regards Bobby with a cool expression and waits. “Are you fucking?” Bobby finally gets out, the color high in his cheeks. “Not that it’s any of your goddamned business, but no. Dean isn’t—he isn’t interested.” Bobby’s relieved exhale at that announcement fans Sam’s anger and he digs his fingers into his thigh to keep from lurching up and driving his fist into the man’s face. He keeps himself very still and quiet as Bobby approaches and sits down next to him. From the earnest expression Bobby’s wearing, he has no idea how close to the edge Sam is. “Look,” Bobby says, “I realize that you’ve been through a lot this year. You’re bound to have some … reactions … to that kind of stress, but it’ll pass, okay?” Sam blinks at the man for a few seconds before what Bobby’s saying sinks in. Then a burst of heat flashes through his chest and he narrows his eyes. “You think this is some kind of phase?” he blurts incredulously. “Sam—” Bobby starts, reaching for him. Sam jerks to his feet and backs out of reach. He thinks that the chair he was sitting in may have fallen over, but he isn’t sure. He knows that he’s shaking, though: rage shuddering through his muscles. The dark place in his mind throbs warningly. “Fuck you, Bobby,” he spits. Bobby’s face twists—disgust, anger, embarrassment—and he shouts back, “It isn’t natural, Sam! He’s your goddamned brother!” There’s no stopping the flare of power that whips out of Sam. One minute Bobby is leaning forward in his chair and the next he’s pinned against the wall. It’s a position that brings up too many memories of the cabin, and the yellow-eyed demon looking out from Dad’s face, and Dean begging with blood on his lips. Sam’s stomach lurches, but he doesn’t ease off: just sinks deeper into the darkness inside of him and takes refuge in the happy thrum of power. “How’s that for ‘natural’?” he snarls. “Put me down, Sam.” Bobby’s trying to sound calm and collected, but his eyes—too wide, too much white—are giving him away. “There’s something inside of me, Bobby,” Sam says, stepping toward the man. “And it’s dark and it’s hungry and on the other side of the world from ‘natural’.” He comes to a stop a few inches from Bobby: close enough to see sweat beading the man’s face. Close enough to smell his fear. “But what I feel for Dean is the best part of me. Dean is the best part of me. And there isn’t one goddamned thing wrong with loving someone.” Sam feels exhausted suddenly: not from the use of power—after the last two days, this isn’t taking any more effort than picking up a half-grown Labrador—but emotionally. Dealing with Bobby always wears him out these days. With a thought, he lowers the man back to the ground and then releases him. Bobby must feel the power letting go, but he stays where he is anyway, watching Sam warily. Probably itching for some holy water right about now. Sam’s lips twitch briefly at the thought and then he sobers again. “I’m not gonna hurt him,” he says. “I love him. I’ve loved him in one way or another my whole life, and I’m not gonna stop just because you think it isn’t right.” Bobby’s silent for a long moment and then he repeats his first question in a soft voice that sounds as weary as Sam feels. “Does he know?” Rubbing his eyes, Sam turns away and heads back to the table. “He knew before I did.” “How long?” Sam could tell Bobby about that day at the lake, but he won’t. It’s private, and he isn’t sure that’s where this started anyway. His reaction to Dean’s body that afternoon was a little strong not to have already been deeply embedded. Letting out a brittle laugh, he leans against the table and says, “I don’t know—forever? Since I figured out what my dick was for? What the hell does it matter?” Bobby’s hand drops on his shoulder and Sam jerks. He briefly thinks about pulling away and then settles. If Bobby’s still willing to touch him after the show he just put on, let alone the confession he just offered, then he should be grateful. So why does he still want to punch the man? “You just—you took me by surprise, is all,” Bobby says. “I’m not—I was raised to think it was wrong.” “You think I wasn’t?” Sam turns and Bobby’s hand falls away. “You think I don’t know exactly what Dad would say if he knew?” Bobby nods. “I know you do. And I know you wouldn’t ever hurt Dean. I just—you can’t spring something like that on me and expect me to just take it with a grain of salt. And if you’re looking for a way to pick a fight with me, then maybe next time you should choose something that won’t get you so riled up yourself.” Bobby’s right: that was exactly what Sam did. He saw Bobby’s response to Bela’s plan and his knee-jerk reaction was to take the man out of the picture. Should have known that Bobby would be too canny and stubborn to be driven off that easily. Sam’s anger subsides and he runs a hand through his hair with a rueful half-grin. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Now, are we gonna talk about what you just did, or are you gonna pin me to the wall again if I bring it up?” There’s still a twinge of fear in Bobby’s eyes, but it’s already mostly covered by concern. Not about Sam, either, but for him. For the first time in what feels like forever, Sam catches a glimpse of the man who bandaged his scraped knees and fixed him ice cream sundaes when the weather was hot. “I get visions,” he says, and Bobby make a little ‘get on with it’ twirl with one hand. He already knew that part. Clearing his throat, Sam continues, “It used to just go forward, but I think I’m getting visions of the past too now. I can move things with my mind, and last night I think I was inside Dean’s head. Oh, uh, and I can control demons—not that any of them will come anywhere near me these days.” Bobby’s frown has been deepening since ‘visions of the past’, and when Sam mentions demons he winces. “How long has this been going on?” “The visions started a few weeks before Jess was killed. The rest—it’s sort of been coming up as I need it. Ever since Dean disappeared.” “Are you encouraging it?” “I need all the help I can get,” Sam says, jutting his chin out stubbornly. Bobby heaves a sigh that comes right out of his gut and sinks down into a convenient chair. “Sam, this isn’t good. This kind of power, wherever it comes from, there’s always a price.” Thanks to the wolf, Sam knows exactly where his power comes from. He can already feel the price as a sullying weight on his soul. He doesn’t think he used to be this volatile, and for a few seconds there, when he was holding Bobby up with the power and smelling the sour reek of fear, he hadn’t been angry but excited. Averting his eyes, Sam says, “I know, Bobby, but Dean—he needs me. I’ll—once he’s out, I’ll stop.” Bobby’s silent for a long moment and then he asks, “You gonna be able to?” “Yes,” Sam answers without hesitation, but he’s lying. The power is coming easier than ever these days, and he never made a conscious decision to attack Bobby. It just … happened. Regardless of the consequences, Sam doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop. He’s passed that point. Maybe Bobby should be thinking about shooting both of them. Maybe that would be for the best. Safest. But Sam already knows that he isn’t going to let that happen. He’s always been a selfish son of a bitch, and that isn’t going to change now.

Once you know him, Dean’s pretty predictable. He has patterns of behavior spreading deep roots through him, as unshakable as computer algorithms. The sarcastic scorn, the jokes: they’re all part of it. Sam has his own instinctual reactions, of course: Dean’s been using them to keep him off balance and away from anything Dean doesn’t want to discuss. He’s going to try it again tonight—partly because of what happened between them last night, but mainly because Sam knows about the demons now: knows why Dean has been trying so strenuously to push him away. There are only so many methods of distraction that are habitual for Dean, though. He might ignore Sam again. Might try and channel Sam’s expected anger into something he’s more prepared to argue about by bringing up his ‘death’. Might try to guilt Sam into stammering apologies by focusing on last night. Or he might just walk in here and start swinging. It seems like a lot of options to plan for, but Sam feels fairly confident that he can handle anything his brother throws at him. He just needs to utilize some of the stubbornness that Winchesters are blessed with and stick to the topic. Lying about the demons first, escape plan second. With at least three hours to kill before Gordon and the others will be in position, there’s plenty of time for both. His certainty that he can handle Dean’s initial attack doesn’t mean he’s at all certain how the rest of the night is going to go, though, and he can’t stop himself from pushing the Protean charms around on the top of the bar. He took them off as soon as he was safely inside the suite, leaving his jacket on. He wants Dean to be able to see his face when they’re talking, but the memory of last night is too close for him to be comfortable with just a dress shirt between him and his brother. Rationally, Sam knows that the jacket isn’t going to dampen his desire any more than what he just saw in the cage, but that doesn’t stop him from hoping that it’ll make things a little easier. If nothing else, it might reassure Dean that he isn’t going to try anything tonight. I can do this, he tells himself for the hundredth time. I’ll be fine. Then Dean storms through the door, his hair mussed from showering and slicked up in damp spikes, and Sam’s stomach plummets alarmingly. His brother is wearing a black shirt tonight, and his pale skin glows against the dark fabric like frozen moonlight. The cut above his eyebrow looks surprisingly fresh, considering how quickly Dean is healing lately. It’s being held closed with two small butterfly bandages, and the ugly bruise on the left side of his jaw where the demons hit him more than a few times is livid. Although Dean’s gaze is muted by the Gleipnir, golden lightning is sliding through his green irises. By now, Sam has seen enough to know that the gold only comes when Dean is deliberately drawing on the wolf’s power, which means that he’s tapping into it right now. The darkness inside of Sam reacts automatically, flinching back from the ferocity of Dean’s approach—and he is approaching, his eyes fixed on Sam and his shoulders bunched aggressively. Sam is too busy wrestling the power back to do anything else, even though it’s beginning to look like Dean is opting for violence as his opening conversational gambit. Then Dean is right there, and he isn’t trying to hurt Sam but working furiously at his belt buckle. Fuck yeah. A shiver runs through his entire body, and the needwantyes is strong enough to drown out the darkness. Which, ironically, means that Sam can finally focus on the fact that Dean is gearing up to shove his hand down Sam’s pants again. “No!” he shouts, and shoves Dean back. “Damn it, Dean, I didn’t—I didn’t come here for that.” “No?” Dean says, lips twitching sardonically. He shrugs and turns away, heading for the dining room table. Sam can tell from the way his brother’s back is moving that he’s unbuttoning his shirt. “Listen,” he tries. “Can we just sit down and talk?” The last word comes out cracked as Dean drops his shirt to the floor. There are no bruises tonight: nothing to mar the sensual perfection of broad shoulders and smooth, freckled skin. The saliva in Sam’s mouth dries up and he digs his fingers into the wood of the bar. “Sure,” Dean answers as he turns around and sits on the edge of the table. “I mean, last night obviously wasn’t what you really wanted, so let’s just figure out what you do want and get it over with.” Ducking his head slightly, he reaches back and starts to take off the wolf’s head choker. “I’m not—I don’t want anything like that, man. I—last night, I shouldn’t have, and—” “So how do you want me?” Dean interrupts him, putting the wolf’s head down on the table and sliding it backwards along the length of the gleaming wood. “Here? Had some good times on this table.” Oh God, Sam can’t hear this. “Naw, you’re a little vanilla for something like that, huh, Sammy? Well, guess that’s what the bed’s for.” Dean’s busy hands are on his own pants now, and the sight of his brother popping the top button open releases Sam from his paralysis. Sprinting forward, he grabs Dean’s hands and shoves them down against the table, pinning them there where they can’t do any more damage. “Stop it,” he growls into his brother’s closed face. The left side of Dean’s mouth quirks up and he says, “Gotta say, man, you’re kinkier than I gave you credit for.” He wiggles his hands against Sam’s grip and spreads his legs wider and fuck, fuck, Sam likes it, Sam wants it but not like this, he already hurt Dean enough and he just can’t. Dean wanted Sam to hit him last night and when Sam resisted everything went to hell. But that was then and this is now. If it’s gonna take a little violence to yank Dean back on track and get him to fucking shut up already, then that’s okay with Sam. Releasing Dean’s wrists, he hauls his brother up by the arm and tosses him to the right. Dean staggers a few steps in that direction and Sam follows, shoving him back against the wall. Dean looked startled for about half a second there, but he’s already smirking again and Sam knows that his brother is about to start throwing barbs. The right hook Sam sends into Dean’s jaw—directly on top of the bruise his brother is sporting—shuts him up immediately. “Ow, fuck!” Dean complains. It’s a ludicrous protest—Dean has been hurt far worse than this and never made a sound—and Sam’s anger raises a notch. “I’m not here to fuck you,” he snaps. “I’m not—not ever—going to touch you like that again. I shouldn’t have done it last night, and I’m sorry as hell that I did. I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making that up to you, I swear to God, but right now you need to shut up and listen to me.” “If you aren’t here to use the merchandise, then I don’t want to hear it,” Dean shoots back, pushing forward. Sam slams him into the wall again, risking a quick dash of power to make sure he goes and then releasing it again before the darkness can get a hold on him. Dean peers up at him, his expression wavering between shocked and confused, and Sam feels a rush of satisfaction. This is probably the first time in months that Dean has been manhandled by someone without making a conscious decision to let it happen. “You should have told me about the demons,” Sam says before Dean can recover from his surprise. “Goddamn it, Dean, we’ve been over this! You can’t keep deciding what’s best for me.” Fear flickers through Dean’s Gleipnir-damped eyes at the mention of the demons. Sam expects his brother to try to bolt again, or to rap out a biting comment designed to take the conversation down a completely new path. What Dean does is grab Sam’s hair and haul him in for a kiss. Sam’s mouth drops open a little in surprise at the press of soft lips against his and that’s all the opening Dean needs. Twining his hands in Sam’s hair, he swipes his tongue roughly into Sam’s mouth. The press of Dean’s lips is almost punishingly hard, and when he slips his tongue back it’s only so that he can bite down on Sam’s lower lip. It’s instinct to fight back—too many years of brotherly competition have been ingrained into Sam to give him any chance of doing the smart thing and jerking free. Dean makes a low, surprised sound when Sam’s hands come up and grab his face. Sam drags his tongue along Dean’s lips and is fiercely triumphant when they part easily for him. Hooking his thumbs beneath his brother’s jaw, he tilts Dean’s head further up until he’s positioned the way Sam wants him, and then plunges in. Sam had Dean’s mouth last night, and it isn’t any cooler now. He feels feverish as he licks into that velvet heat. The only thing better than tasting the inside of his brother’s mouth is sucking Dean’s pouty lower lip between his teeth and working at it until Dean’s breath stutters. It’s their first kiss, and it should be awkward for more reasons than lack of practice. Dean is doing this out of a desperate attempt to avoid talking, and Sam is driven by his anger, and it shouldn’t feel this natural. Sam’s rage shouldn’t be draining away, leaving him shivering inside and almost overcome with the need to protect his brother: to soothe away the hurt and the fear and make everything right again. God, this feels so familiar … Dean makes another one of those noises that are going straight to Sam’s core—something that hangs between a moan and a whimper—and Sam lets his brother’s irresistible, magnetic pull draw him closer. It feels like falling, giving into his own desire, and Sam’s hands are trembling against his brother’s cheeks. He can feel Dean’s heart beating wildly against his chest, Dean’s flat stomach against his own, Dean’s— Sam jerks back with a strangled gasp, eyes wide and disbelieving. Dean leans where he is, dropping his hands back to his sides and resting his head against the wall. His lips are red and slightly swollen from the kiss, his eyelids heavy, his face the perfect image of debauchery, but all of Sam’s concentration is on something else. Something lower. With his breath coming in shallow pants, Dean follows Sam’s gaze. When he realizes what Sam’s staring at, he lets out a despairing laugh and then, closing his eyes, turns his head to one side. “So now you know.” Sam thinks of the wolf (smell us on you. smell us here. marked you.) and then of his dream. He thinks of Dean morphing back and forth from one version of his brother to another as Sam’s sleeping mind rocked them in and out of touch like a wave. But the eyes … the eyes were always the same. Swallowing is difficult, but Sam manages it. He never knew that relief could be so painful: that his chest could be so lightened by the absence of guilt that it feels hollow. “How long?” he croaks. Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. It—I’m not gay. I don’t—I’m not into dudes, okay? I didn’t even—” He breaks off into another grating laugh and then says bitterly, “I didn’t even know how guys did it before I got here. They had to show me.” “Dean—” Sam starts, reaching forward. Dean moves like quicksilver, slapping his hand away and darting free from the wall. “Don’t fucking touch me.” Sam gapes at his brother. “I can’t—Jesus Christ, Dean, I can’t believe you just said that! What, it’s okay as long as I think you don’t want it?” Dean’s face hovers in the shadowland between broken and furious. “I don’t want your pity, Sam. I don’t need it.” “You mean you can’t afford it,” Sam corrects. Dean’s mouth presses into a thin line. Looks like he’s decided to get angry. “No, Sam, I can’t afford it. Because when you leave I’m still stuck here, and I don’t know how you’ve been paying for it this long, but you can’t swing it forever. Sooner or later, I’m gonna have to drop my pants again, and excuse me if I don’t want to have to think about this when I do.” Finished, he scrubs a hand through his hair roughly. Sam firms his jaw and steps forward. “I said no, damn it!” Dean shouts, backing further away. “Funny how that starts to matter when you’re the one saying it,” Sam points out, and Dean flushes but doesn’t drop his eyes. “Jesus, Dean, I spent last night crying because I thought I hurt you. I thought I raped you!” Dean flinches and his face tightens in an expression of pained panic. Sam doesn’t like seeing that look on his brother’s face anymore than Dean likes hearing that word, but they’re both going to have to get used to it. Sam isn’t ducking away from the issue: isn’t going to let Dean hide it behind a façade of lies. Because maybe Dean wants Sam, but he sure as hell didn’t want any of the other people he was with, and if he’s ever going to move past it then he has to acknowledge what they did to him. Dean’s face wavers uncertainly and then firms again as he shores himself up. His eyes flicker down to Sam’s neck for the first time—to the place Geri bit him—and he says, “Yeah, looks like you were real torn up about it.” Sam stares at his brother for a moment before it sinks in. Dean’s jealous. He’s jealous because he thinks Sam was with someone else last night. It’s so ironic that Sam doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream or a little of all three. He could explain the bite mark to his brother, but he isn’t going to. Explanations would lead to Dean finding out that Sam has been in his mind not once or twice but three times, and Sam isn’t ready to handle his brother’s reaction to that information. Later, once everything has been sorted out, he’ll sit Dean down and tell him about this past week—tell him everything—but for now they’re both going to have to live with Dean’s assumptions. “Stop trying to change the subject,” Sam says, taking another step closer. Dean tenses, but this time he holds his ground. “You did it deliberately, didn’t you?” Dean’s expression doesn’t change—just as hostile and closed off as ever—but the faint flicker in his eyes is all the answer Sam needs. Uttering a humorless laugh, he shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable, man. It doesn’t matter to you how I feel, does it? As long as I’m ‘safe’.” “Oh, come on, Sam! We both know you would’ve gotten over it.” Sam is so completely floored by the stupidity of that statement that he can’t do anything but gape at his brother. Dean softens a little in the face of Sam’s incredulity, ducking his head and rubbing at the back of his neck. “Besides,” he adds. “It’s my job.” Sam can’t even begin to correct Dean’s self-esteem issues, which were many and varied before Vincent got to him, so he decides to answer the second, only slightly less idiotic assumption his brother is making. “No, Dean, it’s not. Dad made it your job, and you let him, but that wasn’t fair to you, and it wasn’t fair to me, and you need to stop.” He sounds angrier than he means to, and for a moment he’s worried that Dean is going to snap back out of self-defense, but his brother just looks at him helplessly. “I’ve been taking care of you my whole life, Sam,” Dean says. “I can’t just stop.” “I don’t expect you to,” Sam answers immediately, backtracking. It wasn’t what he meant, anyway. “What I expect is for you to let me take care of you every once in a while.” The last, lingering remnants of Dean’s mulish nerves have been damped down by Sam’s words. He shifts from one foot to the other, hands dangling awkwardly at his sides, and with a four-year-old’s bewildered, lost expression. Sam’s chest aches violently to see his brother so disoriented by the idea that someone might want to take care of him. Someone shielding Dean Winchester instead of the other way around. He can’t make Dean understand right now—that’s going to take years—but he can at least ease some of the pain lurking in his brother’s eyes, as well as the ache in his own chest. Carefully, he starts forward again. Dean shakes his head but doesn’t back up. Sam’s pretty sure it’s only because he can’t figure out how to run anymore. “Don’t do this,” Dean begs. “I can’t keep doing this if you—” Then Sam’s arms are around him, Sam is pulling him close, and Dean is letting it happen. “You don’t have to,” Sam whispers into his brother’s ear. His fingers stroke through the damp hair at the nape of Dean’s neck and Dean shivers against him. “We’re leaving tonight. Everything’s arranged.” “No!” Dean blurts, panicked. He pushes at Sam’s chest, but it’s a weak attempt. Now that Sam has him, he can feel how much Dean needs this: needs some physical contact that isn’t about taking but giving. “No, I can’t—I need my shot, I need—” “I know, man. It’s okay. We’re gonna bring some with us.” Sam runs his hand lightly down his brother’s back, the way Dean used to when Sam was young and frightened by a nightmare. “I talked to Ash and he’s working on finding a chemist.” Not that Sam is going to use whoever Ash finds: there’s too great a risk of Bobby showing up unannounced. But Sam is confident that he can find someone on his own, and he doesn’t care what he has to do to make them cooperate. Dean shakes his head, but he’s getting heavier in Sam’s arms as his body accepts the comfort his mind continues to refuse. “The demons, they’re down there, and I can’t—you—” “They aren’t a problem.” Dean snorts into Sam’s collarbone. “They aren’t a problem,” Sam repeats more firmly. “You have to trust me here. The only one in danger from them is you, and I won’t let anything happen, okay?” “Oh, well then, let me just pack my bags,” Dean mutters. The words are right, but the way his voice trembles is all wrong: a sign of weakness Dean never would have shown before. His hands come to rest on Sam’s hips, light as a hummingbird. It’s as though he’s afraid that if he really reaches out to Sam, clings to him the way Sam can tell he wants to, that everything is going to dissolve away like spun sugar. Tightening his own grip to compensate—I’m here, this is real—Sam murmurs, “Jerk.” “Bitch,” Dean mumbles, and just like that he’s clutching Sam close, his arms like iron bars around Sam’s torso. “You came. Fuck, you really came. I thought I was gonna die here, I thought—” Dean’s defenses are flaking into dust, and Sam wants to let it happen—God, does he want to—but now isn’t the time. In three hours, they need to be ready to move, and Sam has the feeling that once Dean lets himself fall it’ll take months just to get him functioning again. “Shh,” he says, brushing his lips against Dean’s cheek in a gentle kiss. He feels a rush of joy that he’s allowed to do that now. “It’s gonna be okay, man. Right now, though, you’ve gotta hold it together. Just a little longer, okay? Just until we’re out of here.” “Okay,” Dean agrees without hesitation, and then he turns his head and catches Sam’s lips in another kiss. The one is as furiously desperate as their last, but softened by pleading and tempered by the knowledge that Dean is kissing him because he wants to and not as a diversionary tactic. Sam lets his brother control the kiss as long as he can—Dean’s had precious few things under his control these last six months—but he’s too hungry himself to be passive for long. He feels like he’s in shock as he slows the kiss: deepens it. Hell, he probably is. After years of hiding how he felt even from himself, and then months of thinking he was alone in this, he still half expects Dean to pull away in revulsion. He can’t fathom a world where Dean actually wants him back, but this is real. It has to be, because Sam never would have imagined the noises Dean’s making. He heard his brother with the girls he used to bring back with him, and Dean never sounded like this. Never sounded so shattered by need: so completely devastated by the weight of desire. Sam licks the sounds from his brother’s lips: wants to drown himself in them. Abruptly, Dean pulls back enough to whisper, “Please, can we—do we have time?” His hands, clumsy for the first time in Sam’s memory, start to fight with the buttons on Sam’s shirt. Three hours is plenty of time for what Dean is asking for, but Sam shakes his head and gently pushes his brother’s hands away. “Not here, okay? I don’t want to do this here.” Dean is shaking against him in a way that makes Sam think of the injured rabbit he found at the edge of a parking lot in Pennsylvania when he was six. He picked it up and carried it back to his big brother, knowing that Dean would be able to fix the gash in the rabbit’s hind leg, and the rabbit’s eyes were wide and terrified the entire time. It trembled in his hands so badly that Sam still could still feel the vibrations when Dean helped him bury the rabbit a half-hour later. Died of fright, Dean told him with the voice of authority, and the rabbit haunted his dreams for almost three weeks after that. But Dean isn’t a rabbit, and his words have a rough, irrational edge that Sam associates with junkies going through withdrawal. “Come on, man, I need—I need something to—” Sam catches his brother’s mouth again, shutting him up. He strokes Dean’s back with soft, reassuring caresses until the tremors racking his frame subside and his heart rate slows. When Dean is calmer, Sam rests his chin on his brother’s shoulder and kisses the side of his neck. “I love you, Dean,” he says. “We’re gonna get through this.” “I don’t—you deserve better, Sam, you—” Sam bites down sharply on Dean’s shoulder and the rest of that nonsense breaks off in a gasp. He immediately lets go again and nuzzles at the reddened skin. “I don’t ever want to hear that again.” His voice is harsh, making it an order, although he’s pretty sure that Dean isn’t going to be able to follow this one. Not yet. It’s difficult to let go of his brother even for a few seconds, but Sam makes himself. Dean’s eyes are shinier than they should be, moist with unshed tears, and Sam can’t help rubbing his thumb across one arching, beautiful cheekbone. When he leans in for another kiss, it’s the splatter of freckles across the bridge of Dean’s nose he aims for, and Dean gives him a perplexed look. “Get used to it,” Sam tells him with a slight smile, and then gently tugs Dean into the living room. Dean needs a chance to recover himself a little, which means he needs to rest. The bedroom is out, especially now; Sam’s certain that his brother has too many bad memories of that bed. The couch is off limits for similar reasons, although the cushions on it have possibilities. Sam’s pretty sure that none of the rich bastards and bitches who bought his brother went in much for pillow piles on the floor. “Wait here for a sec, okay?” he says, leaning Dean against the doorframe. Dean nods, although he looks baffled by Sam’s behavior, and holds onto the wood when Sam moves away. He looks sick or injured leaning there, and even though Sam knows the weakness is only the normal aftereffect of a strong surge of emotion, he’s anxious to lay Dean down and get him as comfortable as he possibly can here. Yanking the pillows off the couch, Sam tosses them against the far wall. There’s a crimson velvet throw with gold stitching that probably cost about five thousand dollars and Sam grabs that as well, draping it over one arm on his way back to Dean. “Okay,” he says, ducking a little so that Dean can sling one arm over his shoulder. Dean gives him an annoyed look and says, “Dude, I’m not an invalid.” As if Sam can’t see the way Dean’s legs are shaking. Sam gives Dean his most earnest, pleading expression and Dean swears under his breath before giving in and letting Sam help him over to the pillows. The fact that the old, knee jerk reaction is still firmly ingrained in his brother makes Sam a lot more hopeful that Dean will make a full recovery from this and, in spite of the circumstances, he can’t keep himself from smiling. When Dean realizes that Sam wants him to lie down, he balks again. Sam gives him a little nudge at the small of his back and says, “Come on, man. Just for a little while.” “We don’t have time for this,” Dean tries, but Sam hooks his foot around Dean’s ankle and pulls back while giving another push forward and Dean’s too weary to catch his balance. The pillows soften his fall and he lies there facedown for a moment before cocking his head around and glaring. “You're a pushy son of a bitch, you know that, Sammy?” “We’ve got about three hours before we’ll be ready to move,” Sam says, taking the throw from his arm and shaking it open. “When we do move, I’m gonna need you alert and with me, and right now you’re obviously exhausted. So you’re gonna take a nap. I’ll wake you up and fill you in on the plan in a little while.” “Gonna throw a little PT in on top of that, Dad?” Dean grunts. Taken aback by the jab, Sam fingers the throw and turns over what he just said in his head. Almost immediately, he realizes that Dean’s right. He’s only trying to look out for his brother, but he sounds like Dad at his most ‘need-to-know, do-what-I-say-and-don’t-ask-questions.’ It makes him wonder if maybe he’s been too hard on his father all these years. Sam sighs and then says, “Sorry, man. I’m just worried about you.” Dean’s eyes narrow and Sam realizes that admitting that was probably an even worse move than ordering his brother around like a foot soldier. “Can you please just try it? For me?” he adds quickly, breaking out the hopeful, earnest expression again and adding a little bit of hangdog hurt for good measure. He’s worried that it’s a little too soon for that particular gambit to work again, but Dean rolls his eyes and flops back down. “Oh for crying out loud,” he mutters, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face into a pillow. “Fine. Whatever. Just stop looking at me like that.” The words come out muffled by the pillow, but Sam’s been decoding his brother’s unintelligible, early-morning grumbles for years and has no problem understanding. Smiling fondly, he spreads the throw over Dean like a blanket and then strips off his jacket and shirt, fingers tripping over each other in their haste. He studies his brother for a moment, wondering if Dean would feel safer between him and the wall, or if that would just make him feel trapped, and then decides that it doesn’t matter. He isn’t putting his back to the door: needs to be able to see what’s coming if Bela betrays them at the last minute and Vincent sends some of his people to take care of the problem. Normally, Sam would want to be between Dean and any potential danger, but now that he has the ability to toss things around with his mind, that’s become less of a concern. “Move over,” he says, nudging Dean with a foot. The eyes Dean blinks up at him are already drooping with sleep, solidifying Sam’s certainty that this was the right decision. He climbs over his brother, almost falling twice as the pillows shift, and then works his way underneath the blanket. Dean’s watching him with a weird expression, and Sam finally pauses to ask, “What?” “Thought we weren’t doing this here,” Dean answers. Dismay hits Sam low in the stomach. He’s bothered by the fact that Dean automatically assumes that close physical contact has to end in sex, but even more disturbed by the expression on his brother’s face. Now that Dean isn’t trying to scare him off, it’s ludicrously easy to read. There’s wariness there, and reluctance, and fear, and resignation. Dean seemed eager enough a few minutes ago, but now he’s looking at Sam like he’s just another horny client he has to roll over for. Sam knows that it wasn’t all an act: he doesn’t think that it’s possible to lie mind-to-mind, and Dean definitely wanted him in the dream. No, Dean loves him. He’s just too screwed up to understand what he wants physically in that area, and far too hurt even to consider acting on what he’s feeling. Which means that he’s more damaged than Sam thought, and suddenly things are looking insurmountable again. What if Dean’s never ready to be touched? Then I’ll still know he loves me, and that’s enough, Sam tells himself. It’s more than enough. “I just want to hold you,” he says. He feels like an idiot just saying it out loud, and he can feel himself blushing a little, but the unbearable tension leaves his brother’s face. “Oh, give me a break,” Dean snorts, shoving at him. “No way am I cuddling when you won’t even put out.” Sam’s chest gives a little pulse of pain: Dean doesn’t want Sam to put out, and Sam doesn’t even think his brother is aware of it. He liked being held earlier, though, so Sam’s willing to chance pissing Dean off by pushing now. “Turn over,” he says, ignoring Dean’s protest. “What? No. I’m not fucking spooning with you—and who said I was gonna be the little spoon, anyway? I’m older.” “You’re smaller,” Sam points out, pulling at Dean’s shoulder to get him turned the right way. “Only cause you’re a freak,” Dean mutters, but he lets himself be rolled, and when Sam shuffles closer, Dean relaxes back into him. Dean’s skin on his is like warm silk. Dean’s breathing moves his torso in rhythmic waves, and Sam finds himself breathing slower to match it. He can’t feel Dean’s heartbeat like this, he realizes, and shifts the arm draped over his brother’s chest so that his hand is splayed over Dean’s left breast. Dean’s pulse quickens as Sam accidentally skims over his nipple and then subsides again. Pressing his face into the nape of his brother’s neck, Sam takes a deep breath, breathing in the scent of Dean, his brother warm and relaxed against him, and feels something deep inside of him loosen. “I love you so fucking much,” he whispers again, in danger of being branded a little girl forever and not caring in the least. “Freak,” Dean mumbles, but the word is filled with warm contentment, and Sam can hear the unspoken, me too. After a moment, Dean snuggles closer and lets out a tiny sigh that Sam pretends not to have heard. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Two hours later, Sam is watching his brother while he sleeps. Dean drifted off almost immediately, and although he spent half an hour afterward tossing around—maybe not used to sleeping next to someone, maybe just dreams—Sam thinks that it’s been mostly peaceful. At some point, Dean flopped himself around so that he could nuzzle his face into the crook of Sam’s neck. One of his arms is twisted awkwardly underneath him in a position that’s going hurt when he wakes up and has to move. The other is positioned so that his hand is loosely closed on Sam’s hip. Sam doesn’t think he could ever get tired of looking at Dean like this: relaxed and almost innocent. It’s only an illusion, but both the defenses he spent all of his life building and the pain they were meant to hide seem to have vanished. He easily looks five years younger, maybe as many as seven. If Sam looks hard enough, he can see glints of the boy who used to pour syrup on his pancakes until they were quite literally floating in it. Dean moves unexpectedly—a quick jerk of his head—and Sam frowns. The sliver of face that he can see twists (in fear, in pain) and Dean’s grip on his hip tightens. The tiny brush of air that hisses out from Dean’s lips carries a low, hurt moan. He jerks his head again—no—and this time Sam catches a moist shine on his brother’s cheek: tear tracks. Sam doesn’t know if Dean is dreaming of blood or some softer horror and he doesn’t want to know. He just wants it to stop. “Dean,” he calls softly. “Hey, man, it’s okay. I’m right here. I gotcha.” He drags his hand down the line of Dean’s spine once before curling his hand underneath his brother’s body and pulling him even closer. Tilting his head gets him Dean’s temple and he presses a soft kiss there. “Right here,” he repeats. Still lost in his dream, Dean takes a deep, hitching breath, and then stills as he catches the scent of Sam’s skin. “Sammy,” he mumbles. The word flows through his body, soothing out the bit of his face that Sam can see and making him a heavy, limp weight again. His hand twitches a little on Sam’s hip but doesn’t loosen. Sam hesitates, torn between waking his brother or letting him sleep more. He doesn’t want to leave Dean in there if there’s any possibility that he’s still trapped inside of a nightmare, and Dean’s relaxed posture doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He may have just drifted deep enough to lose motor control. Then Sam notices the dip at the corner of his brother’s mouth and realizes that Dean is smiling in his sleep. Reassured that his brother’s dreams are safe again, Sam relaxes as well. He’s going to have to wake Dean up in a little while anyway, but the rapidity with which his brother succumbed to sleep tells him that Dean needs all the rest he can get. Sam can’t imagine how his brother’s sleep has been these last six months: patchy and restless at best, probably. All that he really wants to do right now is lie here with his brother in his arms and memorize this moment. He isn’t being morbid, although he’s aware that there’s no guarantee they’ll both be alive tomorrow. It’s just that, even if everything goes perfectly tonight, he knows he won’t be able to have this for a long time—years, maybe. Dean’s too damaged, and Sam wants too much: can’t trust himself to curl this close to his brother when they aren’t in a life and death situation without having a reaction that will break Dean further. He can’t just stare at Dean all night, though, no matter how much he wants to. He needs to find out how close Gordon and the others are: needs to give himself enough time to go over the plan with his brother. Sam eyes his jacket and wishes that he’d thought to put it a little closer. He doesn’t want to have to use his powers any more than is absolutely necessary. For a few moments, he hesitates, but in the end he isn’t willing to try gently disentangling himself from his brother in order to retrieve the comm. Not because he’s afraid of waking Dean, but because he isn’t ready to let go just yet. Floating the jacket closer only takes a few seconds of effort, and Sam easily shuts down on the power before any dark impulses can flood him. Digging into his jacket pocket awkwardly with one hand, he pulls out both the earpiece and the microphone. There’s a tiny power button on the earpiece that Sam has to use his nail to press, and an even smaller one on the microphone, but he manages both. Grimacing at the feel, he works the earpiece into his ear and then pushes down on the microphone’s transmit button. “Status report,” he whispers. “Hey, Sam,” Ash says. “Welcome to the party.” “Ash,” Sam greets in turn. “Is Gordon there?” He’s answered a moment later when Gordon’s voice comes back with, “We’re about four miles out. Should be in position in about thirty five minutes.” Which means that Sam should really be waking Dean up now if they’re going to be ready in time. He brushes his knuckles against his brother’s cheek and then asks, “Anyone know where Bela is?” “She radioed in a few hours ago to give us the go-ahead and we haven’t heard from her since,” Gordon answers. “She told us she was going to keep Camargo busy until we got there,” a new voice supplies. Reagan, maybe. Or Creedy. Neither man spoke enough at their planning sessions for Sam to readily recognize his voice. “She’s probably with him.” Sam was hoping for more than a ‘probably’, but he’ll take what he can get. “Okay. Let me know when you’re in position.” Gordon doesn’t respond, but Reagan/Creedy says, “Will do,” in a tone that’s a little too cheerful for a man who’s about to die. Sam waits for the guilt to come, but he has Dean in his arms, and in a few hours they’re both going to be driving away from here, and he can’t quite work up the proper remorse. Leaving the earpiece in his ear, he slips the microphone back into his jacket pocket. He’ll fasten it in place on the collar of his shirt once he’s dressed, but until then he doesn’t want to lose the tack-sized transmitter. Then he gives his shoulder a little roll, nudging Dean. “Dean? Time to wake up.” “Mmph,” Dean mumbles. The hand on Sam’s hip slips over to the small of Sam’s back and tugs him closer for a second before relaxing. “Dean, man,” Sam tries again. “Five more minutes,” Dean slurs, nuzzling deeper into the crook of Sam’s neck. Sam runs his hand through his brother’s hair and the noise Dean makes is languidly content. Now he feels guilty. God, Sam would like nothing more than to let Dean stay like this a little longer, still mostly asleep and aware only that he’s with Sam, and that he feels safe and warm. But if they don’t get going soon, neither of them will ever be able to have this again. “Dean,” Sam says for a third time, more sharply. Dean sucks in a harsh breath and jerks his head back. He blinks sleep-blurred eyes at Sam, frowning. “Sammy? What’re you doing in my bed?” Sam just waits silently for his brother to reorient himself. Sees Dean figure out that they’re on the floor, his confusion, the dawning understanding and swiftly mounting horror. And then Dean’s face just ... shuts down. “Oh. Right.” He pulls away from Sam, crawling clumsily to his feet and then shaking his arm out with a curse. Sam props himself up on his elbow and asks, “You feel better?” “No,” Dean snaps. “Freaking arm fell asleep.” He sounds angry, but Sam knows that he’s just annoyed with himself for letting his guard down. Maybe a little annoyed with Sam for seeing him so defenseless and open in that moment between sleep and waking. Sam gives Dean a few minutes to pull himself together, deliberately turning his back on his brother. He takes his time putting his shirt back on, and then bends to fish the microphone out of his jacket pocket. He leaves the jacket itself on the floor. Like the Protean charms, he won’t be needing it again. When he turns around, Dean is padding noiselessly back into the room while he does up the last few buttons on his own shirt. He gives Sam a broad grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “So, Hilts. What’s the plan?”

The Arena is actually miles outside of Las Vegas, nestled in the foothills of the mountains. There are no high walls around the perimeter, no electrified fences, but they’re hardly necessary with sheer rock face at the building's rear and a seemingly endless stretch of desert in the remaining three directions. It would take someone hours to walk out of here on foot—no running in the desert sun—and surely by then they’d be tracked and cornered. A car would help them make a fast getaway, but there’s only one road and Sam thinks that, in the end, it would be safest to fly. He pulls at the collar of his tux and wonders if Bela has a helicopter pilot on call. Bela lays a hand on his forearm. The bruises on her wrist are only partially concealed by the clunky monstrosity of a bracelet she’s wearing. “Remember, tonight is just reconnaissance,” she reminds him as the limousine inches closer to the front door, fourth in a line of luxury vehicles now. “I remember,” Sam says shortly. He drops his hand and stares out the window at their destination. From the outside, the Arena looks like nothing more than a fancy estate, built in a sprawling ranch style with three or four horses milling around in an enclosure to one side. Appearances can be deceiving, though, and Sam knows for certain that there’s more to this place than he can see because the cars ahead of them keep disappearing into a garage that looks barely big enough to hold two cars at the same time. The building isn’t flush with the mountain, so he can only figure that the real garage is underground. There’s probably a car lift inside that small building, specifically installed to lower the guests’ vehicles one by one into something more closely resembling a parking garage. Looking at the house, Sam guesses that the actual fighting ring is probably subterranean as well. All the better to hide it if anyone official gets curious and comes out here for a peek. “You’re going to see some things you aren’t going to like,” Bela warns. Sam snorts and doesn’t reply. “You need to keep your temper. You aren’t going to do Dean any good if you get us both shot.” “I’ll be fine,” Sam says without looking at her. It’s a lie: he has no idea what he’s going to do when he finally sees Dean after all this time, but he’s pretty sure it won’t be very rational. He just has to hope that he’ll be able to cover any mistakes he makes. Their limousine pulls up in front of the main doors and a man in a smart black uniform opens Sam’s door for him. Sam unfolds himself from the car and then extends a hand in for Bela. He doesn’t doubt he’ll see more upsetting things inside, but this right here is going to be the most disgusting part of the night hands down: playing Bela’s escort. Pretending that he actually likes her. Bela takes his hand and lets him help her out, offering a gracious smile to the uniformed man still holding the door open. “Bela Talbot and guest,” she says, and the man nods. “Right this way, madam.” Sam does his best to project bored, rich asshole as he escorts Bela up the short row of steps and in through the front door. There aren’t any suspicious looks—nothing but a fawning servility that’s going to get on his nerves fast—so he figures he’s doing a good job. Long years of practice with his father and Dean allow him to hold that mask while scanning his surroundings for the information they’re going to need. So far, he’s only seen the foyer and he isn’t feeling very optimistic. There’s something that’s either a metal detector or an x-ray machine imbedded in the front doorframe. It’s concealed enough by the wood-colored paint not to be readily noticeable, but Sam is looking and he catches the tiny glint of the red operating light. Bela’s insistence that neither of them come armed suddenly makes more sense. There are three cameras that Sam can see, which means that there are probably at least two more than he can’t. They’re all aimed at different areas of the foyer, transmitting images of Vincent’s milling guests back to some distant central brain. Most worrying, though, is the fact that while some of the men in the black uniforms don’t seem to be any more than hired help, there’s a significant peppering who hold themselves in a way that reminds Sam of his father, and Dean, and all of the other career hunters he’d ever met. Men who know how to handle themselves. Who know how to spot a potential problem and take it out. Sam can’t tell for sure if they’re armed or not, but men like that usually are. He’s so busy noticing the pertinent details that the opulence of his surroundings goes pretty much unnoticed. He moves forward with Bela on his arm and the faint impression of gleaming wood and golden fixtures; of dark paneled walls and luxuriant potted plants and imposing statues and paintings hung in ornate, hand-carved wooden frames. The other guests are greeting each other in shiny, fake voices—kiss on the cheek, hand brushing lightly on an arm. There’s the scent of expensive perfume in the air and the sparkle of light on jeweled necks. Bela guides him through it all, taking him unerringly to an unassuming section of wall where a dark-haired, broad-shouldered man stands at attention. His nose is bent in the middle, an obvious sign of having been broken and badly set, and from the bruising around his flat, grey eyes, it’s a recent injury. Did Dean do that? Sam wonders as they draw up in front of the man. There’s no reason even to suspect it, but somehow Sam is certain he’s looking at his brother’s handiwork. “Bela,” the man says. “Didn’t expect to see you for another month.” His eyes slip to Sam and narrow a little. “Who’s the muscle?” The question wipes away the flash of Bela-flavored suspicion that the man's first words aroused. Sam hasn’t considered the fact that the professional men in Vincent’s employ would recognize him as easily as he does them. He tenses, worried that he’s blown their cover before they’ve had a chance to get anywhere, and Bela tightens her hold on his forearm. “I’m here as a spectator tonight, Hank,” she says easily. “And this is Simon. I know he looks fierce, but he’s perfectly harmless.” She beams up at him. “I found him in Rome, of all places.” “He don’t look Italian,” Hank observes sourly. “I’m not,” Sam answers. “I was doing a semester abroad with Harvard.” Rolling his eyes over toward Bela, he asks with an annoyed sneer, “Is the help supposed to be talking to us this way?” Hank bristles as Bela laughs. “Sorry about Simon, Hank: he’s a little temperamental.” Turning her attention up to Sam, she explains, “Hank isn’t help, darling: he’s a business associate.” “What kind of business?” Sam asks. It’s only half in character. Now that he’s over his scare, his thoughts are returning to Hank’s greeting, and he wants to know what Bela was supposed to be doing here next month. “None of yours,” Bela answers before Hank can say anything, and then gives him a kiss on the cheek. Sam supposes it’s supposed to mollify him, and he can’t really see any way that a spoiled rich kid would care one way or another, so he shrugs. “Sorry,” he offers to Hank. Hank eyes the width of Sam’s shoulders, the bulk underneath his tuxedo, the competent way he’s holding himself, and looks unconvinced. “You don’t look like some college boy,” he notes. Sam’s mouth tilts up into a wry smile that’s unfaked because the truth of the matter is, he was a college boy. Maybe not right now, maybe not ever again, but he was. He sat in Stanford’s dining hall and brushed elbows with boys who lived the life that he pretends to tonight. One boy in particular he thinks of now: Alan Cross of Cross Athletics, the third largest athletic supplier in the country, and Sam’s partner in his Chemistry lab sophomore year. Alan, who was even bigger than Sam and into ultimate fighting. He didn’t look like a college boy either. “Just because I have a brain doesn’t mean I don’t know how to take care of myself,” Sam says. He heard the same line coming from Alan’s mouth more times than he can count. Then, because the words sounded a little more threatening than he meant them to, he adds, “I box. Varsity.” Like a flipped switch, the caution in Hank’s eyes shifts to scorn. “Varsity, huh?” he laughs. “You wanna go a few rounds, Harvard?” “Play nice, boys,” Bela says, stepping between them. She has one hand on Sam’s chest, like that’s going to stop him from wiping the floor with this asshole if he wants to. Sam blinks as the force of his hate penetrates. There’s no reason those few words should have gotten to him like that: no reason for the open scorn to have ignited his rage. But he’s spoiling for a fight: has been since he got into the car tonight. These fuckers have Dean, they’ve been forcing him to fight, to kill. Sam wants to light the house on fire and leave the bastards inside to burn. He wants to reach out and take the gun he can see outlined underneath Hank’s jacket and unload the entire clip into his smug, hateful face. For a moment, the rage spins out of control inside of him, and then he goes blackly, icily cold. Because he’s getting Dean back, and he isn’t going to let his own, weak emotions get in the way of that. “Sorry, Bela,” he says. Then, flicking his eyes back to Hank, he offers, “Some other time.” There’s no reason for ‘Simon’ to be polite to the man, after all. Besides, it’s nothing but the truth. He and Dean aren’t leaving here without taking these bastards apart. You hurt him, Sam thinks, eyes dipping to Hank’s healing nose. There’s a vague sensation of something in his head turning over and the room … Bela … Sam himself … disappear. Hank is still there, but it’s a different place (when) and he’s standing over Sam’s brother. Dean is chained, kneeling on the floor of a cramped room with his neck and hands and feet locked into position, and Hank is kicking him. Heavy, solid kicks to Dean’s ribs that drive the breath from Dean’s mouth, that push anything sane or rational from his eyes and send him snarling up from the floor, chains ripping free from the wall and floor where they were moored. Dean still doesn’t have full use of his arms and legs all the same, not enough range of motion when his wrists and ankles are chained together, but he manages to slam his forehead into the bridge of Hank’s noise. There’s a brittle cracking sound and then the hallway—the now—floods back in. Whatever happened—vision, daydream, who the fuck knows—it doesn’t seem to have taken any time because no one is staring at Sam like he has two heads. Hank is still wearing that superior little grin as he nods and says, “Sure,” and for a moment Sam thinks he won’t be able to hold himself back, he’s going to launch himself on this son of a bitch and it’ll all be over. But then the man turns around, offering Sam his back, and the rage subsides. Hank slides open a small panel in the wall and Sam catches a glimpse of the keypad inside before the man’s shoulders block his view. There are five high-pitched beeps—a code—and then a larger portion of the wall slides back to reveal the interior of an elevator, golden sides polished and gleaming. “Enjoy the show,” Hank says, and tips Sam a grin as Bela pulls him into the elevator. “I’m sure it’ll be more entertaining than anything you’ve seen at Harvard.” “You’d be surprised what I’ve seen,” Sam says, and then the door slides shut. Bela is on him immediately, pushing him up against the wall and biting at his jaw. Stunned, Sam just stands there and lets her maul him for a few seconds. He’s on the verge of shoving her away when he realizes that there’s the red light of a camera watching them and then Bela starts hissing at him under her breath. “What the fuck was that?” she demands, licking at his throat. “You’re supposed to be part of the clientele, Sam, not some common street ruffian.” Sam grips her arms and ducks his head down to nuzzle at her neck beneath the curtain of her hair. It makes him sick to have his mouth this close to her skin, but he shoves the nausea away to answer, “He was being an asshole. I channeled my inner Vanderbilt. Deal with it.” “Fine,” Bela snaps back, giving him a vicious bite to his ear. “But you have to control your temper from now on, or you’re going to blow our cover and then Dean will spend the rest of his natural life—which I can assure you will be very, very long—as Vincent’s prize pet.” She turns her head, catching his lips in a bruising, angry kiss, and then steps back as the doors ding open. Sam follows her out into a narrow hallway with his lips sore and his ear stinging where she bit him. He can taste her in his mouth, the waxy taint of her lipstick, and has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from spitting in disgust. When this is all over, he’s going to take a long, scalding shower and then curl up with Dean. And Dean can just suck it up and let Sam hold him for a few days because he fucking deserves it after what his brother has put him through. Then Sam steps out into the Arena proper and all he can think is that, whatever he was expecting, it isn’t this. At first glance, the Arena looks like some strange mating of opera house and oversized hamster ball. Then he realizes that, while the opera comparison isn’t that far off—the raised structure he’s standing on resembles nothing more than the balcony section, complete with rows of cushioned, red velvet seats—the hamster ball part is all wrong. Because while the structure rising up into the center of the seats is rounded, it’s made of metal mesh, not plastic. And as Sam moves further into the room, he can see the white mat of the floor, almost twenty feet below and completely enclosed by the cage. He presses past Bela, moving right up to the edge of the balcony, and leans over. There are no seats below: only darkness and open space surrounding the lit circle of the cage. He thinks he can see the smear of bloodstains on the mat. Some of that blood is his brother’s. Someone touches his arm. Bela at his shoulder like the proverbial devil. “Sam,” she starts. “I’m fine,” he interrupts, voice harsh. And he is. He feels colder—harder—than he has in months. Dean is here somewhere, Dean is close enough that Sam’s skin is prickling with the awareness of his brother’s presence, and if it is the last thing he does, Sam is going to pull him out of here and then burn the place to the ground. Salt the fucking ashes. “Bela!” a voice calls from behind them. Schooling his face, Sam glances over his shoulder to find a short, bearded man in a bright blue suit making his way toward them down one of the isles. There are already a few people here, sitting in their seats and sipping glasses of champagne, and more coming in through the front entrance, and this guy is nodding and waving cheerfully at all of them. He doesn’t stop on his path over, though, coming to a stop just out of reach. “I was surprised to get your message,” he says. His eyes are the color of newly minted dollar bills, and he flicks them over Sam in an assessing manner. “There wasn’t a problem with the payment, was there?” “No,” Bela assures him. “Everything’s fine. My new friend Simon has an interest in the sport, though, and naturally I thought of you.” The man looks at Sam again, and this time his smile is a little warmer. “So, you’re Bela’s latest catch, eh?” he says, taking a step nearer and holding out his hand. “Vincent Camargo.” Sam’s vision fogs over with red. He sees himself as if from a distance reach out and take the man’s hand. Shake it twice and then release. “Simon Carver,” Sam says, and thinks, I’m going to kill you. He forces himself to smile, bottling all of the rage into compact, burning determination. “Nice set up you’ve got here. I’d love to get a closer look, if that’s allowed.” Vincent laughs. “For a friend of Bela’s, I’m sure we can arrange a tour.” He rubs his hands together briskly and then says, “Well! You’ll be wanting your usual seat, yes?” “Of course,” Bela agrees, and they follow Vincent around to a private box. “We’ve got something special tonight,” Vincent announces as they sit down. “You’ll have to tell me what you think after.” “Actually, I was hoping to arrange a private audience tonight—for Simon. I realize that you’re probably booked well in advance, but we’re only in town for a few days and I promised him a treat.” Vincent’s mouth twitches. “And here I always thought you were the jealous type,” he says, whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean. Then his eyes catch on something over their heads and Sam can feel his attention shift. “I’ll see what I can work out,” he promises, already striding away to speak with a tall, graying man who can’t seem to stop playing with his moustache. “Thank God it worked,” Bela murmurs. “I thought for sure he’d recognize you: Protean charms aren’t terribly powerful, but I didn’t want to risk bringing anything stronger past Vincent’s wards.” Sam stares at her blankly and she brushes the set of cuff links she gave him before they left the Bellagio. Or maybe she’s just indicating the tiny, clear stones the cuff links are set with. “Protean charms,” she tells him. “They subtly alter the way that the wearer is perceived. It isn’t much, but it should be enough that no one will recognize you.” Of course. Sam doesn’t know why it didn’t occur to him before, but Vincent would surely know what Dean’s brother looked like. He considers being angry with himself for being too worked up over Dean to consider that—he could have blown their cover, could have screwed everything up—but anger isn’t going to solve anything. Besides, this is the end game, here on the other side of months alone and aching, and there’s no room inside of Sam for anything but the steel of determination. He turns over the conversation with Vincent in his mind, looking for anything useful. He doesn’t know how Bela thought she could lie to him without him finding out eventually: everyone here obviously recognizes her, and she had to know that he’d notice that when she was lying about knowing what was happening to Dean. Which means that she really was just doing it for her own amusement—for the sake of enjoying his reaction when he found out. Twisted bitch. Reaching over to her seat, Sam takes her hand like the besotted boy he’s pretending to be and then grips as hard as he can. Bela lets out a little gasp but doesn’t show any other sign that anything’s wrong. Smiling, Sam leans over and whispers, “Usual seat?” “Breaking my hand isn’t going to get you answers, but it will make it more difficult to get Dean out,” Bela says. “I’m not breaking anything,” Sam answers. “It hurts like hell, but you’ll still be able to move all your fingers. Now, you’re going to clear things up for me, and I don’t want to hear any more of your lies.” “I didn’t lie to you, Sam.” Bela says tightly. “Vincent moves the Arena around every few months. Makes it more difficult to trace. Last month he was in Morocco. Two months before that, it was London. I had no way of knowing which location he was using now.” “But you’ve been to one of his Arenas before,” Sam presses. “You went to see Dean.” Bela gives him an unreadable look. “Your brother is a fascinating man.” Sam opens his mouth to ask about the payment business, and whatever she’s supposed to be doing here in a month, and then the lights are lowering. Bela uses his momentary distraction to snatch her hand away, leaving him gripping air. An excited murmur starts up around the balcony, filling the darkness. From below, there’s the grinding noise of a machine working—of metal sliding against metal—and it can’t be anything but the door to the cage opening. A moment of near-silence, interrupted only by the shuffling noises that fill any theater after lights down, follows and then the door clangs as it’s closed again. A spotlight flashes on abruptly, illuminating the cage. There are three men on the center of the mat, none of them Dean. Only two of them look like fighters: clad in bright, lycra shorts and carrying short lengths of chain. The third man is wearing a suit and holding a microphone in one hand. Sam tunes out the booming introduction in favor of pursuing his line of questioning. “What’s going on, Bela? Payment for what? What’s happening next month?” “You don’t think that Dean’s the only thing I’ve procured for Vincent, do you?” Bela responds. Now that he isn’t hurting her, her voice is light again: carefree mask back in place. “I’m on a monthly retainer. Whatever supplies he needs that can’t be obtained through normal channels, I acquire for him. It’s a very simple business arrangement.” “And you helping me get Dean back, that’s not going to screw this up for you?” Bela gives him a patient look. “There are more things to life than money, Sam.” Yeah, Sam knows that. He just doesn’t think Bela does. But then a loud buzzer sounds and Sam’s attention is drawn down to the fight that’s beginning below them. It isn’t pretty: two men whipping chains at each other is never going to be pretty. There’s something even uglier about this, though: something about the entire thing that turns Sam’s stomach. The bellowed pain, the blood that flows out to dampen the mat, the anticipatory mutters of the audience. It feels dirty, and demeaning, and wrong. Sam has always tried to believe the best of people, but sitting here in the dark he can’t quite remember why that is. When the fight is finally over, one of the men is down and cradling his right leg, which looks broken in two places. After a few moments when the victor whirls his chain through the air, four lights—a red and green shine that reminds Sam of Christmas—gleam out from the railing in front of Sam. He glances over at Bela and without looking at him she says, “Red for death. Green for life.” Sam immediately reaches out and presses both of the green buttons. Bela’s mouth twitches. “What’s wrong? Don’t trust me, Sam?” That goes without saying, so he doesn’t respond. A moment later, the white light illuminating the arena floods green. Sam blinks, surprised, as the winner snaps his chain one final time before bowing to an appreciative round of applause. It’s the decorous restraint of the clapping more than the loser’s reprieve that startles him. Such a normal, civilized sound. Like these people weren’t just howling for blood like a raving mob. Two men in black run out onto the mat and half-drag, half-carry the loser out of the cage. There’s a pause to mop up one or two slick spills of blood, and then the announcer comes back out, followed by two new fighters. There aren’t any weapons involved this time, but it isn’t any cleaner with just their fists. There aren’t any rules here, just winning. As one of the fighters grabs his opponent's balls and squeezes, Sam averts his eyes and asks, “How many fights are there?” “Three, normally,” Bela answers. “Two to work the audience up and then the main event.” Dean, Sam thinks, glancing back at a particularly excited roar from the crowd. One of the fighters—the one who just had his balls crushed—has the other man’s head by the hair and is smashing his face into the side of the cage. There’s only so much of that kind of thing anyone can take, and when the fighter finally drops his opponent, the man crumples to the mat in a dazed heap. Once again, four lights gleam in the darkness and after a few moments there’s another wash of green over the cage. Although he’s relieved to see the color, Sam can’t shake the feeling that the men and women around him are saving their hunger. Saving it for Dean. Vincent strolls out onto the mat as his men do a quick wipe-down around him, one of the black-clad men helping the dazed fighter out. There’s no microphone in his hand, but there must be one clipped to the lapel of his suit because when he speaks, his voice booms out through the darkness. “Esteemed guests,” he greets. “Ladies … gentlemen …” His eyes lift up to the place where Sam and Bela sit and he inclines his head in a short nod. “ … colleagues …” Turning in a slow circle, he continues, “Welcome. Welcome to the Arena. You all know that I’m not much for showmanship—” He pauses while the room fills with polite laughter and then, grinning, continues, “—so I’ll get straight to the blood.” Through the open door in the cage, three men tumble into the arena in an impressive display of acrobatics. They’re barefoot and bare-chested, wearing bright, loose-fitting pants and back scabbards. They’re alike enough in body and face that Sam suspects they’re related—cousins if not brothers—and the easiest way for him to tell them apart is by the color of their pants—yellow on the first, red on the second, and blue on the third. They take up positions in a triangle around Vincent, drawing swords—katanas—from their sheathes with easy familiarity. “Let me introduce the Flying Dragons,” Vincent says, and swords twirl and gleam in the light. “They have studied their craft from boyhood, savants of sword and acrobatics, and today they are the highest paid assassins in the eastern hemisphere. They have heard of our marvel, and wish to test their blades against the power of night.” He gestures to the cage door with a flourish and on his signal two men enter. They’re each carrying a lead of shining silver, trailing back from their hands to … Dean. His head is lowered, but his shoulders are held at a tense, defiant angle. He’s wearing the same loose, flowing pants as the Dragons and nothing else. The black fabric is startling against his pale skin, making him almost seem to shine in comparison. His hair is longer than Sam remembers it ever being: not down to his neck, not long enough to get into his eyes, but shaggy. Wolfish. He moves with a sharpness that Sam doesn’t remember, flinching edgily at the roar of approval from the crowd above, and he’s unmindful of the chains fettering his wrists. Of the collar banding his neck. He isn’t wearing the amulet. Sam’s chest clenches and he grabs at the arms of the chair in a reflexive attempt to keep himself from falling as the world drops out from under him. Months of searching and he hasn’t once let himself think about the amulet: about what it would mean to Dean if his abductors took it away from him. There’s a cold, calculating part of him that expected this, but it’s drowned out momentarily by the remnants of the boy he once was: the boy who ran to his big brother when he tripped on the sidewalk and scraped his knees. The boy who believed that Dean would always be there for him, larger than life and brighter than the sun. As the handlers lead Dean to Vincent’s side and unchain him, Sam wonders whether there’s anything left of his brother to save. “He comes to us from the farthest reaches of time and myth,” Vincent recites. “The soul and ferocity of a wolf chained to the body of a man. The Fenrir.” Dean’s head comes up with a jerk to scan the balcony. The audience has to have seen this before—most of them, anyway—but there’s a collective gasp at the movement, and Sam can hear his own harsh exhalation among them. Dean’s eyes—those beautiful, blazing eyes that Sam can’t quite picture in his memory anymore—aren’t green but amber. They flash in the lights: inhuman. Dean’s face looks leaner than Sam remembers, and his expression is intent. Hungry. His muscles bunch and he rolls his shoulders, restless, only to quiet at a touch from Vincent’s hand. Vincent slides his hand up from Dean’s shoulder to the back of his head, pressing, and Dean sinks obediently to his knees. He leans forward on his hands, bowing his head and baring his neck to the room. There’s something inked between his shoulder blades in shocking, dark lines, and Sam shivers uncontrollably as he stares at it. The tattoo has been done in a tribal style, all lines and jagged edges, but the wolf at the center is clear enough. Toothed, ebony threads surround the wolf in a cage of thorned vines, and Sam thinks there might be runes interwoven with the rest of the design. The whole thing reeks of ritual. “I have caged his power with my mark, and he is mine to command,” Vincent boasts. He’s crouched beside Dean, his hand stroking over Dean’s head like he’s nothing more than a prized hunting dog. “I give him to your wishes on this night. I dedicate him to the lords of war.” Taking his hand off of Dean, he stands again and pulls something out of his pocket. When he raises his hand to dangle the object high over his head, Sam squints and realizes that it’s a pair of black goggles. “Tonight,” Vincent announces, moving to stand behind Dean. “The Fenrir fights blind.” Sam is half out of his seat before Bela can pull him back down, but his shout of denial is drowned out by the crowd’s approving roar. “You do this now and he’s stuck here,” she hisses, nails digging into his arm. Sam knows she’s right, and the thought of Dean living out the rest of his life like this is enough to cut through the surge of hateful rage choking out his reason. Jerking his arm from Bela’s grip, he leans forward against the railing and looks back down into the cage in time to see Vincent exiting. As the door swings shut, Sam reminds himself that Dean is too valuable for Vincent to kill, no matter how overwhelming the odds look right now. Dean is wearing the goggles, those gold eyes hooded, and he’s on his feet again, still in a way that only wild animals can manage. His head is cocked to one side, and Sam can practically feel his brother listening: all of his attention focused on the one useful sense left to him. Trying to mark out his opponents, surrounding him in a deadly triangle with their katanas raised. There’s no buzzer to signal the beginning of the fight, only the sound of the door clanging shut and the sudden rush of the Dragons toward Dean. Dean ducks Red’s swipe and catches Blue’s wrist with his right hand. Yellow swings his blade on a slanting arc and catches Dean across the chest in a shallow cut that draws a thin line of beading blood. Dean’s lips draw back in a silent snarl and he steps back, out of the path of Yellow’s second swing, and as he moves he twists Blue’s wrist. The man makes a hurt cry and drops the sword. Dean whirls, rolling to one side as Red takes a swing at his head and shoving Blue into the path of the blade. The katana bites deeply into the side of the man’s neck and there’s a brilliant spray of red. Sam can tell from the force of the blood that the wound is fatal, but Dean’s hands fasten on the man’s head anyway, twisting it sharply to one side. The sound of breaking bone is lost amid the crowd’s hungry roar, and Yellow uses the cover of the noise to open Dean’s side. Dean’s unbelievably fast, pulling away at the first sting in his flesh, but the damage is already done and he’s dripping a steady stream of red down onto the mat. Sam wants to scream at the crowd to shut up already, but there’s no need. After a moment, they realize that the sound of their enjoyment is hampering the show and they restrain themselves to a low, excited murmur. Dean uses the near-silence to put some distance between himself and the two remaining Dragons, sprinting away from the center of the mat and putting his back against the wall of the cage. With one hand pressed against his side, he turns his head from side to side blindly, tracking the faint sounds of movement as the Dragons edge after him. They’re more cautious this time, taking care to move silently and staying out of reach. They pepper him with thin cuts he can’t avoid, one of them feinting in and sending Dean dodging into the other’s sword. It isn’t long before they’ve forced Dean away from the safety of the wall. Sam tenses as he realizes that they’re herding Dean toward the body. Dean’s hearing in uncanny, but even he can’t hear the dead, and in a few moments he’s going to trip over the body and Red and Yellow are going to cut him wide open. Sam’s about to yell a warning and fuck his cover when Dean turns sharply, ducking underneath a vicious swipe of Yellow’s blade, and jumps clean over the body. He lands in a low crouch on the other side and twists his head back to listen for pursuit. For a few moments, Sam stares with his mouth hanging open. The audience has forgotten itself and broken out into thunderous applause again, but this time Dean is ready for it and he keeps well away from the pursuing Dragons despite the roar of sound. Sam watches his brother keep well out of range and wonders for the first time if this is faked. There’s no way that Dean could have known that body was there: no way he could be keeping away from his opponents now. Not unless he can actually see through those goggles. Then Dean tilts his head up in eerie mimicry of a motion Sam has seen from Bobby’s dogs hundreds of times. Holy hell, he’s tracking them by scent. Dean smelled the body—the blood—and moved to avoid it. The same way he’s moving to avoid the remaining two Dragons now. That’s why he’s staying so far away from them: his sense of smell isn’t good enough to know where the katanas are—for that he needs to be able to hear. It isn’t possible, what Dean’s doing. Not for anything human, anyway. Sam has never seen his brother like this, not even in those dark days after their father’s death, but he remembers talking with John while Dean was asleep in the bed behind them. Manning, Colorado, that was, and John’s eyes kept sliding over to Dean, wistful and longing for the very thing Dean was desperate not to give in to. John told him then, everything that Dean hadn’t. Told him about the night in the woods with the goblins, and how goddamned perfect Dean had been: like a force of nature, a whirl of muscle and blade that the goblins hadn’t been able to touch, hadn’t been able to flee from. Told Sam how strong Dean would be if he accepted the gift he’d been offered instead of fighting it tooth and nail. Sam listened because he was hungry for knowledge: wanted to know everything he could about those years apart, the ones Dean refused to talk about. He listened and then he said, coldly, ‘Nothing’s worth losing your humanity. Nothing.’ But watching Dean now he can understand how John might have fooled himself into believing that this was worth it. There’s something about the sheer impossibility of the way that Dean moves that draws him in. Something free and unfettered in the feral gleam of his teeth. It makes the metal band circling Dean’s neck that much more horrible to look at. Sam’s suddenly overcome with the need to see his brother like this under the open sky, golden eyes glinting and muscles awash with silver moonlight. He’s blindsided by an image of Dean sprinting through the woods, bare chest dappled by the interwoven branches of the trees above: Dean moving like a whirlwind after anything foolish enough to threaten his territory. As beautiful and untouchable as the moon. Then he thinks of Dean blowing bubbles in his Coke with a wicked gleam in his eyes because he knows it annoys the hell out of Sam, of Dean flicking cold French fries at him across the table, or unscrewing the top of the salt shaker a little before handing it over, and the wave of loss that washes over him is so strong that he can’t help from making a little, hurt noise that is lost amid the last, lowering remnants of the crowd’s roar. Sam is still struggling to shove that pain aside when Red gets impatient and rushes his brother. The crowd has all but silenced itself by now, and Yellow yells a rebuke but it’s too late. There are well over a dozen small gashes on Dean’s torso, and the wound in his side is still bleeding sluggishly, but he moves like he hasn’t been touched, stepping to one side and grabbing the man as he goes past. Dean’s hands slide down Red’s forearm, where he caught him, and find his wrist. He grips the pressure points Dad taught them would release all the muscles in a man’s hand and Red’s hand jerks open. This time, Dean darts forward and catches the falling blade in an unbelievable movement that has the audience on their feet and cheering again. Keeping one hand on Red’s wrist to mark the man’s location, Dean adjusts his grip on the blade and then swings it in a short arc. The man’s stomach opens, spilling out his insides onto the mat. He’s screaming shrilly, audible even over the crowd, and Dean lifts his hand from the man’s wrist to feel blindly for his face. He pats his cheek twice in a hesitant, almost innocent gesture, and then swings the blade again. This time the katana opens the man’s throat, cutting deep enough that his head falls back and his spine stares up at the ceiling. His screams cut off immediately and his body falls to the mat, nothing more than a sac of meat. Dean’s away from him just in time to avoid having his back split open by Yellow’s sword. As it is, he has another deep gash running through his right shoulder, and he has to switch his grip on the katana to his left hand before he drops the blade. Sam expects the fight to be over quickly now that Dean only has one opponent to deal with, but half an hour later they’re still circling each other. Dean’s chest is covered with a slick sheen of sweat and blood, and his right pant leg is soaked from a lucky gash across his thigh that has him moving with a limping, rolling gait. Yellow hasn’t gone unmarked himself, of course: his left arm is all but useless at his side, and there’s a deep wound in his chest that caught him right across the collarbone and nearly missed opening his throat as well. The problem is that the crowd seems content to scream itself hoarse now, and damn Dean’s ability to hear Yellow coming for him. Sam can tell that Dean is having difficulty tracking the man by scent as well: all of the blood that’s been spilled must be soaked over everything else in a blurring wash of iron. To make matters worse, Dean has lost too much blood to keep this up much longer, even with the wolf’s endurance, and Yellow seems to know it: is content to keep his distance and wait. When Dean’s injured leg finally buckles and drops him to the floor, Sam can’t stop himself from shouting his brother’s name. The word is lost amidst the swell of the audience’s cry as Yellow darts forward, blade lifted for the kill. His sword is angled straight for Dean’s jugular, is going to rip open the vulnerable skin there and splash his life onto the mat. Sam knows with a nauseating certainty that he’s come all this way just to watch his brother die. Then Dean moves with a speed that makes everything else he’s done tonight seem slow by comparison, launching himself to his feet and swinging his sword in a wide, blind circle. His sword connects with Yellow’s, knocking it aside, and he adjusts immediately, twisting and shoving his blade forward. Katanas are meant to be slashing weapons, edged on one side and blunt on the tip. It doesn’t matter. The combination of Yellow’s forward momentum and Dean’s strength drives the blade into the man’s stomach, impaling him all the way up to the hilt. Their bodies collide and Dean is driven back a few paces by the impact. They stand there in the utter, stunned silence of the crowd, close enough that they’re breathing each other’s air, and then Dean shrugs Yellow off of his blade. As the man collapses back onto the mat, Dean pulls his goggles off with his free hand and squints into the light. His face is expressionless as he steps forward and, putting his weight firmly on his injured leg, rests his other foot on his final opponent’s throat. There’s no sign of the growing weakness his posture signaled a moment ago, and Sam realizes with a relief so strong it’s dizzying that Dean was shamming. In the dark line of the railing, the red and green lights come on for the third and final time. Although Sam presses the green buttons again, he isn’t surprised by the sickly crimson light that floods the arena. The color makes all the blood look black, Dean’s body slick with oil. He doesn’t bother with the sword in his left hand: just transfers his weight from one leg to the other and crushes the man’s throat. No hesitation. No sign that he gives a fuck. It bothers Sam in a way that the other two deaths didn’t: that was self-defense, Dean fighting to stay alive. But the man lying dead beneath Dean’s foot wasn’t a threat to him anymore, too out of it to do more than hold his stomach and scream. He was killed because the rich, sick fucks in the audience wanted to see Dean murder someone. How many nights has his brother had to do this? How many people have died at Dean’s hands out in the arena? Maybe it’s a mercy that the wolf is in charge. The room is silent for a long moment, and then Dean drops the katana and walks deliberately toward the cage’s exit. Sam doesn’t know who starts it—a woman, he thinks—but suddenly the crowd is chanting, “Fenrir, Fenrir, FENRIR.” It’s deafening, and Sam thinks Dean’s shoulders hunch a little under the assault. Then the cage door slides open, and Dean darts through and is gone.

From the outside, and despite the general degeneracy of the neighborhood, the church is small and immaculate. In fact, ‘immaculate’ is its name: St. Mary of the Immaculate Heart. It’s only four blocks from the Moonlight Motel, so Sam has been passing it nearly every day, but up until now he’s only been paying it the most cursory of attention. He turned his back on God when He took Dean away the first time. He wouldn’t be standing out front staring at it now except that he can’t forget the feel of being buried in his brother and, when coupled with the driving need to find Dean already, the guilt is driving him insane. He needs some release—needs forgiveness—and if he can’t get that from Dean, then maybe this will be enough. Sam doesn’t think about his mother much, but she’s on his mind as he slinks inside the church. He has no idea what she was like—can only go by Dean’s stories and a ghost he saw for less than a minute—but he can almost feel her presence as he crosses the threshold. This is her place, after all: it bears her name and Sam has long since stopped believing in coincidences. He can’t tell if she hates him or not. She should, the way he’s fucked up with Dean—first Stanford, then Dad’s death and the argument that came after, and as if that weren’t enough, there’s still that sick desire he has to sink underneath his brother’s skin: to taste him. He’s the one who should have apologized to her. There are more signs of neglect inside the church than without, as though the priests have decided to put all of their money and effort into drawing people inside and don’t much care whether they get anything out of the Mass once they’re in the seats. There aren’t enough candles to fill the rusting sconces, and the floors are coated with a thick layer of grime. The pews are rickety: some of them bear crude carvings that the priests have only made a half-hearted attempt to scrub away: Lil G Wuz Here, Jesus Can Suck My Cock, Father Humphry Gave Me AIDS – Alter Boy. The people here have given up on God, or maybe He’s given up on them: either way it amounts to the same thing. The whole dismal, uncaring air makes Sam’s chest ache, but it feels right for his purpose. He would have been too ashamed to make this particular act of contrition in a clean place. Although it’s halfway through the posted time for confession, there’s no sign of anyone in the nave. The other churches Sam has been to have never had actual lines, of course—confession isn’t Pirates of the Caribbean—but there’s usually a good crowd of people in the pews, either waiting their turn or completing whatever penance they’ve been assigned. Here, Sam’s only company is a few pigeons roosting in the organ pipes. He heads over to the confessional, thankful that this church is old enough to be equipped with a box: this is going to be hard enough to confess without having to look the priest in the eye while he does it. Just outside the door, he hesitates, overcome with the certainty that the priests have given up on this ritual as thoroughly as the parishioners and there’s no one home. That means that Sam will have to hunt someone down, and he doesn’t think he’s quite dedicated enough to do that. His skin is already itching for him to get out of here. This is a dead place, and he doesn’t belong. Sam is about to turn tail and run when a warm voice from the priest’s side of the confessional calls, “I’m here, son. Come on in.” The cushion on the kneeler is little more than a layer of fabric, but Sam drops down on it anyway. Folding his hands on the narrow, dust-covered rail, he faces the slatted window and waits for the priest to intone the blessing. Once that bit of ritual is over with, he licks his lip and begins. He gets as far as “It’s been one year since my last confession” before he realizes that he doesn’t have anything to confess. Sure, there are things he could say—‘I’ve been having lustful thoughts about my brother,’ for starters—but for a confession to work you actually have to repent your sins. And Sam has just come to the startling realization that he doesn’t repent feeling this way about Dean. He can’t. It isn’t that he’s comfortable with the depth and direction of his feelings for his brother: he still feels wrong, and the guilt of thinking of Dean like that is bitter and thick on his tongue. But guilt doesn’t necessarily equal repentance. He would welcome another dream like last night’s, even though he knows that waking up to another cooling mess between his legs would sicken him. “My son?” the priest prods. Sam realizes that he has stopped talking. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting in the semi-gloom of the confessional, thinking about the fact that he’s mostly okay with wanting to fuck his brother. “Sorry, Father. I—this was a mistake.” He starts to rise only to be halted by the priest’s voice. “If you were Called here, then it isn’t a mistake. Surely something prompted you to come this morning.” Sam hesitates. The scent of whatever incense the priests use here is thick on the air. It smells as dismal as the rest of the church looks: pungent with a ruffling undercurrent—something uncomfortably reminiscent of sulfur. “If you just need someone to talk to, I’m a good listener,” the priest continues. “We don’t necessarily have to make this a full confession, although I certainly promise to abide by the rules of confidentiality.” Sam lets out a low, humorless laugh. “I wouldn’t know where to start.” “The beginning is generally regarded as a good place.” This time Sam’s laugh is louder and a little wild. He knows he sounds unhinged, but he can’t help himself. The beginning. Like he and Dean ever had a beginning. Sam can’t remember a time when Dean wasn’t swaggering through his life, leaving smudges on everything like a greedy, grubby-fingered child. “We’d be here all day,” he says. After floundering for a point he can reasonably begin from, he continues, “My Dad died last year, and my brother—Dean—he, uh, took it kind of hard.” “Dean’s older?” “Four years,” Sam agrees. “He practically raised me. Dad was—he wasn’t around a lot.” “I see,” the priest says, but he doesn’t. This frocked stranger can’t even begin to comprehend what it was like to grow up as a Winchester. Even when Sam was still being lied to, in those early years, he felt the strangeness of his own existence in a hundred shitty motel rooms. He felt it in the way that the people in his kindergarten class spoke words that he didn’t understand: ‘party’, ‘home’, ‘mom.’ In the way that Dad would come back bruised and bleeding more often than not until the smell of disinfectant and copper were more familiar than the movie-theater scent of stale, buttered popcorn or the odor of the pepperoni and pineapple pizzas Dean preferred whenever they were in funds. Sometimes he felt so far from the people around him that he thought he was living on the moon. Even Dad and Bobby were impossibly distant at times: foreboding, serious men who handled guns with the familiar ease Sam’s teacher at school wielded chalk. Dean was the only one who was always in reach: swiping candy bars from gas stations when no one was looking and stuffing them in Sam’s pocket on the way to the car; wrestling Sam into the shower and then chasing him as he sprinted, naked and soapy and laughing, through their rented apartment; shaking him awake from fevered nightmares and then holding him awkwardly in the dark until the shivers went away. And then later, after that wretched Christmas when Sam read Dad’s journal and uncovered the truth of his strange, drifting life … God, how could this priest have any idea what it was like waiting for his father and brother to come back from a hunt? Wondering where his brother would be bleeding from this time, or if Dean would even be alive. Once, when Sam was fourteen, Dad returned Dean pale, blood-soaked and unconscious, dumping him on Sam with a grunted, ‘don’t let him get up by himself’ before disappearing back out the door. As if running around was going to be a problem when Dean wouldn’t even open his eyes no matter how loud Sam yelled or how hard he shook him. As he sat by his brother’s bed waiting desperately to see if Dean was going to wake up at all, Sam knew for the first time that he couldn’t keep doing this. And when Dean finally stirred and the first words out of his mouth were, ‘Did we get it?’, he knew with a sinking hopelessness that Dean would never stop. How the hell can anyone know what that felt like? Sam went through it, and sometimes he doesn’t even know. “He faked his own death,” Sam says with that bloodied, half-aware image of an eighteen-year-old Dean before his eyes. “He. There was a body, it w-was so badly burnt and I—I thought—they told me that—I thought he was gone.” This is the part where the priest is supposed to be shocked and overcome with morbid curiosity, but instead the voice that floats to Sam through the slatted window is as infuriatingly calm as ever. “That must have hurt a great deal.” There’s no hint of censure in the priest’s voice, but Sam is overcome with the irrational certainty that the man is judging Dean. And no stranger is going to judge his brother. They don’t have the right. “He didn’t want to hurt me,” Sam says. “He’s … sick.” So is Sam. God, what are they using for incense anyway? The scent of it is just getting stronger, clogging his throat and making him shift uncomfortably. His fingers slip along the ledge beneath the confessional window, shaking the dust loose and sending up a veritable cloud of motes into the shadowed box. The smell that’s been putting him so on edge jumps markedly and he sucks in a harsh, understanding breath. There is no incense. Sam scrambles to his feet before he thinks it through and has to bite back a curse once he realizes what he’s done. He’s unarmed except for the knife strapped to his calf: hasn’t bothered with holy water since Dean’s ‘death’, and knows that, even if he could get that far, there won’t be any in the fonts by the door. He might have gotten out of this if he’d played dumb, but there’s no chance of that now. Sure enough, the priest—the demon—gives a low laugh and then says, “Aw, don’t be like that! See, if you run, I’m gonna have to kill you. And I really don’t want to do that. Not yet, anyway.” Sam swallows with difficulty and, despite the fear pounding through him, doesn’t move. “What do you want?” “Well, I was hoping for a confession.” The voice lifts, simpering, “I’m so lost, Father. I keep having these horrible, naughty thoughts about my brother …” Sam’s stomach lurches: part revulsion, part anger. “Shut up,” he growls. The demon chuckles. “Don’t you want to tell me about it? Come on, Sammy: gimme all those wicked details.” The fact that it knows his name doesn’t mean much: demons can read surface thoughts and the fact that it knows about Dean—knows that specifically—means that it has been indulging in that particular parlor trick. No, it’s the way the demon is speaking that tips him off. Something in the insinuating, familiar way it wraps its borrowed tongue around the words. “Who are you?” he demands. There’s a short pause and then, conversationally, the demon says, “I went to see you, you know. In Lawrence. You were sobbing like a little girl over Dean’s grave while he and Singer laughed their asses off.” He knows that the part about Dean and Bobby isn’t true, but that doesn’t stop his breath from giving a short, pained hitch. “Oh, I’m sorry,” the demon continues, its voice dripping with false sincerity. “Did that hurt your feelings? I did try to tell you that he wasn’t any good for you.” Blonde woman by the side of the road, small and pixyish and reminding him faintly of Jess. Sam killed that girl as surely as Dean believed he had: first knocking over the alter and then reading out the exorcism. He could have stopped that second time: he’d known that the girl would die, they both had. But when Dean made the decision, Sam didn’t hesitate and, unlike his brother, he never looked back. “Meg,” he says, giving the demon the only name he has for it. “Not anymore, thanks to you two,” the demon replies. “Right now, I’m in what you might call a transitional phase. A Jason here, a Selma there … Cleaning up Azazel’s mess.” “Azazel,” Sam repeats blankly. “Yellow eyes, had a hard on for pinning your nearest and dearest to the ceiling?” It pauses and then asks, “You ever wonder why he didn’t do Dean?” Sam had. Even before he knew just how fucked up over his brother he really is, he knew that Dean is the most important person in his life: magnetic North to every compass he will ever navigate by. “He only—he said Mom and Jess were in the way.” “Mmm,” Meg murmurs in agreement. “Dean, though … Dean was leading you right where Azazel wanted you. He would have let you keep him, you know. Once he was all nice and broken in. Had a collar and leash all picked out for him.” Leering. Full of sensual insinuations. “Betcha wish you hadn’t shot old Azzie now, huh?” It’s fucked up, but there is a part of Sam that wishes he hadn’t been so quick on the draw. Because then Dean, no matter how restrained and damaged, would be here with him instead of who the hell knows where having God knows what done to him. There are shades of Hell, Sam understands, and he can’t decide which is worse: the limbo he’s stuck in now or the crimson-dusted dream of Azazel’s might-have-been. “I wish we’d had enough bullets to shoot both of you,” Sam says finally. It’s a little too late to be convincing and Meg laughs. “And here I thought we had a connection.” There’s a sound on the confessional wall between them: nails scraping over wood. “Do you ever dream of me, Sam? Of Meg’s meat riding you hard and tight, just the way you like it? You wouldn’t have had to hold back. Could have fucked as long and hard as you wanted for once without worrying you were gonna hurt me. Not like poor Jess.” Coming on top of everything it just said about Dean, Jess’ name hurts. “Shut up about Jess,” he snaps. “You don’t know anything about her.” “You telling me you never made her cry?” Meg pushes. “Too hard, too fast, just too much for her poor, defenseless flesh?” The denial sticks in Sam’s throat. Once, that had been. Once and in the morning, when the alcoholic daze wore off and he saw the bruises on her hips—perfect imprints of his hands—he was sickened. Jess wasn’t too phased. Shrugged it off with a soft smile and a ‘rough is fine every once in a while, baby. Just remember not all of us are built like you.’ Her words—her forgiveness—didn’t take the bitter edge off his guilt. It occurs to Sam now that the reason he went on that drinking binge in the first place was that it was Dean’s birthday. Dean’s birthday and Christ, but he was missing his brother so goddamned much. He wanted to call, but he wasn’t even sure if Dean was alive. Didn’t want to take the risk of Dad answering Dean’s phone and telling him in a soft, broken voice that there was a ghost, or a black dog, or a ghoul, and so sorry Charlie but Dean didn’t make it. So he waited for Dean to call him, burying his fear in the beers and the shots he kept tossing back until he was drunk enough that it didn’t matter. Nothing fucking mattered. And Dean never called, and eventually Jess came and dragged him out of the bar and back to bed. There’s a hazy wash of liquor-tinted memory connected to their coupling that night: memories Sam has never looked too closely at. All these years, he’s been telling himself that he avoided them was because he was ashamed of how heavy-handed he’d been, but he’s been lying. Now, letting himself think of that night for the first time in almost four years, he remembers thinking of Dean as he pushed into Jess. Remembers thinking of his brother’s slow smile, and the splatter of freckles over the bridge of his nose, and the ginkgo constellation of his chest, and the broad strength of his back. He remembers thinking that he was angry with Dean for not calling—for leaving him in this horrible wash of uncertainty—but he was lying to himself even as he fucked himself to a bitter, hostile conclusion. He wasn’t angry with Dean: he was disgusted with his own desires. Had to bite his lip bloody to keep Dean’s name from tumbling out of his mouth when he came. “My, isn’t your mind an interesting place these days,” Meg comments. Trembling a little with the force of the memory, Sam clenches his hands into useless fists. “Poor, poor Jess,” Meg muses. “Barely cold in her grave and you were already working out how to tumble your brother into bed.” “That’s a lie,” Sam rasps. “Is it? You sure you weren’t being just a little bit needier … a little colder … so that big brother would trip over himself trying to make you happy?” Oh God, was he? Sam doesn’t know anymore. Maybe he was. God knows there had been plenty of nights when he felt shuttered and lost, and sat hunched in on himself over the single beer he’d been nursing all evening. But then Dean would shrug off his latest conquest to sit by Sam’s side, shoulders bumping companionably as he talked about the old days, old hunts, old escapades. Close enough that Sam could see the corners of his eyes crinkle when he laughed. And a warm, happy little flush would chase the shadows in Sam’s chest away as he filled himself with Dean’s light. But Sam didn’t … he didn’t manipulate those moments, did he? Dean offered those of his own free will. “Sure he did. Because of course Dean would rather be hanging out with his sour-faced baby brother than fucking some tight-bodied slut.” That laugh again, condescending and amused. “Talk about living in denial, Sammy.” Meg’s words are closing on his stomach and chest like fists, but he can’t let her get to him like this. He has to keep his head if he’s going to get out of this and save Dean. Thankfully, forcing his own emotions aside isn’t hard: Sam’s been running numb for months. “What the fuck do you want, Meg?” he asks when he’s as calm as he’s going to get. “I told you, I’m cleaning up Azazel’s mess. Hunting down all of his mistakes and wiping the slate clean.” “Mistakes,” Sam repeats, tasting the word. “What, you didn’t think you were the only one, did you, Sammy?” Sam thinks of Max’s desperate, tear-streaked face and shakes his head. “No.” “It’s taken me a while—Daddy sure got around in his time—but I’m almost done. I saved you for last, Sam.” “I’m flattered.” “You should be. I’ve got a soft spot for you, kiddo. You’re just such a nice guy. Well, a nice guy who wants to fuck his big brother, but hey, who am I to throw stones?” And suddenly, despite his numbness, Sam has had enough. He can’t take Meg lashing him with his feelings for Dean anymore. He doesn’t have a chance in hell, of course, but that doesn’t stop him from bursting his way out of the confessional in a bid for the main doors of the church. He takes three strides and then the door on the priest’s side of the confessional explodes out in a shower of splinters. When Sam glances over his shoulder, he sees a man in a priest’s collar stroll out from the wreckage. The man has obviously been ridden hard: so thin he’s almost skeletal, face drawn, eyes too wide and beetle black. There’s no warning. One moment Sam is sprinting for the door, the next a bolt of power is lifting him off his feet and tossing him into the pews. He hits his shoulder on the wooden back and lets out a pained shout as he crashes into an awkward heap, half-on and half-off the bench. His entire right arm has gone numb, but his shoulder is a screaming burn of agony and sweat—he’s pretty sure it’s sweat and not blood—rolls down the side of his face as he tries to right himself. If his shoulder isn’t actually broken or dislocated, he’s still going to be sporting one hell of a bruise tomorrow. If he lives that long. “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” Meg purrs with the priest’s voice. She grabs his shirt and drags him up so that he’s kneeling on the bench with one knee. “We were talking. Not too polite to run off like that.” Sam knows it’s a futile gesture, but he claws at the priest’s hands anyway. One of the man’s sleeves tears beneath his fingers, flapping open to reveal a forearm lacerated with bloodied scratches. There are burn marks seared into the skin as well, fresh wounds layered on top of new in a roadmap of self-inflicted pain. Did the priest do that himself in some small moment of lucidity, trying to burn the dark thing inside of himself out? Or are those marks Meg’s doing? But even at a glance, Sam can tell that some of those marks are well over a year old, and he knows first-hand that this particular demon was still coasting along in Meg’s body when they were inflicted. It’s a puzzle he doesn’t have time to solve while he dangles in Meg’s grip, but the answer falls into his lap when the priest’s face almost seems to bulge. Sam is reminded absurdly of the Bugs Bunny cartoons he watched when he was a kid: the bulge that ripples through the man’s flesh is strongly reminiscent of Bugs’ tunnels. It isn’t Bugs’ voice that booms out at him, but it isn’t the one Meg has been using either. This voice is deeper, and it carries none of Meg’s affected lilt. “So this is Samuel Winchester. Gotta say, I’m a little disappointed.” What the fuck? The priest’s head ticks to one side with such violence that Sam hears his neck snap, and when he speaks again, it’s with a third voice: soft and lisping. “Oh, let’s keep him for a while. So much lovely flesh to paint with pretty colors.” Spittle flies from the man’s lips as his head shakes so rapidly that his face is nothing more than a blur. When he stills again, his mouth is set in an angry glower. “He’s mine.” It’s Meg again. Sam isn’t sure how he knows, but he does. “Jesus, how many of you are in there?” he breathes. Meg’s curls the priest’s lips into an amused smile. “My name is Legion, for we are many.” It isn’t one voice that speaks. It isn’t even a dozen. It sounds like hundreds, male and female and sexless all blending together in a mind-numbing roar. Sam can’t comprehend how the priest’s body isn’t splitting apart with that many demons crammed into it. “It’s a little crowded in here.” Meg’s back at the controls, dragging him out from the pews and into the center aisle. “But that’s okay. I’m ready for a change of venue.” She tosses him onto the stone floor and then, before he can do more than scramble onto his hands and knees, latches onto his hair and jerks him up so that he’s kneeling with his back stretched at an agonizing angle. He tries to reach over his head to strike at her and then gives up with a sharp exhale when his right shoulder screams in protest. “Gonna pay Dean a little visit, Sammy,” Meg whispers in his ear. “Just you and me. You think he’ll figure out that you’re not the one at the controls when I’m fucking him into the ground?” Sam’s entire body rebels at the threat, but his mind latches onto the tiny kernel of hope she just offered him. “You know where he is,” he says. “Of course I know. We all do.” Meg chuckles as she edges around to his side, still keeping a tight grip on his hair. “Oh, it’s too rich. The great Dean Winchester brought low …” “Where is he?” Sam demands. “Goddamn it, Meg, tell me where he is!” “I’ll do you one better, Sam: I’ll take you there. If you’re a good boy, I may even let you out long enough to get a few thrusts of your own in. Now open up.” Meg releases his hair and then, lightning fast, grips his chin and starts forcing his mouth open. No, Sam thinks desperately. He isn’t thinking of himself but of Dean. Of what Meg will do to Dean with his body. He won’t let her take him. He can’t. Clenching his jaw, he resists the press of the priest’s fingers. “Come on, Sammy: smile pretty for me,” Meg purrs, pushing harder. His jaw slips open an inch before he can stop it and he sucks in a panicked breath. “Gonna have so much fun, the three of us. Just like old times. Well, except this time Dean’s gonna get fucked as well as bled, but I really think it’s time to take this relationship to the next level.” Sam’s mouth slips open further and he knows that he can’t stop this. Futile rage and despair shudder through his body and he opens up on his own to shout, “Go to hell!” Something deep in his head twists and his vision is overcome with a white wash of pain. When he can see again, Meg is backing away and something warm and wet is dripping from his nose. Blood. Sam presses the back of his weakened right hand against his nose to stem the flow and watches as the priest’s skin seems to ripple and swell. “No,” Meg whispers through his mouth, and then the priest’s head falls back and his jaw gapes. His throat undulates as smoke pours past his lips, blacker than night and twice as dense. The demons scream with their thousand voices as they’re expelled, filling the church with echoes of furious madness. Multi-colored eyes peer out at him hatefully from the swirling darkness: mostly black, but he catches some glints of gold and red and once a flash of mottled purple. The ceiling of the church is all but obscured by the massive cloud now, but demons continue to stream from the priest’s mouth. There’s a low rumbling that seems to shake the building’s very foundations and then the still growing cloud punches through one of the stained glass windows with a musical tinkle of shattering glass that’s at odds with the demons’ howling. As the demons begin to funnel out through the opening, a gale sweeps through the nave, ruffling Sam’s hair and catching at his clothes. It seems to go on forever—one long vomitous expulsion of darkness that Sam can’t quite wrap his head around—and then, finally, the priest’s mouth closes and his body collapses to the stone floor. As the last of the demons stream out through the window, Sam half crawls, half stumbles across the floor to the priest’s side. “Hey,” he says, grabbing the man’s shoulder. The priest gives a short, pained cry and vomits onto the stones. It’s mostly blood—some fresh, but mingled with clotted, almost black clumps as well—and Sam doesn’t know if it’s because of whatever he just did or if the demons played with their ‘meatsuit’ too hard. Carefully, he rolls the man over and then winces when he sees his face. Blood drips from his lips and stains his teeth red. More of the liquid—thick and already congealing—gushes from his nose, ears, and eyes and slicks his skin. He reaches for Sam blindly—can’t see past the blood—and finds Sam’s shirt with one, shaking hand. “I thought they were angels,” the priest chokes out wetly, and then goes still. Sam already knows he won’t find one, but he takes a moment to feel for a pulse anyway. Mostly because he doesn’t know what else to do. When he’s assured himself that the priest is, in fact, dead, he lays the man’s body down on the floor and sits back. Runs his left hand through his hair without thinking about it and smears himself with the dead man’s blood. Jesus, what just happened? If Sam didn’t know better, then he’d say that he just exorcised the demons by telling them to get out. But that’s impossible, isn’t it? He can’t do shit like that: he’s only ever had dreams and visions, and even those have deserted him since the yellow-eyed demon—Azazel—died. No, that’s not true, he reminds himself. There was something else. Once. Once, when Dean was in danger. When he’d needed to dig deep inside of himself for a miracle in order to save his brother’s life. The parallels of the situations don’t escape him. Gradually, he becomes aware of a growing clamor outside. Exorcisms aren’t quiet affairs at the best of times, and this particular one was a little too loud to be ignored. Sam’s pretty sure that the only reason the concerned citizenry gathering at the front doors haven’t burst inside yet is that they’re familiar with this place. They know it the way a man knows his rotting tooth. Won’t poke it with his tongue until he’s absolutely forced to. But it’s only a matter of time before a cop drives by—sooner rather than later in a neighborhood like this. No cop worth his badge would ignore the murmuring, fearful crowd of people on the church steps. When they come, hands on holsters and hearts pounding with the sick fear this defiled place has inspired for God only knows how long, Sam can’t afford to be found sitting next to the priest’s bloodied, reeking body. Not when Dean’s life is at stake. When he finally gets himself moving, though, he doesn’t head for the exit. Instead, he jogs clumsily for the small door to the right of the pulpit. There’s a narrow hallway on the other side, leading down a flight of stairs and ending in a closed wooden door with a gold nameplate (Father Matthews) on the outside. If the door is locked, Sam is fucked because he doesn’t have time to pick it and he didn’t bother checking the priest—Matthews, apparently—for keys. The latch turns easily under his hand, and he steps into a nightmare. The police are going to have a field day trying to unravel this mess. There are going to be inquiries, and the church is going to be scrambling to get a cover up in place as face as they can say ‘no comment’. Instead of the religious icons and inspirational posters Sam would expect to see lining the walls of a priest’s office, the stone here is covered with knives and whips. Lovingly oiled scourges and cuffs and axes and a serrated saw and something that looks like a branding iron. There’s blood on most of them, and the wall by the priest’s desk is devoted to photographs: trophies of the tortures that the demons inhabiting the priest have inflicted on his parish. They’ve been busy. Sam doesn’t let himself examine the photographs very closely: there’s too much red on that wall for him to feel any curiosity on the subject. Instead, he moves to the desk and shoves a few loose papers (fragments of a sermon on Hellfire and Damnation) onto the floor. The old, leather bound journal the papers were hiding doesn’t look like anything special, but he knows as soon as his fingers brush its black cover that he has found what he was looking for. Tucking the book underneath his arm, Sam is out one of the side doors well before the first horrified scream echoes out through the shattered remnants of the stained glass window. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The page that Sam wants is marked with a metal bookmark reading, Lord, Make Me an Instrument of Thy Peace. It’s a summoning ritual. Not some crackerjack box imitation cooked up by a wannabe devil worshiper, but an ancient, powerful mesh of word and deed. The header at the top, written in the same cramped, spidery hand as the rest of it, reads, To Summone The Mynisterf Of Hif Wille On Earthe. Looking at the header, Sam understands the priest’s final, broken words. The book must have fallen into the man’s hands—was perhaps placed there—and the priest naturally assumed that the ‘him’ in question was God. He thought that he found a way to summon angels. Sam runs his fingertips over the words and can see the priest in his mind. Younger then, and innocent: with his face beaming and his hair a uniform chestnut. A little plump around the midsection from too many hours spent studying and writing sermons. He can see Matthews setting up the summoning circle and performing the ritual with trembling, ecstatic hands. Sees the demons come in a whirlwind of black and cram themselves into his body. Sees the horrified realization in his eyes just before the black overtakes them. But how the hell did he manage to get so many demons inside of him? Sam searches for an answer in the ritual and finds it almost at once. The endings of some of the words have been scribbled out, and new ones written in by another, neater hand. Singular to plural. After all, why summon one angel when you can summon an entire flock? “You stupid bastard,” Sam whispers, but there’s no real scorn in him. Only weariness and a slow throb of pity. He sits over the book for a long time, reading through the ritual over and over again and trying to figure out why he took it. Why this page in particular is drawing him in like a beacon: like Dean’s wide, taunting smile. When it hits him, his breath catches at the very audacity of the idea. ‘Of course I know. We all do,’ Meg said. When she thought she had Sam cornered, and the information could do nothing but hurt. But Sam is here, and still his own man, and now he knows that he has the means to compel them to tell him exactly where Dean is, if he can only summon up the courage. And a demon. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ He takes every precaution. A call to Pastor Jim’s successor gets him the name of a local priest who knows the old consecration rituals well enough to sanctify all of Sam’s tiny motel room but a small, two meter wide circle that Sam marks off. The man doesn’t ask questions outright, but his eyes are more than a little curious while he works. On his way out, he pauses in the doorway and says, “I don’t know exactly what you’re planning, son, but there are other ways.” Sam returns his gaze. Steady. Calm again now that he’s doing what needs to be done. “No,” he says, “There really aren’t.” The priest pales and drops his eyes. “Go with God, then,” he intones, and sketches a shaky cross in Sam’s direction before letting himself out. Later that afternoon, when Sam is out picking up the vervain, incense and black candles he needs for the ritual, his cell rings. He thumbs it out, glances down at the caller id, and considers ignoring it. Then again, she’s just going to keep calling until he picks up. He flips open the phone and says without preamble, “I know what I’m doing.” Missouri’s voice comes back, angry and frightened, with: “You actually believe that and you’re a damn fool, boy. Now, I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but—” “I’m getting Dean back,” Sam interrupts. “He’s mine.” Although his voice doesn’t shake, the calm shield shudders alarmingly. Missouri sucks a breath in as though she caught a better glimpse of the wild need raging just out of sight than Sam did. “Honey, these things you’re dealing with are no good,” she tries more softly. “Not just the demons, but the darkness inside of yourself. It can consume you, if you aren’t careful.” Sam nods, thinking of Dean’s eyes; of his brother’s hands tapping out the drum line of Zeppelin’s Black Dog as they speed down the highway at eighty miles an hour; of the comfortable, warm smell of Impala and Dean and the open road. “I don’t give a fuck,” he says pleasantly, and then hangs up. When his phone starts ringing again, he turns it over, pulls out the battery, and goes about his business. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ There’s no dread as he finally stands in his darkened motel room chanting the words from the dead priest’s book. Only a thrum of anticipation electrifying his skin. Only Dean’s face before his eyes, and his own will gathered to shove behind the one question he has for whatever son of a bitch shows up in the summoning circle. Where the fuck is my brother? He slits the skin of his palm with a knife Dean gave him for his tenth birthday and lets the blood dribble onto the burning vervain. There’s a flash of light and smoke and then silence. Sam waits. He’s still waiting when Bobby breaks down the door three hours later, sweating and frantic and swearing up a storm. Bobby comes to a halt just inside the room, his eyes darting from the candles to the circle to Sam himself, kneeling there with blood caked on his palm and dull, defeated eyes. “They won’t come,” Sam says. “I did everything right, I know I did. Why didn’t they come?” Bobby flicks on the overhead light and then edges cautiously forward to snuff out the candles. The room blurs and Sam is crying, clutching the book to his chest and weeping hopelessly. It feels like losing Dean all over again. “Why didn’t they come, Bobby?” he repeats as Bobby hauls him to his feet and leads him over to the bathroom. “I don’t know, but you’re lucky as hell they didn’t. Now hold still and let me get this clean.” He shoves Sam’s hand under the faucet: lets the water carry some of the blood away. Sam watches it swirl down the drain, reddened by the coin he paid for the demon’s passage. Lucky, he thinks, but he doesn’t feel lucky. He feels damned. In his numbed mind he hears Meg’s laughing, malicious voice. ‘You didn’t really think we were just going to hand Dean over to you, did you?’ Amused, cruel laughter. ‘Oh, Sammy, how stupid do you think we are?’

Bela doesn’t return to the suite until four in the morning. Sam knows because he’s still awake, locked in his room and staring at the painting of the flower-fringed lake on his wall. His chest hurts too much for him to fall asleep, and his mind won’t stop tormenting him. He keeps wondering what Dean’s doing now: what’s being done to him. Sam expects Bela to go straight to her own room on the other side of the suite when she gets in, but instead there’s a soft knock at his door. “Sam?” she calls, voice surprisingly gentle. He doesn’t answer, and after a few moments she says, “It’s over,” and then moves away again. Sam’s chest gives a particularly sharp pulse and he curls in on himself. He thinks for a moment that he might start crying again, but he seems to be too exhausted for that. It’s over, he tells himself, and, He never has to go through that again. Eventually, the ache in his chest eases and leaves him to take comfort in his unwavering determination. By all rights, he should be exhausted, but instead he feels more alert than ever. Feels almost wired. If it was even a couple of hours later, he’d give Bobby a call—set up a place to meet and get it over with—but Bobby’s plane probably hasn’t even left the ground yet. In the end, muscles thrumming with excess energy, Sam gets out of bed and pushes all the furniture against the walls. Most of their training when they were growing up was done outside where there was plenty of room to move, but John made sure that almost all of his PT drills could be adapted to a smaller area. Storms—rain, or snow, or a wretched mixture of both—might prevent them from using the yard of the crap apartment they were renting or the parking lot of the motel, but it wasn’t allowed to interfere with training. Sam’s never been thankful for that before, but it gives him something to do now. As he slips from a roundhouse kick into a series of punches (right hook, left hook, right again, uppercut), he remembers sparring with Dean in a series of motel rooms: one of the beds shoved up against the wall with the other flipped upside down and piled on top of it: bureau and chair and desk shoved either on top of the beds or wedged into the bathroom. In the memory his mind finally settles on while he retrieves his knife from his bag and moves on to a second set of drills, Dean is twenty-one—no, twenty, because Sam was only sixteen then, and it was high summer. He thinks it was only a few weeks after Dean’s Not Funny leech joke because he was more distracted than usual. Irritable for reasons he wouldn’t admit to himself then, but which, in retrospect, feel very much like a freak-out. It isn’t every day that you go skinny-dipping with your brother and come out of the experience with a hard on and a fascination with ginkgo leaves. It was that constellation that set him off, Sam remembers as he moves the knife in effortless patterns, letting muscle-memory take over as his mind drifts. Dean was shirtless—on a day that wasn’t as sweltering as the one that prompted the swimming expedition but was still hot enough to make this kind of exertion near-ludicrous, they both were—and as the session went on and all of that pale skin was more and more slicked with sweat, Sam had a harder time concentrating on anything but the bunch and flex of his brother’s muscles. Dean’s sudden dive forward took him by surprise, and the belated and off-target punch Sam sent at him went harmlessly over his brother’s head as Dean brought them both crashing to the floor. Forcing his own head back into the game, Sam hooked his leg around his brother and flipped them. It would have worked if Dean hadn’t been ready for him and added his own momentum to the throw. They rolled over all right, and then kept rolling until Sam fetched up against the leg of the bed with a grunt. Dean scrambled over him, pinning Sam to the skuzzy rug with his body and pressing his forearm against Sam’s neck. Then, leaning back with his hair dripping sweat and his face flushed, Dean gave him a grin and said, ‘That all you got, Sammy?’ As he stared up at his brother’s beautiful, laughing face, Sam was overcome with a rush of anger (because I wanted to kiss him, Sam thinks as he spins, flipping the knife in his hand and adjusting for an outward slash of the blade). He bucked his hips up to flip them the other way, and this time when they rolled, Dean landed solidly on his back. Sam was a little slow in following—hadn’t expected his brother to go over that easily—and when he tried to clamber into a hold position Dean reached up with an arm and a leg and yanked Sam’s body close to his. Sam struggled and Dean’s other leg came up, both of them hooking at Sam’s lower back and pressing him down. Dean’s arm slung around his neck, constricting, and Sam found his cheek sliding against his brother’s chest. It was a little gross, all that sweat: Sam’s hair squeezed against the back of his neck in wet clumps that felt cold in comparison to the heat of Dean’s body, Sam’s cheek rubbing slick against his brother’s skin. But Dean’s musk was all around him, Dean’s sweat rubbing over his lips a little and getting on Sam’s tongue as he panted for breath. Dean tasted salty, of course, but underneath that there was something sweeter: something that made Sam think of almonds. That ginkgo splatter of freckles was right in front of his eyes: all he needed to do was twist his head sideways (he could manage at least that in Dean’s grip) and he’d be able to press his mouth against it. As he stared at that mesmerizing spot, Sam realized with something like horror that he was hard. He was hard and his crotch was pressed against his brother’s firmly enough that he had only a few seconds before Dean noticed. It’s adrenaline, he thought desperately, I’m sixteen and horny for anything that moves and it’s not my fault. Sam in the now knows that this was only partly true: his erection wasn’t caused by a random rush of adolescent hormones, and it was his fault—or was a fault that lay within him, anyway. But part of the responsibility lay with Dean as well: Dean pulling him close, Dean underneath Sam and drawing him down between his legs in a position that would have given anything with a pulse ideas. Dean, completely oblivious to the effect he was having for all of ten, mortifying seconds. Sam felt his brother recognize the hard line pressing against him. Felt Dean still, felt his breath stutter, heard his heartbeat quicken where his ear was pressed to Dean’s chest. Oh God. ‘Let go,’ Sam blurted, shoving at his brother’s sweaty skin, and Dean obeyed. Freed, Sam hurled himself up and away and was at the bathroom doorway before he realized that he couldn’t escape that way: the tiny room was filled to the brim with an armchair and a small desk. He spun around, meaning to run out of the room, away from the (wrongbadsick) weight of his brother’s eyes, and Dean was there. Sam let out a choked noise and tried to backpedal—he’d climb over the furniture and out the bedroom window to get away if he had to—and Dean caught his arm. Sam’s pulse jumped at the touch in something that wasn’t precisely fear. ‘Hey, calm down, man. It’s okay.’ ‘Let me go!’ Sam shouted, trying to pull away. ‘It doesn’t—it’s just something that happens, it doesn’t mean—‘ Except it did. Much as he refused to believe it then, it did mean. Dean tightened his grip on Sam’s arm. ‘Woah,’ he said. ‘I know that, Sammy. It’s cool, okay? You’re right. It happens.’ Sam quieted—or at least stopped trying to pull away—and Dean grinned. ‘Bout five years ago, I was doing some hand to hand work with Pastor Jim,’ he said, and then shook his head, letting out a laugh. ‘Man, I don’t know which of us was more embarrassed.’ Sam’s heart was still trembling in his chest, and although he would have bet on himself for most embarrassed—the Problem was only getting worse as he stood there looking at his brother’s smiling face, Dean’s competent fingers curled around his bicep—he managed a shaky laugh and said, ‘Dude, Pastor Jim?’ Dean shrugged, finally letting him go. ‘Told you: doesn’t mean anything. Except that we really need to get you laid.’ His grin turned into a smirk and he added, ‘At least you picked someone blindingly hot to pop a woody on. Shows you’ve got taste.’ ‘Jerk,’ Sam muttered. ‘Bitch,’ Dean answered absently. He rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘Ugh, man, I’m soaked. Come on, let’s get that crap out of the bathroom so I can take a shower.’ That was the end of that conversation, and Dean seemed to forget the incident ever happened. Except he hadn’t forgotten, Sam realizes. The knife is a distant weight in a hand that seems to belong to someone else. All of Sam’s attention is focused on turning over his memories of the weeks and months after that incident. At the time, he was too busy educating himself in the great Winchester traditions of Bury and Repress to notice much of anything, but he can see it clearly from his current vantage point. Sees the way that all of Dean’s casual nudity stopped: the way Dean became reluctant to close for a grapple when they sparred. Dad gave Dean shit for that a hundred times if he did it once, but Dean kept on claiming that he couldn’t manage to get past Sam’s freaky reach. And Dean started bringing girls home. He’d been making the rounds before, of course, but he was always careful to take his conquests somewhere else: park or car or the girl’s place. After that sparring session, though, Sam was as likely to come home to Dean making out on the couch or kissing a girl against the wall outside their motel room as he was to come back and find his brother elbow-deep in oil and grease. He knew, Sam thinks and his mouth drops open a little. Dean looked at him—looked into him—and saw what Sam wouldn’t let himself see. Even if Dean hadn’t known for sure, he’d at least suspected, and strongly enough that he took countless verbal beatings from John in order to avoid another awkward situation. After a few minutes, Sam gets a grip on himself and downgrades his panic into faint dismay. He feels disappointed as well—not by the fact that this realization has killed the sliver of irrational hope he was nursing that Dean might feel the same way, but by the lack of trust implied by his brother’s behavior. Dean was acting like he was worried Sam was going to try something: would take advantage of their closeness to grope him or get his rocks off somehow, and God, how could Dean ever think Sam would use him like that? Sam slowly heads over and sits down on the bed. He sets the knife down beside him and blinks at nothing in particular as he sends his mind forward a few years. The disappointment doesn’t fade as he sorts through his memories of the days after Stanford, but the nervous tension in his stomach eases. Dean knows (maybe) about Sam’s sickness, but he also thinks that Sam is over it. Maybe it was Jessica, maybe it was all those years apart, maybe Dean was too busy with the wolf to worry about Sam’s intentions anymore. Whatever the reason, after Stanford all of Dean’s caution was gone. He strolled around half-dressed and slept without a shirt on. He got in Sam’s face when they were sparring, using his speed to get past Sam’s reach and then pressing their bodies together in furious grapples. He didn’t try to hide his hook ups, but he didn’t parade them in front of Sam either. So what does that mean? Sam asks himself, What am I supposed to do with this? The answer, not surprisingly, is nothing. For now, they have enough to deal with. He and Dean are going to have to talk—now that he’s come to terms with the fact that he wants his brother, Sam’s not going to be able to hide it and he doesn’t want to wait for Dean to figure it out on his own again—but they won’t do it now. Sam isn’t springing something like this on his brother until Dean’s ready to handle it: until the damage that Vincent did is healed. Until then, Sam is just going to have to shove that deviant, hungry part of himself to one side. Shouldn’t be difficult. After all, he’s been doing it most of his life. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Sam would have opted for a public meeting with Bobby—the better to temper his own volatile reactions to the man—but Bela nixed that idea. ‘They know what he looks like, Sam,’ she pointed out when he made the suggestion. ‘It’ll look a tad suspicious if you go for a drink with the one man they’re expecting to come looking for Dean.’ ‘One man?’ Sam echoed. Bela rolled her eyes with exaggerated annoyance. ‘You thought he was dead, remember?’ she pointed out. ‘At first, yeah, but—Vincent must have been watching Bobby. If he was worried he’d come looking, he would have put some kind of surveillance on him. He would have seen me show up and—’ ‘But he wasn’t worried,’ Bela interrupted. ‘Sam, Vincent knew no one would be able to find Dean on their own. If you hadn’t come to me, you’d still be wandering around New York like a lost lamb, wouldn’t you?’ As much as that reminder of his dependence on her stung, Sam had to admit she was right. Which is why he’s pacing the foyer of the Presidential Suite, waiting for Bobby to show up on their doorstep with a tray and a waiter’s uniform. As he comes around the edge of the fountain for what must be the fiftieth time, he glances at Bela and pauses. She’s sitting at the dining room table and thumbing through a dog-eared copy of Haraldskvæði: the earliest known reference to berserkers in modern literature. Only Tyr’s Bible outdates it, and Bela’s read that as well. “What else should I know?” he asks abruptly. Distracted, she glances up at him. “Hmm?” “What else did you read in Tyr’s Bible?” Sam clarifies, taking a few steps closer so they aren’t shouting across the room. “About berserkers?” “It’s a long book, Sam,” Bela says dismissively and goes back to reading. Sam’s not ready to let this go, though. Between the upcoming meeting with Bobby and his realization about Dean this morning, he feels like he’s going to come out of his skin and he needs to do something proactive to distract himself. Here he is, shut in with a woman who may be the only person alive who knows more about berserkers than him and Bobby. He’d have to be an idiot to ignore this opportunity. “Was there something about demons?” he prods, and Bela jerks so hard that she tears out a page from the book in front of her. The look she shoots him is venomous, and Sam isn’t sure whether she’s angry about her book or pissed she gave herself away. “What did it say?” Bela stares at him for a long moment and then says, “Nothing pertinent.” “Humor me.” It comes out as a threat, which is good because that’s what it is supposed to be. One of Bela’s hands flutters up to her throat and then down again. With her lips compressed like she just swallowed something bitter, she shuts her book and says, “Define ‘spirit’.” “A ghost,” Sam answers, and then frowns as he remembers that the wolf inside of Dean is, technically, also a spirit. “Wait.” After a moment to gather his thoughts, he says, “A spirit in an incorporeal entity.” Bela’s lips twitch up at the corner. “Good boy. Going by that definition, Tyr’s Bible names four types. Spirits of the dead—ghosts—spirits of the beast—like Dean’s wolf—spirits of the light—what monotheists around the world would like to call ‘angels’—and spirits of the dark.” “Demons,” Sam says, and Bela nods. “Demons. Ghosts, as I’m sure you’re aware, are mostly mindless. Plenty of emotion, but no intellect behind it. And they tend to be a tad obsessive.” She’s right. Ghosts are a step up from death echoes—they have at least a rudimentary capacity for thought—but it isn’t a very large step. Sam has seen hundreds of them, and they’ve been violent or kind or just plain pathetic, but always focused exclusively on one thing: ‘I need revenge on my husband’, or ‘I need to see my wife again’. Or Sam’s particular favorite: ‘I need to continue my psychotic experiments on the mentally insane’. They aren’t people anymore, they’re just loops of emotion that can’t think beyond their own urges. Once in a while you’ll get an exception to the rule, of course, but it’s always with newer ghosts. It takes time, occasionally, for that last, lingering trace of cognizance to fade away. But it always happens because, in the end, that’s just the way that ghosts are. “The three remaining types don’t get along well. I think you’re familiar with the war between Light and Dark, so I won’t bother with the details on how that ball got rolling. Suffice it to say that, soon after the war began, it became obvious to both sides that they were in what amounted to a stalemate. And there was only one race that seemed to have the necessary power and intellect to break it.” Bela inclines her head at the flash of understanding in Sam’s eyes. “Yes, the spirits of the beast. Humans were far too weak to be of any importance and ghosts … well, you could bring a pack of rabid dogs into battle, but there’d be no telling which army they’d turn on, would there? So they sent delegates to the beast spirits and asked for an alliance.” “And they sided with the angels?” Sam guesses, thinking of his dream: of the pure hate choking the demon’s voice. “They said no to both sides, Sam,” Bela corrects him wryly. “They’re not made for war. Beast spirits are intelligent, but they’re also creatures of instinct: they don’t understand right or wrong, light or dark. All they know is the thrill of the kill and the heat of a good mating.” “The Light—the angels—accepted that decision. The demons didn’t. They took their retribution in a slaughter that would have washed the earth in blood if there’d been any actual blood to shed. They killed the beasts by the millions, and in the end they succeeded in teaching them what war was.” “When the beasts turned to the angels for help, however, they received no reply—the text is a little fuzzy as to the reason, but I’d guess it’s because the high and mighty were pissed off that they’d been turned down before and decided to be petty.” Sam’s not sure he cares for her interpretation of events—the angels that Sam has spent his life believing in are anything but petty—but he isn’t going to engage Bela, of all people, in a theological discussion. “They came to us,” he says. “They did,” Bela agrees, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs. “The first beast spirit—a wolf, in fact—came to a man named Tyr and bonded with him. And neither of them, I think, were truly ready for the result.” “Which was what?” “Something very like your brother.” “He’s different from the other berserkers I’ve seen,” Sam says, trying to work it through in his head for what feels like the thousandth time since Dean told him by the side of the road. “He’s stronger, and faster, and the wolf healed him once, which I’ve never even heard of. Not to mention what he did the other night: berserkers aren’t supposed to have enhanced senses like that.” Thank God. If they did, it would have been impossible to put them down once the soul bleed dragged them into madness. “You’re right,” Bela agrees. “There hasn’t been someone like him for almost two thousand years. That’s what makes him so valuable.” There’s a wistful longing in her voice that makes Sam both uneasy and protective. Bela doesn’t get Dean. Hell, if Sam can manage it, she won’t ever get close enough to touch him. He looks away from Bela—at the soft fall of water in the fountain beside him—in an attempt to gather his thoughts. There’s something here: some connection between his dream and what Bela just told him and Dean that he can’t quite put his finger on. This feels important, damn it. Speaking slowly as he feels his way around the edge of that maddening sensation, he says, “Bobby told me once that berserkers are using an altered ritual. He says that’s the difference between them and Dean. Berserkers choose the animal they want; Dean was chosen by his.” When he looks back at Bela, she’s nodding as though she’s familiar with the concept. But of course she would be. She’s obviously done extensive research into the matter, and now that Sam thinks about it, he realizes that she said something about that in her apartment. Something about how she would never have sold Dean to Vincent if she’d known that the wolf chose him. “There’s a brief mention of that kind of perversion in Tyr’s Bible. There was a tribe in the early years after Tyr’s successful bonding with the wolf. With typical male arrogance, they thought that they knew best what kind of animal they should join with.” There’s a certain amount of satisfaction in her voice as she adds, “It drove them mad. The spirit first—trapped unwilling in flesh it didn’t want—and then the man.” Sam wants to point out that being chosen is driving Dean mad as well and then doesn’t. Berserker insanity isn’t really the point here. “Look, what I’m getting at is: why change the ritual if the original rite is so much stronger?” Bela shrugs. “There’s nothing in the Bible about that. It was composed around one thousand B.C., and the altered ritual didn’t come into popular use until the third century A.D., as far as I can tell.” Sam isn’t sure that’s an answer to his question, and there’s a hollow quality to Bela’s gaze that tells him the avoidance is deliberate. Before he can press for a straight answer, there’s a knock at the door and a gruff voice shouts, “Room service!” Bobby isn’t even in the suite yet and Sam already wants to punch him. “We’ll finish this later,” he promises. “Looking forward to it,” Bela responds, giving him her most insincere smile. It’s strange to see Bobby without his cap. Sam can count the number of times the man’s been without it on one hand, and on at least two of those instances, Bobby only took it off because he had blood dripping down from his temple and needed stitches. Dean used to speculate that Bobby slept in the thing. Even stranger than Bobby’s naked head are the glasses perched on his face: gold rims with thick, Coke-bottle lenses that magnify his eyes. He’s holding a covered silver tray in one hand and as soon as Sam closes the door behind him, Bobby shoves the tray into his hands. “Thank God,” he grunts. “Another minute and I was gonna go blind.” Taking the glasses off, he rubs at his eyes, scrunching his forehead up and blinking rapidly. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to see with those things?” Still squinting slightly, he starts to look around at the suite—expression verging between amazed and disgusted by the extravagance—and then he catches sight of Bela and freezes. “Hi, Bobby,” Bela says brightly. “Bela.” With ominous care, Bobby folds the glasses and puts them into his breast pocket. “It’s wonderful to see you again. How have you been doing?” Bela’s all smiles and false cheer and for once, Sam doesn’t think that she’s doing it to be annoying. No, Bela is actually nervous. From the expression on Bobby’s face, she ought to be. For a long moment, Bobby just looks at her. Then, in a flat voice, he says, “I oughta shoot you.” Bela’s smile wavers for a moment and then firms. “Now, Bobby—” “You didn’t even blink, did you?” Bobby continues, stalking past the fountain and toward the dining room table where Bela is sitting. “I bet you didn’t. You looked at him and you saw a walking check and you didn't hesitate for one goddamned second.” Bela raises her chin. “What I saw was a danger to society, and my solution was a tad more humane than burying him in the backyard like a stray dog.” Sam would be upset, but he’s used to Bela’s biting words. Bobby hasn’t been here as long, though, and his face goes red and choleric. “Humane?” he sputters. “You call this humane, what they’re doing to him? Did you know what was going to happen to him before you sold him upriver?” Whirling back to Sam, he demands, “Did she know?” Sam, who doesn’t have the answer to Bobby’s question, shrugs. Over the last few days, he’s slowly been coming to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter whether she knew or not. What matters is getting Dean out. What matters is why she’s helping them now, although Sam is certain he won’t be able to drag that information out of her without the help of a blow torch and some nails. He isn’t quite that desperate. Not yet. “Why don’t I leave you boys to do some catching up,” Bela suggests, rising in a smooth motion and heading for her room. “No,” Bobby says, whipping his head back around. “I want you where I can see you. You sit right over there and keep your trap shut.” He points to an armchair next to the couch and, after a brief hesitation, Bela adjusts her course and does as she’s told. Sitting back in the chair, she crosses her legs and holds the book on her lap, torn page peeking out beyond the others. In the strained silence that follows, Sam walks to the dining room table and puts the tray down. Bobby follows him over. “I think there’s an omelet under there, if you’re hungry,” he offers. “I’m fine.” Although Sam hasn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, and threw up even that small meal after he found Bela’s note last night, he’s telling the truth. Thinking about Dean—about what his brother has been forced to endure while Sam sat on his ass in New York—isn’t all that conducive to a hearty appetite. He turns away from the table and forces himself to meet Bobby’s gaze head on. Waits for the anger to start up again and feels nothing but tired resignation. “Hey, Bobby,” he says finally. “Thanks for coming.” It’s just something to say, isn’t meant as forgiveness, but Bobby obviously hears more than Sam is offering. Tearing up, he hauls him into a fierce hug. “Goddamn, boy,” Bobby whispers. “Took you long enough to ask.” The urge to remind Bobby that he didn’t ask—that Bobby invited himself to this particular party—rises in Sam and then subsides. Giving Bobby an awkward pat on the back, he disentangles himself from the hug. Bobby opens his mouth—to apologize again or maybe to say how sorry he is about what Dean’s going through—and Sam hastens to shove the conversation back into less volatile channels. “You have it?” Swiping at his cheeks with the back of one hand, Bobby nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve got it.” His voice is faint: husky with a depth of emotion that leaves Sam uncomfortable. It’s difficult to stay angry with the man when he sounds that hurt. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Sam watches while Bobby pulls a CD case and a smaller object, which Sam recognizes as a flash drive, from inside his jacket. “Ash said either of these would work fine,” Bobby says, offering them to Sam. Before Sam has even started to work his hands free, Bela speaks up from the armchair. “Do you mind if I take a look?” she calls. “Seeing as I’m the one who’ll be doing the actual installation?” Bobby shoots Sam a disbelieving look and then grimaces at Sam’s shrug. “She’s all we have,” Sam points out. Bobby’s dour grunt tells Sam just what he thinks of that statement, but he brings the CD and the drive over to the armchair and hands them to Bela without arguing. Bela turns them both over in her hands and then tosses the CD onto the coffee table. Holding the flash drive up, she smiles at Sam and says, “This is perfect. I have a necklace with a cavity just large enough to conceal it.” “When can you do it?” Sam asks, coming closer. Bela curls her hand around the drive, hiding it. “I laid the groundwork with Vincent yesterday, so I should be able to install it tonight.” “What kind of groundwork?” Bobby grunts. When Bela’s eyes flick over to him, they’re as empty as glass marbles. “The kind that works,” she says. Bobby gives her a flat stare for a few moments and then says, “I’d have to be dumber than a pile of bricks to just take your word that you’re gonna do anything. Do I look dumb to you?” “Do you really want me to answer that?” Bobby’s face goes bright red. And here Sam thought he’d be the one with the problem keeping his temper. He’s about to put a restraining hand on the man’s arm when Bobby lets out a short, hard breath and says softly and clearly, “You’re gonna tell me just how you’re planning on installing that rootkit or this conversation is gonna get a whole hell of a lot less friendly.” Bela can’t appreciate being threatened so often, but outwardly she’s as unruffled as ever at Bobby’s words. Dropping her head against the back of the chair, she regards him calmly. Only the biting edge to her voice gives her away. “Fine. Vincent has a personal computer in his room. Since he’s the head of Camargo Industries, he has administrative access. He’s also neurotic about cleanliness. All I need to do is get him to work up a little sweat and then install the rootkit while he showers.” “You expect me to believe he’d let you get that close?” Bobby demands. Bela lets out a curt little laugh. “He may not trust me, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want me.” Her mouth purses in disdain. “You men are all alike.” Bobby leans down in a sudden movement, one hand on either arm of Bela’s chair, and says, “I get that you think all men can be led around by their dicks, but just so we’re on the page here, I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last woman on earth. I think you’re low and vile and disgusting. It turns my stomach to look at you. I’d go so far as to say you had the morals of a snake, but I wouldn’t want to offend any reptiles.” “And if I get so much as a whiff of a double cross—or if you do something I don’t much care for the taste of—then I will bring the wrath of God down on your ass. Are we clear?” The color is high in Bela’s face, and Sam can’t tell if it’s from shame or anger. Her voice is cold when she answers, “Crystal,” but that isn’t really an indication of anything. Her masks are too good: could give Dean a run for his money. “Good,” Bobby says, straightening. He looks down at her for a moment longer and then, turning away with his lips turned down in distaste, adds, “I changed my mind. Get the hell out of my sight.” Bela stands stiffly, not looking at either of them. Her head is high as she walks away: her eyes fixed firmly on her destination. When she reaches her room, she doesn’t slam the door behind her, but it’s a close thing. Bobby rubs the back of his neck and shakes his head a little. “That woman,” he mutters. “She oughta be locked up.” Privately, Sam thinks that jail is a little lenient for Bela, but he keeps his mouth shut on the subject. “Did you talk to Dean?” Bobby asks as he sits down heavily on the couch. Sam knew that he’d have to talk to Bobby about this, but somehow he still feels blindsided by the question. He swallows with difficulty around the hard lump in his throat and shifts his gaze to the fountain. Soothing patter of water. Calming. Cleansing. “Sam?” “His … appointment … wouldn’t cancel.” “Damn it,” Bobby swears softly under his breath. Then, louder, he offers, “I’m sorry, son.” “Yeah, me too,” Sam says. It’s a long time before either of them speaks again. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ When Sam and Bela arrive at the Arena that evening, Sam is nursing a staticky tension headache. Irritation prickles beneath his skin. He’s also tired and hungry: two states of being that he doesn’t think will be changing anytime soon. Not when the nausea raises its ugly head every time he even contemplates eating. His meeting with Bobby was more than a little frustrating after Bela left the room: their conversation circling round and round and never really getting anywhere. They couldn’t trust Bela, but they had no choice. They needed to get Dean out, but they had no information. They needed more help—help they could trust—but neither of them had anyone they’d call in for this kind of thing. Even worse, the longer that Sam spent with the man, the closer he could feel his anger creeping. He managed to hold it off—barely—but there’s always tomorrow, and the day after that. And sooner or later, Sam knows that he’s going to lose it. What he doesn’t know is whether he’ll end up yelling at Bobby for lying to him about Dean or whether he’ll tell Bobby to shove his fucking promise up his ass. It’s a toss up. Bela was the capper on an already spectacular day. When Bobby left and she finally emerged from her room, she seemed to sense that Sam was upset, and why. ‘Trouble in paradise?’ she smirked, and then grinned all the way down to the lobby like a cat with a canary. She hasn’t said anything since they got in the limo, but he can feel the amusement radiating off her. Smug bitch. Luckily, she peels off from him once they’re inside with a quick peck on the cheek and a “See you back at the suite, darling.” Hank doesn’t appear to be on duty tonight, either, which eases Sam’s headache considerably. He isn’t sure he could deal with the man’s sneering jibes. As Sam watches the first two matches of the night, his irritation shifts into anticipation. He’s going to see Dean again, and this time he isn’t going to let his brother chase him away with a few harsh words. No, Dean is going to talk to Sam whether he wants to or not, and he’s going to let Sam take a look at whatever injuries he sustains in tonight’s match. Then the lights come up on the third and final match and the bottom falls out of Sam’s stomach. There are two fighters squaring off in the ring, and a gaudily-dressed announcer introducing them, and no sign of Dean. Maybe it’s fucked up to be devastated not to see Dean being put through his paces in the cage, but the explanations Sam comes up with for his brother’s absence are worse. Dean’s sick. He was hurt too badly fighting last night to fight tonight. He was hurt too badly fucking last night to fight. Oh God, did whatever asshole he was with do something to him? The match doesn’t take long, but by the time it’s over Sam’s stomach is in knots and there’s sweat trickling down the back of his neck. He hurries toward the elevator before the rest of the audience—which is visibly smaller than it was the last time he was here—files out. He has to get out of here before he loses the last, crumbling bits of his composure in the face of the frantic fear pounding through him. Sam is almost at the elevator doors when a hand comes down on his arm. It takes a concentrated effort not to slug the hand’s owner when he turns around. The man who stopped him is wearing the same black suit as the rest of Vincent’s employees. He’s smaller than most of his associates, with a neat moustache and muddy brown eyes. Clenching his right hand into a fist at his side, Sam grounds out, “Yes?” If the man is taken aback by Sam’s hostility, it doesn’t show on his placid face. He offers a perfunctory bow and announces, “I was told to escort you to the guest suite, Mr. Carver.” Ohthankgod. That means (Sam hopes) that Dean is in good enough shape that Vincent thinks he’ll be able to perform. Of course, Vincent thought Dean would be able to perform after three assassins bled him in the cage, so that isn’t saying much. “Good,” Sam chokes out. He couldn’t swear to it, but he thinks the path the muddy-eyed man takes him on is different from the one he took two days ago. There are too many right turns, and he certainly doesn’t remember passing a door—steel, not wood, which is remarkable in and of itself down here—marked Yggdrasil. It isn’t the word that strikes him, although it’s strange to see the World Tree invoked here, but the feel of the room behind the door. It doesn’t make any sense—it's just a door, Sam can’t have any idea what lies behind it—but his steps slow. His thoughts, for no reason at all, turn to the possessed priest in New York. ‘I thought they were angels,’ the priest told him. Dying, red bubbled words that clung to Sam’s skin like a film of oil. Sam realizes that his escort is giving him an impatient look and picks up his pace again, leaving the door and the memory behind him. He’s twitching inside of his skin: needs Dean, needs the reassurance of his brother’s presence. Most of all, and very suddenly, Sam needs to know that Dean is okay. Something is going on: something dark and shifting at the corners of his vision. Like heat mirage, it disappears whenever he tries to get a good look at it, only to return the instant he turns away, nagging. And it’s dangerous. Whatever it is that Sam isn’t fitting together here, it’s dangerous to Dean.

The Protean charms are back on the outside where they belong when Sam returns to the Arena at five o’clock, and passing them was just as painful as he thought it would be. Most of the discomfort has faded by the time he reaches the suite, though, so he sits down on the couch to wait for his brother. The small wolf statue Dean was playing with on Sam’s first visit to the suite catches his eyes and when he looks closer he finds that it’s more of Vincent’s work. Now that he’s met Geri, Sam knows that it isn’t the right species. Dean’s passenger isn’t a timber wolf. It isn’t an eastern wolf or a Carpathian wolf either. No, Geri is … well, it’s a kind of amalgamation of what is means to be wolf, having at once the characteristics of all wolves and yet belonging to none of the subspecies. Shifting on the couch, Sam touches his chest lightly where the scratches are. They’re almost healed by now, either because they were left by something with no actual physical form or just because Sam has always been a fast healer, although he has nothing on Dean these days. Still aches a little to press against them, though, and Sam makes himself lower his hand again. When the door swings open less than four minutes later and Dean steps inside, a full-bodied, surround-sound memory of last night’s dream slams into Sam. Dean’s full lips press against his, Dean’s fingers dig into his back, Dean’s legs tighten where they’re hooked around his hips, pulling Sam deeper into that slick warmth. The memory releases him only reluctantly, leaving him hard and slightly feverish. Sam is worried for a moment that Dean will notice—all it would take is a quick glance: Sam’s face is saran wrap transparent right now—but Dean doesn’t look. Dean shuts the door behind himself and heads straight for the bar without any sign that he’s even noticed Sam is there. Embarrassment, closely followed by anger, heat Sam’s face further. After everything that Sam has gone through for him, the least Dean can do is acknowledge his presence. The dark place in his mind pulses in response to his rising emotions and he shoves it away. He isn’t going to use his power against Dean, no matter how frustrating his brother is being. Instead, Sam forces himself to wait. Maybe Dean just needs some time to pull himself together. Settling back against the couch, he examines his brother with a critical eye. From the careful way that Dean is moving, it’s obvious that he’s still injured. His left leg drags almost imperceptibly on the rug as he walks, and the long-sleeved button down covering his torso keeps catching on something as he breathes—a bandage, Sam guesses. He rakes his gaze over the few exposed bits of his brother’s skin as Dean pours himself a glass of whisky. The knuckles on Dean’s right hand are scabbed over, and there’s a bruise high on his left cheekbone. The rest of the damage is either hidden or already healed: of the cut that had to be stitched shut, not even a faint scar remains. Sam lets his gaze slip from his brother’s skin to the curl of hair at the nape of his neck: the way it falls soft and natural back from his temples. The new look bothers him suddenly: both the cut, which softens what few edges Dean’s face has into sensual lines, and the length, which is just long enough to give Dean’s ‘companions’ something to hold onto but not long enough to get in his way when he’s fighting. It’s a small thing—insignificant in the face of everything else Vincent has done to his brother—but it’s a visible sign for Sam to fixate on. Anger is hot in his mouth: metallic. On top of everything else, Dean’s attitude—the sheer stubbornness of him—feeds that fire like lighter fluid. Sam knows that Dean’s façade is nothing more than another straw soldier: he caught a glimpse of the self-hatred and rage lurking inside his brother two nights ago, after all. But no matter how hard he bashes his head against Dean’s walls, Sam has yet to have been rewarded with a single crack. And now this: Dean ignoring him like a sulky five-year-old. Despite his rising frustration, Sam manages to hold his peace until Dean begins to sip his second drink. Then he realizes that Dean is perfectly willing to spend the rest of the night ignoring him and has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting. When the urge passes, Sam gets up from the couch and heads toward his brother. Dean doesn’t look around at his approach, but Sam knows that his brother hears him: Dean’s entire posture has shifted into something defensive. Almost frightened. It only frustrates Sam further. He draws to a stop in the doorway and leans against the lintel. “So that speed healing really comes in handy, huh?” he says. Dean pauses with the glass halfway to his mouth and then gives his shoulders a little hitch. “It doesn’t suck.” Pressing his lips together, Sam thinks of all the ways that he could respond to that answer, and then reins himself in again. “So what’d you do to piss him off?” he asks. He can hear the tension in his voice; prays that Dean hears it as well and knows what it means. That Dean cares what it means because damned if Sam knows what he’s going to do if he loses control of himself tonight. There are gold-gilded mirrors on the far wall, and pieces of Dean’s face are caught in their surfaces. A down-turned eye here. A sliver of chin there. Fractured perfection. In one mirror, an ornate monstrosity with roses twined through the frame, Sam catches the twist of his brother’s lips. “I told him Don Johnson wanted his suit back.” There’s no moment of thought before action. There’s barely even time for Sam to feel the last threads of his restraint snap before he’s across the room. He clamps one hand around Dean’s upper arm and jerks him around. Alcohol sloshes over both of their feet and pant legs as Dean drops the glass onto the rug, where it rolls a few inches before coming to a stop. “This isn’t a fucking joke!” Sam hisses. Dean’s eyes are wide, almost like he’s surprised, although how he ever could have thought Sam would take that kind of flippancy sitting down Sam doesn’t know. Then Sam looks closer and realizes that Dean’s irises are nothing more than thin rings of moss. He takes in the pallor of his brother’s face and notices the beads of sweat on his forehead. Realization of what he’s doing—of his hand clamped bruising-tight on Dean’s arm, of the rough way he yanked his brother around—floods Sam with guilt that he can’t show. Anything less than cold anger only ever gets him one of Dean’s many masks, and Sam can’t risk his brother reading an apology as a sign of weakness right now. Slowly, he loosens his grip and lets his hand fall to his side. Dean doesn’t move, holding himself with that eerie stillness that only wild creatures are capable of. Waiting to see what Sam is going to do now. Sam squares his jaw and swallows. Opens his mouth and, without thinking about it, says, “Take your shirt off.” “What, again?” It’s an attempted scoff, but it comes out more as a rasp. Either the pain or Sam’s repeated efforts—both, maybe—are taking their toll, and Sam can finally see the messy churn of emotion behind Dean’s eyes. He doesn’t have to work to read fear in the way his brother’s lower lip trembles slightly. Sam’s fingers twitch with the need to still the tremble. He wants so badly to trail them across his brother’s shaking mouth: wants it with an intensity that hurts. But if he yields to that urge, he isn’t going to be able to make himself stop there. He’s going to let the insistent memories from last night drive him on until he’s kissing those lips: is going to find out if Dean will open for him as easily in the waking world as he did in the dream. Right now, Sam is pretty sure Dean will. Before Vincent, before the wolf, if Sam had pulled a stunt like that, Dean would have punched him and left him spitting blood onto the floor. Now, though, he’s too used to people taking what they want from him. Too used to not being able to say ‘no.’ The fact that it’s Sam is only going to make it easier for him to surrender. Sam’s hand starts to come up slowly as more and more of the present slips away into memories of the dream. God, Dean’s eyes are so green: a color only made more intense by the flecks of amber in his irises. Were those always there, or is that Geri peeking out? Sam can already feel the phantom press of Dean’s skin against his fingertips: the slide of Dean’s leg down his flank. He wants, he needs … He brushes the corner of Dean’s jaw with one finger, feather light, and Dean flinches. There’s a bruised, beaten expression in his eyes. Oh God, what the hell is Sam doing? Even with the jolt of nausea burning through his body, it’s a struggle to force his thoughts back into safer channels. As he lowers his hand again, Sam is far too aware of how near that miss was. It would be safer to take back the order (the last thing he needs right now is to see more of Dean’s skin) but he knows that he won’t. Despite his decidedly non-fraternal feelings and the growing darkness inside of him—which Sam suspects is at least partly responsible for his increasing inability to control himself—he’s still Dean’s brother. And he still needs to make sure that Dean is okay. He needs to see what’s left of the damage and add it to Vincent’s tab. Hardening his expression, Sam repeats, “Take it off.” The tone of voice is borrowed from Dad, and although Sam has never had to use it before, he’s heard it often enough to mimic it perfectly. Just as he hopes, his brother responds automatically. Dean’s hands go to the top button on his shirt, just below the silver wolf’s head, and start to work. He already has three buttons open before awareness of his own unthinking obedience floods his eyes. Dean’s face goes sullen and resentful, but it isn’t Sam’s fault that he trained himself to respond to that tone. Besides, in the face of everything else he’s done—everything he’s thought of doing—it would be a little ridiculous to feel guilty about using that habit against his brother. Although Dean is conscious of what he’s doing now, he doesn’t stop. Just presents Sam with his back as he finishes undoing his buttons. The turn gives them some needed space and Sam’s skin pebbles in goose bumps at the cool rush of air between them. Dean shrugs his shirt off slowly—partly from reluctance, Sam suspects, but mostly because moving hurts. It’s a sick parody of a strip tease, the slide of fabric revealing not enticing skin but the aftermath of a vicious beating. The rush of appalled blood to Sam’s head leaves him dizzy and weak. Mottled purple and green smudges Dean’s back. Scabbed-over cuts pepper the bruising where some of his attackers kicked hard enough to break the skin. The bandage that Sam noticed Dean’s shirt catching against is heavy and white and awkward-looking on his side. “Jesus,” Sam whispers. His skin aches as though he’s the one who was beaten. When Dean turns around, his front is just as bad. Moving has to be not just painful but agonizing. No wonder he’s holding himself so stiffly. “You should see the other guys,” he deadpans. Sam saw the other guys and he’s suddenly much less bothered by what Dean did to them. They deserved it. With a little difficulty, he swallows and then nods. “I’m gonna kill them,” he says. It isn’t in the plan, but hell, plans were made to be altered, right? Maybe Gordon and his friends can get their hands on some heavy explosives: turn the entire fucking Arena into a smoking hole in the ground. Dean’s eyes shift to the side uneasily and he starts pulling his shirt back on. “Don’t,” he sighs. “Don’t kill them or don’t care?” Sam bites out. “Don’t start this crap again.” Sam watches his brother work at the buttons for a few seconds and then asks, “What do you want from me, Dean? Huh? You really want me to go? You want me to leave you here to get fucked and beaten until you don’t remember who you are anymore?” Keeping his eyes firmly on his fingers, Dean answers, “What part of ‘leave and don’t come back’ did you not get the last five times?” It isn’t as though Sam actually expected an honest answer from his brother, but that still hurts. His voice is rough when he says, “Well, I’m sorry, man, but that isn’t going to happen.” Now Dean looks up. A hostile half-smirk lifts one side of his mouth. “You really are a selfish son of a bitch, aren’t you?” “One of us has to be,” Sam shoots back. “Damn it, Dean, would you just think of yourself for once instead of playing the martyr?” Dean’s eyes narrow. “I am thinking of myself. You don’t seem to get it, Sam. If I don’t get my shot, then I’m no different from the shit we used to hunt.” Sam’s mind gives him a flash of Dean’s fist smashing repeatedly into his opponent’s face, of Dean moving faster than the human eye can follow, and then substitutes a woman in as the victim. A child. He shoves the image away before his skin can start to crawl. That’s not going to happen. He won’t let it. “So we’ll bring some of the Gleipnir with us. Find a chemist to reverse engineer it. Bobby must know someone—or, or maybe Ash …” He trails off at the sudden bloom of fear across his brother’s face. “What?” he asks, frustration fading in the face of Dean’s anxiety. “Dean, what?” “I never told you what he calls it.” Oops. “Vincent told me,” Sam lies quickly, but Dean is shaking his head and backing further away. “He wouldn’t. No way he talks about shit like that with a client.” Chest clenching in dismay at how quickly this conversation went south on him, Sam steps closer and reaches out toward his brother. “Dean—” “How the fuck do you know that, Sam?” Dean demands, and then slaps his hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me!” “Okay, I’m sorry.” Sam raises both of his hands, palms out, but Dean doesn’t settle. Dean’s reaction strikes Sam as completely out of proportion with the situation, but he isn’t too surprised by it. His brother has locked himself up so tightly that it must be like a pressure cooker in there: emotions pushing unbearably against his skin until he has to let something out or explode. The fact that Sam knows the drug’s name isn’t really the issue. No, this is about Sam being here in the first place. About Sam seeing Dean, about Sam knowing what’s been done to him, about Sam putting himself in danger. It’s about what this place—what Vincent—has done to Dean. The Gleipnir is just a convenient excuse. “Does he know who you are?” Dean asks sharply. “Jesus, tell me you weren’t stupid enough to tell him.” Sam could try lying again—could say that he found that information in the Arena’s computer banks—but if Dean catches him then this is going to fly even further off the rails. And as much as he wants to break through Dean’s defenses, he doesn’t want it to happen like this. Not over something stupid that Dean is concentrating on so that he doesn’t have to deal with the real problem. So that he can shove it all back underneath the rugs as soon as Sam turns his back. No, when Dean finally breaks it’s going to be underneath a glaring spotlight where he can’t hide anything: where Sam can see every last shard he has to reassemble. Right now, though, Dean’s breath is speeding and his brow is furling and it’s obvious that he’s taking Sam’s hesitation the wrong way: leaping to all of the hasty, over-protective conclusions that are going to derail this conversation for good. “He doesn’t know,” Sam says, speaking quickly but calmly. “I know what Vincent calls it because I had a dream, and I heard Vincent say it.” Dean licks his lips, just a brief flash of tongue, and the creases in his forehead soften. “A dream? Like with Jess?” About the future, Dean means. Sam is pretty sure that Dean would buy it if he answers ‘yes’, but he already knows that he’s going to finish telling his brother the truth. It’s going to hurt, but in the right way: shoving Dean further toward the breakdown that Sam wants—needs—him to have. More importantly, there’s something that he has to clear up. It’s been festering inside of his brother for far too long. “I saw you wake up after they took you,” he says. “Not—not on the plane, in a cell.” Dean jerks, his hand half-rising in the old, habitual gesture that Sam doesn’t even realize he’s been missing until he sees it. Dean reaching for the security of the amulet that isn’t there anymore. “You what?” he says in a strangled whisper. “Dean—” Sam starts, reaching out again. This time Dean doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t back away. He just gives Sam’s hand a single, unfriendly glance and Sam abandons the gesture. He doesn’t know what he was planning on doing anyway. The idea of pulling Dean in for a comforting hug is laughable, considering the circumstances. “That was private,” Dean says. “You had no fucking right—” “I didn’t do it on purpose!” Sam protests. “It’s not something I can control; it just happens.” “Yeah, and I’m sure you tried real hard to stop it.” “No, I loved every second of it,” Sam snaps sarcastically, and then immediately continues, “Of course I tried to snap out of it! You think I enjoyed watching them do that to you? You think I liked seeing you hurt? Alone? Jesus Christ, Dean, I heard you call for me—the first fucking thing you said was my name and I wasn’t there.” Dean blinks, taken aback. Uneasiness flickers across his face. “I didn’t—” “Yeah, you did,” Sam tells him. He can tell that Dean is unsettled by the information—that he’s feeling more exposed than he’d like—and isn’t surprised when his brother drags a hand across his face and turns away. “Well, that’s just great,” Dean mutters as he walks over to the table. Leaning on it, he tilts his head so that Sam catches his profile and then asks, “You got anything else to spring on me?” Now would be the time to fill Dean in on the demon-control, and the telekinesis, and most especially the trip he took into his brother’s mind a few nights ago. But telling Dean about the demons would only worry him. Telling him about the telekinesis and the headaches that initially accompanied it but have since faded would result in a freak out and a demand that he promise not to practice any more: a promise that Sam can’t make. And if Dean feels this violated over the dream, then telling him that he was actually inside of his head—that he talked to Geri—would probably be the worst thing that Sam could do right now. So he holds the words in his mouth and shakes his head. Dean drops his own head in a nod and taps his fingers against the table. “It got better,” he says after a moment. “What you saw, it hasn’t been—they take care of me.” The fact that Dean is defending these sons of bitches, even if it’s just in a lame attempt to make Sam feel better, turns Sam’s stomach. “I’ve seen how they take care of you, Dean,” he says. “You don’t treat people like that.” “Yeah, well I’m not ‘people’, am I?” Dean glances at him over one shoulder and for a moment his eyes aren’t green but gold, the wolf’s power shining out. It’s both alike and worlds apart from meeting Geri’s gaze. Disconcertingly, Dean’s strikes Sam as the more dangerous of the two. He wonders suddenly: is it the animal spirits who drive berserkers mad, or is mankind the souring force in that equation? Dean’s eyes cool to moss again and he says, “I belong here. And I’m safer here than out there. You and I both know that even without the wolf it was only a matter of time. There’s a reason the hunting gig doesn’t come with a retirement plan.” “You belong with me,” Sam responds firmly. Dean turns around to face him fully and sits on the edge of the table. “This isn’t open for discussion, Sam.” Sam considers pursuing the matter further and then realizes that he’s letting his brother distract him from what he wanted to say when he started this conversation in the first place. He doesn’t bother easing into it: there are too many ways Dean could squirm his way onto a tangent when left with even a single opening. Besides, Dean isn’t going to hear what Sam is saying—isn’t going to understand—unless it’s stated in the most direct way possible. “Bobby doesn’t have anything to do with you being here.” For a moment Dean stares at him blankly—the abruptness of the non sequitur, or maybe it’s just too difficult for him to even consider what Sam is saying. Then his face gives a tiny little twitch, forehead crinkling and mouth drawing tight. He turns away again, leaning his full weight on the table and staring at the far wall. The line of his back is stiff with tension that has to hurt: that is screaming at Sam to shut up, to drop it. Instead, Sam moves closer and repeats, “Bobby didn’t sell you out, man. You think I’d be here if he had? You think I’d be anywhere but six feet underground in Lawrence?” Dean whirls sharply at that, his face stormy with denial, and barks, “You ever fucking consider offing yourself and I’ll kill you myself, I swear to God.” The absurdity of that threat makes Sam laugh. “Right back at you, man.” Dean offers him a cold smile that’s more a baring of teeth than anything else and says, “Don’t worry. Vincent’s got me under so much fucking surveillance I can’t take a piss without five people knowing about it.” Sam knows that it can’t be as simple as that. If his brother really wanted out, he’d find a way—there aren’t any cameras in here, for instance: no guards. Vincent is either holding something else over Dean’s head to keep him from taking drastic measures, or he’s been very careful to leave him with just enough hope to keep going. As if Dean senses the tenor of Sam’s thoughts, he adds, “Besides, I don’t want to die. Fucking wolf has its claws too deep in me for that. I’ve never—I never knew anything could want to live that badly.” He shakes his head and then finishes, “I’m past saving, Sam, so just drop it already.” In the midst of his concern, Sam realizes that Dean has done it again: taken the conversation and sent it spinning down paths designed to distract him. To push him away. He’s not letting Dean get away with it this time, but he can’t stop himself from answering his brother’s words first. “You’re my brother, Dean,” he says softly. “You’re never going to be past saving.” Something in Dean’s eyes goes bleak at that, like he’s just realized that Sam is never going to give up no matter what Dean throws at him. Sam wishes that realization didn’t leave his brother looking so damned. Forcing himself to meet Dean’s gaze, he continues, “But we weren’t talking about that. We were talking about Bobby.” “I heard you,” Dean mutters, starting to turn away again. Sam crosses the last few inches between them and this time he grabs his brother’s wrist despite all of the warning signs to keep his distance. “Bobby didn’t sell you to Vincent.” There’s that twitch across Dean’s features again and this time Sam recognizes it for what it is: a desperate attempt on his brother’s part to hold off tears. Dean shoves at his chest, but it’s a weak attempt. Readjusting his hold on his brother’s wrist, Sam crowds Dean up against the side of the table so that he has nowhere to go. “He didn’t,” Sam repeats softly, and Dean shudders. For a moment, Sam thinks this is it: Dean is going to splinter to pieces against him and finally admit that he isn’t all right, that he’s hurting, that he needs Sam to get him out of here. Then Dean shuts his eyes and when he opens them again they’re as blank as ever. “Okay. Fine. Bobby didn’t sell me out. Fantastic. Now let go of me before I kick your ass.” Frustration simmers across Sam’s skin like a heat-mirage on hot asphalt. He trembles on the edge of doing something monumentally stupid, and isn’t sure if it’s going to come out sexual or violent with Dean’s body pressed up against his like this. Taking a deep, slow breath, he forces himself to loosen his grip on his brother’s wrist. Dean slides out from between Sam and the table and walks over to retrieve his glass from the rug. He’s moving easier now, and Sam wonders absently whether it’s because he’s still healing or if Dean is using the pain to center himself. He wants to continue their conversation—wants to keep pounding at Dean’s walls until they shatter—but at this rate Sam is going to break before his brother and that won’t do either of them any good. He needs to step back for a few minutes: get hold of his emotions. Makes this a perfect opportunity to take care of some business. “We’re almost ready to get you out,” he says. Mixing himself a drink at the bar, Dean doesn’t give any indication that he heard Sam. “Bobby’s here,” Sam adds, hoping for some kind of reaction. Dean’s shoulders work as he screws the cap back onto the bottle of Jack Daniels. “And Gordon Walker, you remember him?” No answer. “There’s an emergency exit on the bottom floor by the cells. I’m going to bring you out that way.” Dean finally turns. For a fraction of a second, there’s so much terror on Dean’s face that Sam’s heart beats quicker in response. Then it’s gone, replaced by a haughty, closed expression. “I’m gonna say this one more time, and you’d better listen up because it’s also gonna be the last time. I’m not going anywhere. You and Bobby and Gordon Walker can make all the plans you want, but when the time comes I’m not gonna cooperate. So you might as well drop it before Vincent catches you with your hand in the cookie jar.” Sam’s stomach sinks down to the floor. He felt confident that Dean would come with him earlier, but the way Dean said that—so matter-of-factly—is making him doubt. Oh God, what if Dean doesn’t cooperate? What if, when the time comes, he just sits there on the couch and stares at Sam with the same, eat-shit-and-die look on his face that he’s wearing right now? Geri said he’d come, he reminds himself. It said he wants to get out of here. Yeah, but what if the wolf is wrong? What if Sam’s wrong, and Geri doesn’t have any connection to Dean at all when he’s on the Gleipnir? What if all of that was just wishful thinking on the wolf’s part? Damn it, if Dean balks at the crucial moment, Vincent’s going to—to— And just like that, Sam’s fear is gone. Because Dean is right: if he doesn’t cooperate, Vincent’s going to catch them. He’s going to catch Sam. Dean is never going to let that happen. “You’re bluffing,” Sam says. Dean shrugs. “Believe what you want. You will anyway.” Taking a sip from his glass, he steps away from the bar. “Where’re you going?” Sam asks. “To sleep,” Dean tosses over his shoulder as he heads for the bedroom. “I’m tired, and I feel like shit, and I have to fight tomorrow. We’re done here.” But he doesn’t stop Sam from trailing after him: doesn’t slam the door in his face. Sam almost wishes he would—at least then he’d feel like he was getting to his brother. This—Dean digging through a drawer without so much as a glance in his direction—makes him feel like a stranger. He hesitates just inside the door, watching Dean toss a pair of boxers and a loose t-shirt onto the bed. “Is this really your room?” he asks. Leaning against the dresser, Dean takes another drink from his glass. “They usually let me stay here when I have appointments.” Appointments, Sam thinks. He glances at the bed with its crimson damask drapes: wolves padding across the fabric in gold and carmine patterns. The black sheets look cool and inviting, and his fingers twitch with the illusionary brush of silk. Dean’s pale skin would glow against that darkness. His eyes would gleam so green … Jerking his gaze away, Sam finds himself staring at the TV screen that masquerades as a window. The night sky lies over the desert, overcast and starless tonight. An illusion of open spaces—of freedom—almost two hundred and fifty feet below ground. Is it for the clients? Or is its only purpose to mock Dean with what he can’t have: what he’ll never see again unless he’s being loaded on a plane and moved to another venue? Sam’s throat is filled with pain suddenly, and his eyes sting. He doesn’t mean to say anything, but the “I’m sorry,” slips out without his permission. Caught by the tone maybe, or by the tears he can hear in Sam’s voice, Dean finally looks at him. His voice is almost kind when he says, “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Sam.” Rationally, Sam knows that’s true. It isn’t his fault that Dean’s here. But that doesn’t stop him from feeling responsible. And he’s tired of fighting every single one of his emotions. Talking with Dean is like negotiating a minefield while wearing a blindfold and juggling swords one-handed and he just can’t anymore. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of this,” he chokes out. The nearly imperceptible tenderness in Dean’s eyes disappears immediately. “I didn’t have to ‘go through’ shit,” he says. “It’s just sex.” “It’s rape.” It falls from Sam’s lips like it’s just another word, but it isn’t—oh God, it isn’t—and saying it makes it true, makes all of this real, and any hope Sam had of controlling himself is melting away like last dirtied clumps of April snow. Dean’s eyes are steady on him. Pitiless and unflinching. “It’s not rape if you enjoy it.” Nausea isn’t a strong enough word to describe Sam’s reaction to that. His whole body crawls in revolt. “Please tell me you don’t actually believe that,” he begs. “Just because you have a problem with sex doesn’t mean everyone else does.” Dean responds in a flat, almost scornful voice. If the definition of insanity is repeating the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, then Sam is certifiable because they've had this conversation before, and he knows where it leads, and he still says, “I know you, Dean. I can tell you aren’t okay with this.” Dean downs the dregs of his drink and then utters a cutting laugh. “Oh, I’m terrific,” he says, putting the glass down on top of the dresser. Sam thinks of Dean straddling that gladiator’s body in the cage two nights ago. Of the wet sound his brother’s fists made when they pounded the man’s skull and flesh into a fine paste. His throat is clogged with bile, but he manages to force out, “Yeah, right. You’re being forced to kill people and prostitute yourself, and you’re ‘terrific.’” Dean’s eyes flicker over, as sharp as they can get through the Gleipnir. “And which part of that statement bothers you more, Sam? The killing … or the fucking?” He pushes away from the dresser and starts unbuttoning his shirt again. Every flick of his fingers deliberate. His eyes heavy on Sam’s. Sam’s mouth is instantly dry. Despite the churn of emotion inside of him, his body flushes with heat. “Wha—what’re you doing?” he rasps. “Well, you’re so interested in my sex life. Thought I’d give you a show.” Dean pushes his shirt open and just like driving past one of those fatal, three-car smash ups on the highway: Sam can’t help but look. In the short time since he last saw the damage, the bruising on his brother’s skin has perceptibly faded. The scabbed cuts are almost completely gone. Dean peels the bandage from his side and there’s nothing but a thick, angry red welt beneath it. “You want to know what it’s like?” Dean asks, tossing the bandage aside and moving closer. “You want to know how I fuck them? You want to hear how I moan and tell them I want it?” His shirt flutters to the floor as well, and he drags one hand across his lower stomach. His muscles twitch in the wake of the caress. “Makes them feel special, taming the wild Fenrir,” he continues. His voice is cruel now, and heavy with mocking. Sam can’t tell whether Dean’s angry with him or if his brother is just pissed at himself. His back collides with something hard and he realizes that his brother has backed him up into the wall. Dean is right in front of him now, blocking any escape attempt that Sam might have made if he’d been thinking at all rationally. “You want to hear how they taste?” Dean whispers, his voice low and full of promise. “How wet the women are before I even really get going?” He cocks his head, lips twitching into a self-deprecating smile. “Or maybe you want to hear about the men.” “Stop it,” Sam rasps. Dean snorts and steamrolls right over the weak protest. “Hell, maybe you want a demonstration, is that it? You’re paying for it: might as well get your money’s worth.” He sinks to his knees with a fluid motion, eyes still raised to Sam’s and filled with challenge. It’s obvious as hell that he’s only trying to provoke Sam into hitting him—trying to push this into something he’s more comfortable with: something physical and violent—but instead of batting Dean away or swearing at him like a normal brother would, Sam’s breath hitches. Dean stares up at him for a long, spinning moment. There shouldn’t be surprise there—not after Sam all but caressed his lips less than half an hour earlier, not after the tension between them three nights ago, not after what happened when Sam was sixteen and coming into this sickness for the first time. There shouldn’t be, but there is. Utter and complete, wide-eyed, jaw-dropped surprise. Sam’s throat works as he tries to stammer some kind of excuse, an apology, something, but he’s naked beneath his brother’s stare. Dean’s face hardens suddenly and he reaches for Sam’s pants, popping open the top button and pulling down the zipper and Jesus Christ Sam should be stopping him, he should be— Dean’s hand shoves inside, pushing past Sam’s open pants and down his briefs, and closes around his cock. Sam lets out an involuntary moan and digs his fingers into the wall. He’s hard: of course he’s hard. Dean’s mouth is inches away, Dean’s hand is wrapped around him, softer than it has any right to be and gentler than Sam deserves. Dean makes a harsh little laugh and when he glances up at Sam again, there’s something wounded in his eyes. Something that looks far too much like betrayal for Sam’s liking. “Figures,” he says bitterly. “Dean,” Sam finally manages as his brain catches up to his body and tries to put the brakes on this disaster. But Dean’s hands are sure and quick, as clever pulling Sam’s cock out from the slit of his boxers as they ever were tying bowties or cleaning guns. Before Sam can figure out how to make his arms work so he can push his brother away, Dean is leaning forward and holy fuck that’s Dean’s mouth, wet and hot and shuddering around him. “Dean!” Sam shouts. It should be a protest but it isn’t. Dean’s hands clamp down on Sam’s hips, holding him steady while he licks and sucks and does things to the sensitive head of Sam’s cock that Sam didn’t think were possible. Dean’s devouring him like he’s starving, making hungry little noises that shiver down Sam’s spine like electricity. Sam stares down at his brother and all he can see is the top of Dean’s head, and the curve of his upper back and shoulders. The wolf tattoo seems to be winking at him upside down: Thurisaz inverted now and at the root of the design. The sight of the rune digs into Sam’s soul like the thorn it takes its name from. It’s a sign from the universe, staring at that rune while Dean suckles relentlessly at him. Thurisaz, the fire rune. Thurisaz, which represents harmful obsessions, and destructive force, and violent passion. Thurisaz the gateway, and Sam’s desire is opening that door and shoving both of them through. This is betrayal at its worst and so fucking wrong—he knows it’s wrong, damn it, and he can’t make himself pull away. Having Dean like this—the real Dean this time, and not a dream—is too good: better than he imagined it would be. Dean’s tongue flicks against the head of Sam’s cock expertly. It presses against the slit and rubs just under the crown with wet, dragging caresses. Sam wants—needs—to know what it would feel like to be buried completely inside that warm cavern, wants Dean’s lips pressed all the way up against his stomach, wants to dig his hands into that soft, silky hair and hold Dean still while he thrusts. Wants more. As Dean gives a particularly firm suck, with just the right amount of pressure to stay on the safe side of painful, Sam realizes that he’s receiving the benefits of countless other blowjobs. Other men have been paying to put their dicks in Dean’s mouth: paying to fuck him. The anger that rises is colored with jealousy, fuels his need to take, to let this happen, and Sam lets his head thump back against the wall in surrender. Which is, perversely, when Dean decides to pull back. “How’m I doing?” he asks, tilting his face up to look at Sam. His lips are spit-slick, already swollen with use, and the bruise on his cheek is gone. He’d be an advertisement for debauchery if not for the vacant disinterest of his eyes. “This as good as you were hoping or do you want more?” Sam knows what Dean’s offering, and he wants it. God help him, but he wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything else. Last night’s dream isn’t helping, providing him with false memories that he yearns to replace with real ones: a tasteless, scentless fuck that Dean is offering to color in for him. All Sam has to do is say the word and he can sink inside of his brother as deep as he can force himself. He can have Dean’s legs wrapped around his waist and Dean’s fingers digging into his back and he can finally—finally—taste the ginkgo constellation that’s haunted him for the last eight years. But he can’t have that endlessly deep expression of love and need and trust in his brother’s eyes. He can have Dean’s body, but he can’t have Dean, and that just isn’t enough. Now that Dean’s mouth isn’t on him, he’s coming back to himself a little as well. Horror is seeping in around his arousal, and he can’t believe he let it go this far. “Stop.” The word is weak, but audible, and he can see the hint of a question in Dean’s eyes. He clears his throat and repeats, more strongly, “Dean, stop, you don’t—you don’t have to do this. I don’t want you to.” Now Dean will get up and storm away from him or he’ll go remorseful and apologetic, and either way Sam can tuck himself back in and they can pretend this never happened. Or rather, Dean can pretend and Sam can turn the sordid, filthygood memory over in his head when he reacquaints his cock with his fist in the shower. But instead Dean’s eyes go flinty. “Not good enough, huh?” he says. “Funny, but I never heard anyone complain before. Sure, it took a few times to figure out what I was doing, but I’m a quick learner. Got it all down pat now: trick is to keep your jaw loose, let the saliva build up. It’s messy as hell, but effective.” Hearing Dean talk about this like it’s just another skill—hearing his straight brother discuss the mechanics of giving a blowjob like it’s in any way comparable to firing a gun or fixing the transmission on the Impala—has the twisted, double effect of disgusting Sam and fanning his jealousy. Dean is still kneeling with his mouth close enough to Sam’s hard cock that every breath bathes him in warm air: kneeling in position like he wants Sam to do something about it. Maybe—probably—he does. Sam knows that his brother is more than fucked up enough to push this until it breaks them both beyond repair. “Don’t,” he whispers. “Deep-throating is trickier, of course, but it’s all a matter of concentration and practice. You’ve got to make adjustments depending on the size and shape.” His eyes dip and he licks his lips, making Sam’s cock twitch of its own accord. “I’ve sucked some sweet cocks, Sammy, but yours takes the cake. Nice and full on the tongue … thick … so fucking long.” When he looks up again, there’s a calculating glint in his eyes. “Anyone ever manage to get that whole thing down? Don’t think Jess could’ve managed it, delicate girl like that, but I bet I can. Bet I can swallow you down all the way … drink you dry.” “Jesus Christ,” Sam breathes. He doesn’t know how it’s possible for him to be so horrified and so horny at the same time. Dean’s mouth widens in a smirk. “Like the sound of that, huh?” He reaches out and grasps Sam’s cock with a sudden movement and Sam’s gut lurches pleasantly. Stroking slowly, Dean continues, “Wonder how you’d taste. Did you know that spunk’s got a whole variety of flavors? Naw, you probably don’t. Take it from me, though, every guy tastes different. Get a guy in here once a month tastes like vanilla yogurt, I kid you not.” A rush of proprietary jealousy shivers through Sam at that announcement and he bucks forward into his brother’s grasp. Stop, he says, or maybe he just thinks it, too far gone to make his mouth work anymore. “Bet you’d be sweet,” Dean says. “Probably taste like honey or coconut or some girly shit like that.” Almonds, Sam thinks for no reason at all, but he can suddenly taste them on his tongue. Dean’s hand stills abruptly, only his thumb continuing to stroke in electrifying circles. “Hey,” he says, cocking his head. “You think you’d taste like me? Think it’s a family thing, little brother?” It’s a deliberate, harsh dig that’s meant to wound and suddenly Sam can’t take anymore. If Dean wants this so much, then he can fucking have it. “Shut up!” he snarls, shoving his brother back. Dean lets himself tip over and sprawls on his elbows with his legs splayed wide. It’s both offer and challenge, like this is some kind of competition, or a game of chicken. The door is only a foot to Sam’s left: the way to escape is clear. Running would be the smart thing to do here. The safe thing. But this has already gone too far; Sam is too horny and too angry and too fucking sick with how much he wants what Dean is throwing at him. Instead of breaking for the door, he steps forward and hauls Dean to his feet by one arm. Dean continues to offer no resistance, letting Sam walk him backwards until his back bumps against one of the posts on the bed. He lets out a grunt at the impact, a sound that’s more surprised than pained, and Sam doesn’t give him a chance to recover. Dipping his head, he licks across the fascinating splash of freckles above Dean’s left nipple. Dean tastes like summer. He tastes like sunshine and the open road and the dry pulse of desert heat. And, distantly, there’s that faint aftertaste of almond. Sam presses his mouth more firmly over that spot, sucks his own bruise into place. Deeper than the rest, more vivid: a mark of possession that doesn’t even come close to erasing all of the other touches on his brother’s skin. He slides lower, catching Dean’s nipple between his lips and working it into a hard, tight nub. “Yeah, come on, Sammy,” Dean pants. “This is what you’re paying for, isn’t it?” Anger tightens Sam’s gut at the goad, and he snaps painfully straight, taller than Dean and using it for the first time in his life. Dean looks up at him through those ridiculous eyelashes, face flushed and lips twisted sardonically. Scornful. Beautiful. “Fuck you, Dean,” Sam growls, and then forces his brother back down onto his knees. Without pausing to think about it, his hands go to his own pants. He digs his fingers underneath his briefs and shoves everything down around his ankles. Dean doesn’t wait for an order, moving in on his own and catching Sam’s cock in his mouth. There’s no finesse this time, just Dean’s mouth sloppy and greedy on his dick as Sam twists his fingers through his brother’s hair. Dean’s tongue is frantic against the underside of his cock: awkward against the first few rough thrusts. He’s fighting Sam’s grip, but not to pull away. No, Dean is pressing forward: trying to get closer, to take Sam deeper. Sam’s done letting Dean control this, though. Tightening his grip, he holds his brother’s head in place and pushes forward. Despite Dean’s taunting words before, he’s surprised when he feels Dean’s lips flush against his body: startled to find his entire cock wedged into Dean’s mouth and down the tight channel of his throat. He’s never felt such intense pleasure before—Dean was right, no one he’s been with has been able to swallow that much—and he lets out a low groan, biting his lip deeply enough to draw blood in an attempt to stave off his looming orgasm. When he’s pulled back from the brink enough, he tilts Dean’s head back slightly with his hands and looks down. Dean’s face is detached as he swallows and hums around Sam’s cock, and his eyes are closed. Pieces of Sam are splintering off to the right and left and Dean looks like he’s bored. With a renewed surge of anger, Sam starts thrusting in earnest, putting all of his strength behind it as though he can force his soul inside of his brother if he gets deep enough. He’s desperate to make Dean look at him, to make him acknowledge what’s happening, to crack through the shell of indifference and get to his brother underneath. He’s panting, sweat dripping down his neck while Dean’s name and ‘look at me’ and ‘fuck you’ fall from his mouth in harsh grunts. Dean might be sleeping for all the reaction Sam gets, but he can’t hold off any longer. He shoves in one final time, making Dean take everything, and holds his brother in place as he comes. He expects Dean to choke now—wants him to: wants some proof that Dean isn’t as practiced at this as he seems to be—but Dean’s throat works around him easily as he swallows. His hands rest lightly on the back of his thighs. The muscles in his body are languid. Relaxed. When it’s over, Sam pulls out too quickly and Dean coughs a little: the only sign of discomfort he’s shown. The sound is unexpected, and Sam starts. His feet catch in his pants and he crashes down onto the floor across from his brother. He knows how ridiculous he must look: face slack with the last aftershocks of his orgasm and cock jutting out flushed and half-hard and shiny with Dean’s spit. Dean, of course, is as beautiful as ever as he brings one hand up to wipe at the drool on his chin. Most of the bruises on his chest have faded to a faint discoloration, but Sam can still see the mark of his claim pressed over the freckles on Dean’s right breast. Dean’s mouth looks swollen and painful: his lips fuller and redder than usual. Sinful. As though aware of the scrutiny, he finally opens his eyes and looks at Sam. Looks at him with something like victory. As he meets that cool gaze, the reality of what Sam just did slams into him hard enough that he twitches. He feels gut-shot and nauseous with guilt. “Jesus Christ, Dean,” he blurts, and starts fighting to pull his pants up, trying to cover himself. Dean watches him pitilessly. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse: fucked out by Sam’s thrusts. “Now that you got what you came for, get out. And fucking stay out.”

Sam is scrambling for his feet before he knows what he’s doing. He has to get to Dean, he has to— ::You have to crawl before you can walk,:: the cougar says, snatching control of his body away and keeping him still. It was his body first, but Sam is too panicked to remember how to wrest control back. No, you don’t understand—he’s my brother, I need—he can’t, not now, not— ::There is no danger. Not yet. The drug—the … Gleipnir?:: It pauses for a pulse of recognition from Sam and then continues, ::Delays. Their souls are already two-as-one, but they have not begun to merge. There is no danger until they stand soul to soul and mind to mind.:: It takes Sam a few minutes to understand what the cougar is telling him and then he slumps, weary and shaken. There’s a phantom sensation of a rough tongue on his cheek and he can feel the cougar’s heavy weight inside him, sending out waves of comfort: of confidence. Slowly, he relaxes, and as he does things that he’s been missing because of his preoccupation with what’s going on inside of him start to filter through. He can smell … God, everything. The world is a confusing rush of scents that Sam can’t sort out, but it seems earthier than anything else right now because his face is pressed into the ground. Not even the earth smell is simple, though: it’s filled with the memory of the creatures that moved across its surface, and he can—Jesus, he can smell the damned worms beneath the surface. He tastes the potential for life: sees in his mind the herd of deer that moved through here last week just after a hard rain thundered down and erased his ability to go any further back. Smells himself everywhere, of course, and … and, surprisingly, Dean. ::He is our mate,:: the cougar tells him. ::We should smell like him. He should smell like us. We will mark him.:: Sam is trembling, all but transfixed by the flood of information coming in through his nose—ears too, now that he thinks about it—but that’s pushed from his mind by the almost physical surge of revulsion that snaps through him. He still wants Dean, but he can’t touch him like that. After these last three nights, he isn’t sure that he’ll ever be able to touch Dean like that, even if his brother thinks he’s ready. The things Sam saw—the things he remembers actually wanting, and considering … His mind shies away from those sweat-soaked visions and he shakes his head. No. He’s hurt. We can’t … touch him. Like that. ::I understand,:: the cougar replies instantly. Its voice is gentle. ::I meant only—:: It shows him two images: a full-grown cougar licking her cubs, and then two of the lanky cats rubbing their cheeks together. After a brief, fumbling delay, Sam’s mind translates that into one vision: him and Dean curled in on each other, sleeping skin to skin. Innocent. A cocoon of warmth and meshing scents and perfectrightmate. He wants that, wants Dean, wants to be that close and feel safe with his brother, but he doesn’t know if he can manage it. He knows for a fact how damned tempting Dean can be: how the mere sight of his brother’s bare skin is enough to make him forget his best intentions. Being so close, tangled up in Dean and breathing the warmth of his body in … God, what if he just can’t help himself? ::You are stronger than you think,:: the cougar soothes. ::The sickness is gone. There is no danger. We are safe. Deanmate is safe. We are safe together.:: Sam can feel its certainty, but he’s still doubtful in his own mind. He’s startled to realize that he still has his own mind. That strange doubling, too full, too much feeling is finally fading. There’s information floating around inside of him that he didn’t have before, and memories that don’t belong to him, and he’s getting a steady input of emotion from the cougar, but he’s still Sam. He’s just … a little more. Carefully, he tries to get up again and this time he manages it. The cougar is still envisioning this as a four limb deal, but it’s easy enough to separate those images out from the knowledge that he’s still in Sam’s body: that Sam is human and therefore only has to deal with two legs. He moves over to the pickup and he’s still rational, and he doesn’t want to hurt anyone, and it’s possible that this might be okay after all. ::Why would we want to hurt anyone?:: the cougar asks, and then Sam has the queer sensation of something poking around inside his thoughts. A moment later, the cougar gives a little hissing noise of displeasure. ::You think of twisted bondings. We are right. We are the first in many, many generations. We will stay as this. There will be no madness. No sickness. We are pure and strong.:: “You mean the third in many generations,” Sam says with a slight smile as he starts pulling his clothes on. After so many days spent wearing nothing at all—or maybe because the cougar isn’t used to them—even the cotton boxers feel strange against his skin. ::Deanmate is not complete. He is not whole yet.:: Sam guesses that that’s true. If Dean were whole—if he saw and knew and felt what Sam does now—then he’d know that there wasn’t any danger. He wouldn’t be injecting himself with that damned drug that Bela cooked up for Vincent. “There’s still Dad,” he says, pulling his pants up and working at the buttons. He’s sitting on the edge of the passenger seat putting his socks and shoes on when he realizes that the cougar isn’t saying anything. “You still in there?” he calls. ::Always.:: “I said, ‘there’s still Dad’,” Sam repeats. This time he catches the wary tickle of apprehension and regret the words cause and stops what he’s doing. He stares out at the forest, seeing more of it than he ever has before and not seeing it at all at the same time. After a few moments, he sighs and leans his head against the doorframe. “Something went wrong, didn’t it?” ::There was no summons,:: the cougar answers reluctantly. ::Littlerunner sensed pieces of DadJohnFather, but not the whole. Littlerunner found a willing andi. Deepsleeper had lost cubs to the deathlessdark. He wanted to hurtbiterendtear. It was a close bonding, but not … not perfect.:: “That’s why the demon was able to possess him,” Sam says, understanding now the wolf’s guilty flinch at that question. ::Yes. Littlerunner meant well, but … :: “He’s young. Yeah, I know.” Sam pinches the bridge of his nose for a second and then makes himself say, “He would have gone insane, wouldn’t he? If he hadn’t died.” ::I can not say. The bonding was wrong on both sides, but … they were both willing. It has never been done before. Maybe they would have found a balance. Maybe there would have been madness. Maybe there would have been sickness. Maybe there would have been both. There is no way to know.:: “Yeah.” Sam sighs and then says, “Dean’s gonna be pissed when he finds out. I mean, he was pissed about that one anyway, but … it’s gonna be worse. If he finds out before he merges with Geri, he’ll dig his heels in. He’s stubborn like that.” ::Littlerunner made a wise choice for his own bonding. They fit. They are right, if Deanmate is willing. You must make him willing. You must use your silver tongue to convince him.:: “I think you’re overestimating my ability to convince Dean to do anything,” Sam says bitterly. “I couldn’t even get him to eat a fucking burger the last time I saw him.” ::You must try,:: the cougar says, implacable. ::You must succeed, or there is only earth.:: *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Sam is surprised and then again he isn’t when he pulls up in front of the cabin and Missouri opens the front door. She gives him a warm smile, wiping her hands dry on a dishcloth. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” she says as he jumps out of the truck and hurries over. ::Seer,:: the cougar murmurs with a tinge of respectful awe. Sam’s steps slow at that reminder that, although he doesn’t feel all that different inside, he isn’t exactly human anymore. He’s suddenly awkward with the uncertainty of whether Missouri is going to be afraid of him or not. Whether she actually approves of his decision now that he’s standing in front of her. He wonders what color his eyes are. Then Missouri pulls him into a crushing hug. “Don’t be stupid, Sam,” she rebukes him gently. “I’m glad to see you. Both of you.” Sam returns the hug, careful with the new strength he can feel surging through his limbs. Missouri still lets out a crushed little whoof of air and he loosens up some more. This whole super power thing is gonna take some getting used to. “How is he?” he asks softly as they part. Missouri’s smile fades and her eyes darken with worry. “He isn’t good. What’s been done to that boy … I won’t lie to you, Sam. It’s going to take years to fix.” Sam wasn’t expecting any other answer, but his throat tightens anyway. The cougar gives his mind a reassuring caress. “We have time,” he whispers, and isn’t sure whether they’re his own words or the cougar’s. Missouri smiles again and smoothes Sam’s hair back from his face. “That’s a boy,” she murmurs. Then, clearing her throat and speaking in a louder voice, she says, “I’m about to make some lunch. I’d bet you could do with a little feeding yourself.” Sam could. He’s nowhere near as hungry as he probably should be, but he wouldn’t say no to whatever Missouri wants to whip up. He remembers her cooking being good. But when she heads back into the cabin, he can’t make himself move. Pausing in the doorway, Missouri calls over her shoulder, “Why don’t you come in, Sam?” “Sam?” Dean’s voice comes from further inside. Sam shrinks back a little at the sound. God, what if Dean hates him? ::He won’t,:: the cougar tells him, and slips forward to do what Sam can’t, walking them up to the cabin and through the front door. Dean’s at the edge of his invisible cage when Sam walks in, face so openly anxious and tense that Sam is suddenly moving forward on his own and reaching out. He reaches the edge of the symbols and stops. Feels a barrier where there wasn’t one before: something thick and threatening pain. His stomach twists. God, how could he have caged Dean like this? There’s no excuse for it. None. Dean’s face has gone slack with horror. “No,” he whispers, staring into Sam’s eyes. “Jesus, no.” “It’s okay, Dean,” he says quickly. “I’m okay.” But Dean is scrambling backwards, tripping over the edge of the bed and righting himself. He’s shaking and his hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Damn it,” he whispers, and then shouts, “Goddamn it!” “Language, boy,” Missouri says sharply from behind Sam. Then she squats by his feet and scrapes part of the nearest symbol away with a butter knife. Sam shoots through the opening and Dean, seeing him coming, turns and flees for the bathroom. Sam follows, putting on a burst of speed. Now that they’re on equal footing again, he isn’t surprised to find that he’s faster than his brother. He’s always been built for speed, rather than the endurance Dean can manage. They collide heavily as Dean reaches for the door handle—meaning to slam it shut, although Sam has no idea where Dean thinks he’s going to go after that. The impact tumbles them both further into the bathroom and slams them against the far wall. Somehow, Sam gets his arms around his brother and for a moment Dean is in his arms, and everything is right, and then Dean gets a hand against Sam’s chest and shoves. Sam stumbles back a few steps from the force of the shove before catching himself. He’s about to move in again when the cougar says, ::Softly. Go softly.:: The advice makes him pause and take a good look at his brother. Dean is still pressed up against the wall, eyes wide and spilling tears and muscles trembling. He reeks of fear and sorrow and pain. The scents are disorienting in and of themselves, and Sam’s a little freaked out that he can read his brother this way. The same way, he realizes suddenly, that Dean was able to read him in the Arena. Dean hadn’t needed the extra help to push Sam’s buttons, but Sam’s pretty sure he used it, the jerk. Moving slowly, Sam takes another step back and raises his hands. Open, palms out. Dean doesn’t look any more relaxed, but that pungent, unpleasant fear-scent lessens slightly. “Dean,” Sam says. “It’s me. It’s Sam, okay? I’m fine.” “You’re fine? You’re fine?” Dean sounds angry, but he’s still crying, and Sam doesn’t smell anger in the air. Looks like Dean’s days of lying about his own emotions are pretty much over, not that he was all that good at it in the first place. “I had to do something, Dean. I was … I don’t know, turning. Going darkside. I would have hurt you.” “So you decided to do this instead?” Dean snaps, blinking furiously at his tears. “You didn’t think we’ve lost enough Winchesters to these fuckers, now you had to go ahead and make it a full house? You stupid shit!” Okay, now he smells angry. “It isn’t what you think it is, man. It’s—it’s okay. I’m not going to go insane.” Dean snorts a wild laugh and Sam can’t stop himself from taking a step forward. When Dean flinches, he brings himself up short. “Dean,” he says softly. “I need you to listen to me—really listen, okay? This—you and me, we’re different. The other berserkers—the ones that Pastor Jim told us all those horror stories about—they decided for themselves what kind of animal spirit they wanted to bond with. They weren’t good choices: weren’t the right choices. They couldn’t properly bond, and it drove them insane. That isn’t going to happen to us.” “Like hell it isn’t!” Dean shouts. “I remember! I tore some guy apart—some nineteen year old kid, and I just—” “You were drugged, Dean,” Sam breaks in. “You were drugged, and the wolf was drugged, and none of that was you.” Dean shakes his head sharply. “I wasn’t drugged when I almost killed Dad so I could fuck some girl in the woods, was I?” he asks. “You got an excuse for that?” “Littlerunner is young,” the cougar says through Sam’s mouth. “And you were not bonded. He did not understand human ways. He only knew the path of blood and strength. The path of instinct. That will change when you are whole.” Dean’s face shuts down. “I want to talk to my brother, you son of a bitch.” The cougar retreats, offering Sam a little brush of apology. ::I made it worse. I am sorry.:: S’okay, he thinks back. It isn’t your fault. “Dean, you’re gonna need to trust me,” he says aloud. “I’m fine. You’ll be fine if you just accept the wolf. If you don’t, you’re going to get sick, and you’re going to die.” Dean doesn’t look terribly upset at the prospect, and he doesn’t smell upset either. Now that Sam is thinking about it, he understands what the wolf meant when it said that Dean smelt like earth, although it isn’t anything like the smell of real earth. Thoughts of death—a longing for it—taint the air around Dean with a thick, ruffling scent. Like sickness. Deal with it later, Sam tells himself, and quickly presses the attack with: “If you die, I’ll die.” Dean starts at that and a fresh bolt of fear laces through the air. “Vincent wasn’t lying, Dean. Berserkers—true berserkers—mate for life, and you’re it for me. You die—you leave me here alone—and that’s it. I’m done too.” He turns away then, unable to keep the tears from falling anymore and not wanting Dean to see that. Dean can probably smell it anyway—Sam isn’t hiding anything anymore either—but it at least provides them both with an illusion of privacy. Missouri is dicing peppers on the kitchen counter, and Sam hesitates for a moment before heading over to sit at the table. He rubs his fingers against the wood while he cries quietly, ignoring the cougar’s tentative attempts at comfort. Missouri heard him—Sam wasn’t being quiet, so she must have—and if she somehow missed it before, then now she knows how completely fucked up Sam is. “I knew the first time I saw you two, Sam,” Missouri says without turning around. He hunches a little, stomach twisting in embarrassment, and doesn’t say anything. “I’m not gonna say it didn’t take some getting used to, but … you aren’t hurting anyone.” “How the hell can you be so calm about this?” Sam demands, keeping his voice lowered so Dean can ignore the conversation if he tries. If he wants to. “I’m psychic, Sam,” Missouri responds, dumping the peppers into a skillet on the stove. “I see a petty meanness every day in people. I see hate, and hurtful, hurtful thoughts.” Turning, she fixes him with a too-knowing gaze. “You two love each other. It isn’t normal, no, but it happened. You were only half a person without him, honey, and Dean, he needs you more than he needs air. He’s just too damned stubborn to admit it.” She raises her eyes as she says that last bit, and her eyes lift to a place behind Sam. When he twists his head, he sees that Dean has edged out to the bathroom doorway and is watching them with an unreadable expression. Sam is a little too far away to read his brother by scent, and right now he’s glad. Dean deserves a little privacy. “I’m making chili,” Missouri announces, regarding Dean with the same, no-nonsense look she used on him in Lawrence. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and find me some tomato sauce?” Dean hesitates, looking between Missouri to Sam and then back again. Then he steps across the broken trap and moves over toward pantry, human-slow. Sam wants to see it as a good sign, but as his brother walks past him, he catches that ruffling, sick smell, and he knows better. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Missouri’s chili is probably excellent, but Sam wouldn’t know. With Dean giving off that horrible, unsettling scent, he can’t manage to do more than push it around in his bowl. The noises the cougar is making in his head aren’t helping either: harsh, panting sounds with the edge of a growl. It’s as distressed by Dean as he is, and it isn’t as good at hiding its emotions. Missouri finally reaches over and whaps the back of Sam’s knuckles with her fork. “I didn’t make that so you could play with it, Sam,” she says as he shakes his hand out. Sam glances guiltily at his brother, who’s been shoveling steady forkfuls into his own mouth, and Dean is staring at him with narrowed eyes. When he catches Sam looking back, he ducks his head back down to his bowl. A moment later, the scent that’s been bothering Sam so much is gone. His hands give a tiny, hopeful jerk, but the cougar sighs. ::I hoped it would take longer for DeanMate to hide in the brush again. You are too obvious. You must learn better stealth.:: But what the cougar is suggesting is ludicrous, isn’t it? Dean can’t just stop smelling like something because he decides to, can he? ::Scent comes from the body,:: the cougar reminds him glumly. ::You can hold your breath and slow your heart if you know how. You can hide your scent.:: It isn’t fair. Sam finally had a reliable way to read his brother’s emotional state and it lasted for all of an hour before Dean took it away from him. He realizes that he’s being irrational—he was just thinking that Dean deserved some more privacy, after all—but that doesn’t make him any happier about the situation. Sam never considers trying to mask his own feelings in return, though, and the cougar doesn’t suggest it. They both know that, as jumpy as Dean is right now, he needs that steady input of information to ground himself. And they really don’t need to give him another reason to distrust them: he seems to be thinking up plenty on his own. Sam isn’t above wallowing in his hurt that Dean would block him out like this, though. He can tell from the way that Dean’s hand tightens on his fork that the signal—the scent—is coming through loud and clear. Good. Maybe it’ll help get through to his brother. But Dean just says, “Eat your food,” without looking at him, and then shovels another forkful into his own mouth. Sam eats. It tastes like cardboard the whole way down. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ He asks Missouri to stay and she doesn’t make him feel too stupid when she points out that there are only two beds and no couch. Sam trails outside after her while Dean washes the dishes. “Stay for dinner, at least,” he says desperately. “I can’t cook for shit, but Dean makes a mean mac and cheese.” Missouri’s smile is slow, and when she hugs him Sam catches a bitter scent on her skin that he thinks must be sadness. “You’re both good boys, honey, but I can’t stay here any longer. I don’t belong, and I’m making Dean nervous.” “I don’t … I don’t know what to do,” Sam whispers, feeling stripped bare and open in front of her. It isn’t a pleasant feeling, and the cougar likes it even less than he does, shying deeper inside of Sam in an attempt to hide from those dark, knowing eyes. “You be his brother, Sam,” Missouri tells him. “Isn’t there any advice you can give me?” he presses. “Something to say—some way to get through to him, convince him that I’m telling the truth?” “Oh, honey, you know I would if I could, but your brother—he never was very easy to read, and now he’s locked up so tight inside himself that all I can get are surface impressions.” Sam nods, pressing his lips tightly together and blinking rapidly in an attempt to keep from crying. He’s so goddamned lost, and now Missouri is leaving him, and he’ll be alone as well. ::Not alone,:: the cougar reminds him, but right now—in light of what he’s facing with Dean—that seems like a small consolation. Missouri reaches up and brushes her fingertips against the skin at the corner of one of his eyes. “I do know that this bothers him. It’s unsettling.” For her too, Sam guesses from the way her mouth twists a little. “If you can do something about it, it might help relax him.” The cougar immediately slips forward and shows Sam how to hide what they are. It’s almost like clenching a fist inside of his mind: it’ll take effort, and he’ll have to work to maintain it, but the principle seems easy enough. He tries it now and her smile softens. “Better?” “That’s fine, Sam,” she tells him. After that, they say the things that people are supposed to say when the time comes to part paths. Missouri tells him to call when he can, and to stop by if he and Dean are ever passing through Lawrence. Sam says he will, and they’ll try, and she pretends to believe him. Eventually, there’s nothing left to say but the goodbye itself, and they do that quickly. Another hug, a kiss on the cheek, and Sam is watching Missouri pull away down the drive in her rental car. He stands there until the dust settles and then heads back inside. Dean is leaning against the kitchen counter wiping his hands on a dishtowel. Sam looks at his brother with his old, hazel eyes and can’t think of anything to say. Dean looks back for a moment and then tosses the towel into the sink. “Don’t do that,” he says as he starts to put the dishes away. “Don’t do what?” Sam asks. It’s a conversation, of sorts, which is progress. He steps closer. “Don’t pretend to be something you aren’t,” Dean snaps without looking at him. “I’m your brother,” Sam says in a small, desperate voice. Dean shakes his head and gives a short laugh. “Yeah, you’re really not.” “Dean—” “Tell me something: did that rabbit scream when you killed it? Did you like the way the blood tasted?” His voice lowers, trailing across Sam’s skin like a caress. “Do you want more?” Sam does, or the cougar does: either way it’s the same thing. But they don’t want it the way that Dean means. They don’t want to hurt things—torture and bleed them the way that the demons (deathlessdark) do. They want the hunt. They want to be what they were meant to be: to take part in that old circle of life crap that Elton John sings about. Sam finally—finally—sees the beauty and the necessity of the hunt that Dean has been trying to drum into his skull for twenty years and Dean’s talking to him like he’s about to start drinking blood as a nightcap. ::He doesn’t understand,:: the cougar says, watching with Sam as Dean slams the cupboard shut. Sam’s frustration makes the cougar lash its tail inside his mind, and he wants to yowl. They both know how well that would go over, though, and so they stand silently as Dean stomps over to his bed and starts flipping through the new issue of Musclecar Enthusiast. There’s a pile of other magazines on the floor, and a few worn Hammett novels. Missouri must have brought them. “Dean,” Sam starts again. He doesn’t know what to say, though, and when Dean keeps reading, no sign that he heard Sam say his name, Sam’s shoulders drop into a defeated posture. He slinks outside again, shuts the door behind him, and sobs. He half expects Dean to appear with a plate of cookies and a wad of tissues the way he always used to when they were kids, but he never does. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ When the sun is going down, Sam heads back inside. Dean looks up from his bed, meeting Sam’s gaze—gold again, what’s the point in trying?—and inserts the needle into his neck. Sam watches his brother inject himself with the Gleipnir. He doesn’t move when Dean gets up and tosses the spent syringe into the trash. “I made dinner,” Dean says calmly. It’s mac and cheese. Of course. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ “Good night,” Sam says. And, “We’re going to be okay.” And, “I’m in love with you. I think I’ve been in love with you since I was sixteen. Dean? Did you hear me? I said I love you.” And Dean says, “Shut the fuck up and go to sleep already.” *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Sam wakes up in the middle of the night with a heavy weight on his chest. He opens his eyes and everything is as bright as day, although he knows there are no lights on in the room. Dean is straddling his waist, Dean’s beautiful face hangs above him in stark black and white, and he must be dreaming. Then he sees the gun in his brother’s hands and knows he’s awake. Dean is holding the gun with both hands and pointing it at Sam’s forehead. His own face is determined, and there’s no telling what he’s feeling because he still has the empty, clean scent of hiding. The room is silent enough that Sam can hear his brother’s heartbeat, strong and steady. Too fast for him to be perfectly calm, though, or perfectly okay with what he’s doing. Sam looks up at his brother and doesn’t say anything. Dean looks back at him and doesn’t fire. After almost a minute, Sam realizes that Dean’s hands are shaking on the gun. There are stress lines around the corners of his mouth. As he looks up at his brother, something in Sam’s chest gives way, flooding him with an ache that’s both agonizing and liberating. “If this is what you need to do, Dean,” he says softly, “Then do it.” He thinks, for a moment, that Dean will. He sees it as clearly as any vision: two rapid shots to his head, and then Dean turning the gun on himself. Another, solitary shot. Then silence. But Dean doesn’t move. “It’s okay,” Sam adds. “I won’t be mad at you.” The cougar is silent inside of him, sorrowful but unafraid. It has known completion for almost a day, which is more than most of its kind will ever have. If that’s all it ever gets, it will be enough. “I still love you.” Dean’s face twitches at that and he lets out a sob. Sam feels the cold press of the gun disappear and then Dean is kissing him, hard and desperate, and whispering, “Sammy. God, Sam, I can’t.” It’s the first time Dean has said his name since he saw Sam’s eyes. Sam reaches up for his brother, heart leaping with hope, and his arms close on air. He sits up, the sheets sliding down to puddle around his waist, and Dean is already standing in the open doorway. “I’m sorry,” Dean breathes, and then turns and sprints out into the night. Swearing, Sam struggles out of the sheets and hurries to the door himself. Dean’s already gone, of course, but Sam yells after him anyway. “Dean! Dean!” ::He will return,:: the cougar says. Sam grips the doorframe as he stares out into the night. His legs tremble with the need to sprint after his brother’s scent. What if he doesn’t? he asks. ::He will,:: the cougar repeats. “How the fuck can you be so sure?” Sam demands. He realizes that he’s crying again and reaches up with one hand to wipe his eyes. ::He is our mate. He loves us. He needs us.:: Sam rests his head against the doorframe for a moment, breathing in the fresh scent of the woods outside and the lingering, warmer smell of his brother, and then turns around and goes back inside. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Sam is eating breakfast—Fruit Loops and a glass of OJ—at the table when the door opens and his brother’s scent floods the room again. His heart hammers in his chest, but he doesn’t look up. Dean moves around the room for a minute and then comes and sits down across from Sam. “This is completely fucked, you know that, right?” Dean’s voice is wasted, harsh with exhaustion and some unreadable emotion, but Sam thinks he hears a tiny thread of humor there as well. “We’ve never been normal, Dean,” Sam says, staring at his cereal. “You gave it a good run for its money, though,” Dean murmurs, and now Sam can work out what the emotion is: regret. “I’m not sorry,” he says. “I chose this. I chose you.” Dean sighs and then shoves something toward him across the table. Sam glances up a little, expecting the gun, and then freezes. After a moment, he hesitantly reaches out and runs a finger along the top of the case. “Are you sure?” he asks. Dean laughs. Hard. Brittle. “Fuck no. I’m bored, is what I am. I don’t want to sit around and wait anymore. I just want it done.” There are only nine syringes left in the case, but it seems to take Sam forever to empty them out into the sink. He didn’t like the drug before, and he likes it even less now. It makes his skin itch. The cougar’s thoughts have a ruffled feel to them: like fur standing on end. ::Nasty,:: it says as the blue swirls down the drain. Sam can only think of one word that better describes the Gleipnir. Gone. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ It’s obvious by midnight that something has gone wrong. Dean’s been restless since sunset. It isn’t so much the pacing that bothers Sam and the cougar, as the intent with which he does it. Like he has somewhere to go instead just making rounds of the cabin. The later it gets, the longer Dean’s strides get, turning what normally would have been a tightly controlled step into rangy lopes. Five strides from one end of the cabin to the other. Pause. Five strides back the other way. Pause. It’s almost like clockwork, except for the fact that the line Dean moves along is slowly edging closer to the door. This time, the cougar isn’t quite so equivocal about letting him out of their sight. ::Keep him here. We need to be close to help,:: it tells Sam, and shifts them closer. Sam takes over halfway through the first step and puts himself in Dean’s path. Dean is so intent on what he’s doing that he almost bowls Sam over before he realizes he’s there and skids to a halt. “What?” he bites out. Dean’s breath is coming too fast and shallow, and Sam knows that it isn’t from the pacing. His eyes aren’t just focused but cutting: pupils sunk to pinpricks and swallowed up by an impossible shade of golden green. Sam can smell sweat on him, and sour fear, and the faintest hint of that ruffling earth scent. He’s pretty sure Dean isn’t aware he’s giving it off again. “Stop running,” he says. “I’m pacing, Sam. There’s a difference.” Dean moves to brush past and Sam grabs his arm. “The wolf’s already part of you, Dean. You can’t get away from it. And this—this whole pacing thing is freaking me out and it isn’t helping.” Dean drops his eyes and licks his lips. “Now why don’t you sit down? There’s cards. We could play poker.” The cougar pokes into Sam’s memories at the new word and then gives an approving purr. ::Poker,:: it says to itself, musing, and the word comes out as ‘AmbushFromTheBrushSlyStalk’. It’s gonna love chess. “Fine,” Dean says, pulling his arm free. “Whatever.” He moves—lopes—back to the kitchen table where he sits with one leg rattling up and down like a malfunctioning piston. Sam is unpleasantly reminded of the way his brother’s leg twitched when Vincent was electrocuting him, but he doesn’t say anything. At least Dean is sitting down. Dean’s fingers drum on the table in a rhythmless, nervous motion as Sam gets the cards and comes over. He manages to sit until all the cards are dealt, and then instead of picking his hand up he pushes his chair back and stalks toward the refrigerator. “Dean—” “I’m getting a beer,” Dean snarls. “Man’s allowed a last fucking request, and I’m having a drink.” Sam waits quietly at the table for his brother to finish going through first the refrigerator and then the pantry and the rest of the cabinets. When Dean slams the last cabinet shut and leans there, chest heaving, Sam says, “Come back and sit down, man, okay? We’ll go out to a bar and get a drink tomorrow night.” Dean makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh and starts pacing again. Sam pulls his chair across the room and sits in front of the cabin door and lets him. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ By morning, the nervous energy is gone. Dean isn’t sweating anymore, but that’s probably because he doesn’t have any moisture left to spare. His lips are dry and cracked, and his hair is listless and flat on his head. He’s sprawled out on his bed unmoving. Only the rapid rise-fall of his chest gives any indication that he’s still alive. Sam is sitting on the edge of the bed holding his brother’s hand, but he doesn’t think Dean even knows he’s here anymore. ::We are losing him,:: the cougar frets. I know, Sam tells it, and tightens his grip on his brother. He’d be crying, but he’s pretty dried up himself by now. “Sammy,” Dean pants. Placing his other hand on his brother’s cheek, Sam murmurs, “I’m right here, man.” “Don’t—don’t feel good—can’t—” He licks his lips clumsily with a tongue that looks bone dry and then continues, “Can’t think. It’s in my head. I. Everything’s. No. No, fuck you, I won’t.” Sam tightens up on his brother’s hand until he’s in danger of breaking it and then says, “Dean, listen to me, okay? You hear me?” Dean blinks. “Come on, man, you were just here. Focus.” He chances a quick, extra squeeze and feels something crack. ::He can heal later,:: the cougar reminds him when he suffers a quick pang of guilt. It’s true, and besides, the pain seems to be giving Dean an anchor. This time when he blinks, Sam sees awareness in his brother’s eyes. “Sammy?” Dean mumbles. Then, pressing his eyes shut, he creases his face in pained concentration. “Tough. Thinking is. There’s too much.” Sam remembers what it felt like to finish merging his mind with the cougar’s, and can’t imagine being stuck there for hours the way Dean’s been. “I know, man,” he says, vision blurring. Turns out he’s got a few more tears in him after all. “It’ll get better, but you need to stop fighting. You need to let the wolf in.” He’s said that a million times tonight and been met with everything from derision to silence. This time, Dean opens his eyes again and says in a reluctant, frightened whisper, “I don’t know how.” “Shh,” Sam murmurs, raking his fingers through his brother’s hair. “Just let go, okay?” “I can’t,” Dean repeats, and starts shaking. The bad smell—the hot, pulsing scent of sickness and approaching death—jumps sharply. “No. No, Dean, don’t do this,” Sam begs. He bows forward, pressing his forehead to his brother’s and mingling their breaths. “Let go,” he whispers. “For once in your goddamned life, stop being so fucking stubborn.” Dean opens his mouth—probably to protest again—and Sam kisses him. It’s probably the world’s worst kiss. Dean’s lips are chapped to hell, his mouth is hot and dry, and he’s too out of it to do more than lie there tasting like salt and ruin. But it might be the last time Sam gets to do this, so he pours himself into it anyway, trying to cram a lifetime of kisses into this one moment. He has enough time left to try one more thing, and if it doesn’t work then Dean is going to die with Sam’s angry voice in his ears. I’m sorry, he thinks. If this doesn’t work, then I’m sorry. But he doesn’t have time for guilt right now: he can feel Dean’s heart, so recently healed and strong, falter. Breaking the kiss sharply, he snaps, “Dean! Let go right fucking now!” Dean’s face flickers with confusion. “Dad?” he whispers. It hurts. Christ, it hurts that these may be Dean’s last few seconds and he’s too out of it to even know who he’s with. But if this is what Sam has to work with, then he’ll use it. “That’s an order.” Mimicking intonation and inflection. Using his own iron and desperation to fuel the whole thing. Dean closes his eyes and makes a weak, sobbing sound. He tries feebly to turn his face into the pillow and Sam grips his brother’s shoulder and flips him firmly onto his back. “You do it now, boy!” he growls, and Dean flinches. Biting down on his lip, Dean shakes and whines back in his throat and then goes limp. Sam can feel the jolt in his own soul as the wolf snaps home. He knows before Dean sucks in a sharp breath and opens his eyes what he’ll see. Gold. Gold and awe and peace and home. Those gold eyes are dazed for a moment and then they focus on Sam. Dean’s lips twitch up into a weary, but completely genuine, smile. “Hey, man,” he rasps. Sam doesn’t think his voice is going to work for a few seconds, but once he swallows his heart he manages to croak, “Hey.” Dean’s hand comes up and grabs Sam’s shirt weakly. “If you’re gonna say it, say it now, dude,” he says. Sam can’t help but laugh at that, relieved and open. He puts his hand over his brother’s and strokes his thumb along the side of Dean’s fist. Holds Dean’s hand in place while he leans over and buries his face against the side of Dean’s neck. “I told you so,” he breathes. Dean’s other hand comes up and strokes clumsily through Sam’s hair. “Yeah, you did.”

Sam is still in shock when he lets himself into the suite at the Bellagio. He hasn’t spoken since Dean told him to get out. Put himself back together in silence: gathered his jacket from the arm of the couch without a word. When he put his hand on the doorknob to let himself out, and something other than ohGodohGodohGod finally popped into his head, he turned and hurried back into the bedroom with apologizes burning in his mouth. Dean had already shut himself in the bathroom, though; Sam could hear the shower running through the door. He waited for his brother for over an hour, but Dean didn’t emerge, and the shower never turned off. As he walks past the fountain in the entrance hall of the suite, Sam wonders morbidly whether Dean is still trying to wash his touch from his skin. He rounds the corner, heading for his room, and then freezes as he catches sight of Bela and Bobby through the open conference room door. They’re sitting side by side at the table looking at Bela’s laptop. Bobby’s drinking a beer and Bela has some kind of hard, clear alcohol at her right elbow. Sam feels naked: knows that his sin is written across his face for anyone to see. Bobby’s gonna take one look at him and know. Thoughts of flight flitter through his head, but there isn’t anywhere for him to run: no hole deep enough or foul enough to hide from what he did. That doesn’t mean he’s up to facing anyone tonight, of course, so he tries to creep past the open door. Once he’s out of sight, he can sprint the few feet to his room and lock himself inside. He’s craving a shower of his own, actually: needs to rid himself of the clinging residue of his brother’s victorious gaze. Bela has the instincts of a thief, though, and just as he’s about to inch safely out of sight, she lifts her head and spots him. “Sam,” she greets with her best warm, disingenuous smile firmly in place. Bobby looks up as well at the sound of Sam’s name, and Sam can’t quite hide his flinch when the man’s eyes fall on him. “Hey, Sam,” Bobby says. His smile, although weak, is completely genuine. “How’s Dean?” Yes, Sam, how is Dean? a cold voice in Sam’s mind taunts. Just as good as you always imagined, isn’t he? No, he isn’t. He’s better. Oh God, no matter how disgusted Sam is by himself right now, there’s a part of him—that dark, powerful part—that wants to do it again. That’s humming with excitement at the thought of going back to Vincent’s guest suite tomorrow night and doing more. Sam’s stomach heaves and for a moment he’s certain that he’s going to throw up. The conference room swims in his vision (now that you got what you came for) and then stabilizes again. Bobby is still waiting for an answer, and although he doesn’t look suspicious yet, he’s going to get suspicious in a few moments if Sam doesn’t do something. Clearing his throat, Sam says, “He’s okay.” Miraculously, his voice is steady. “He’s healing?” Bobby prods. “Yeah, he’s, uh, almost fully recovered.” “Good,” Bela says with a satisfied undercurrent to her voice. “Then he’ll be ready for tomorrow night.” Sam blinks. “Tomorrow night?” He has no idea what Bela is talking about. His mind is too filled with the memory of Dean’s mouth: with the way that Dean’s skin tasted and the needy sounds he made when he suckled at Sam’s cock. I should’ve kissed him, Sam thinks dully. He fucked his relationship with his brother up beyond repair tonight: might as well have indulged himself when he had the chance. Of course, thinking like that leads to thoughts of tossing Dean down onto those black silk sheets and claiming his territory, which isn’t the kind of thing he should be capable of considering right now. Distracted and worried, he runs a hand through his hair. How much of the darkness inside of him is from the demon-driven power, and how much is Sam? The answer doesn’t matter much—it's too late to stop using the power now even if he could afford to—but at the same time, it’s one of the most important questions Sam has ever asked himself. God, it’s terrifying that he has no way of knowing whether he hurt Dean because he’s contaminated or because he’s just that sick. He so desperately wants it not to have been his fault, but he knows, deep down, that it is. Even if the power made it easier to succumb, the original impulse—all that burning, bottomless hunger—is all Sam. My fault, he thinks. Oh fuck, how could I do that to him? Someone touches his arm and Sam jolts back to himself. He takes a stumbling lurch backward before Bobby’s face registers and then makes himself stop. Guilt tastes like acid and bile: the edges of the nausea that is threatening to overtake him. Brow furrowed and eyes dark, Bobby turns his hand palm out. Over Bobby’s shoulder, Sam can see Bela standing by the table with a tight frown on her face as she watches the two of them. Oh fuck, they know. Sam spaced out and now they know what he did—what he is. “You okay, Sam?” Bobby asks. “You zoned out on us for a minute there.” Relief mingles with his guilt and only makes him feel worse. His fingers twitch with the urge to rub at his skin. Dirty. Twisted. Contaminated. “I’m … fine. I’m just tired. Haven’t been sleeping well.” Bobby’s going to see right through that half-truth to the lie it is, Sam’s sure of it. But instead the concern on Bobby’s face eases—and it is concern, rather than the condemnation Sam’s fevered mind took it for at first—and he nods sympathetically. “It’s almost over now,” he says. “I don’t know that you heard me before, but Gordon called and they’re ready. We can get him out tomorrow night.” Tomorrow night. It’s sooner than Sam was letting himself hope for and still one night and a blowjob too late. “That’s great,” he rasps. “Do we need—” He stops, smoothes his hand awkwardly down the front of his jacket, and then continues, “We need to go over everything again. Make sure we didn’t miss anything.” He tries to edge past Bobby into the conference room and Bobby moves with him, blocking his path. “You’re wiped, Sam,” he says. “How about you turn in? Bela and I are running over the plan now, and we’re gonna keep running over it until I’m satisfied it’s as airtight as it can get.” “I should—” “Bed. Now.” Swallowing, Sam ducks his head and nods. He doesn’t know why he was arguing in the first place. Maybe because, as terrified as he is of Bobby in particular finding out what he did to Dean, he’s more afraid of being alone with himself. “It’s gonna be fine, son,” Bobby says, clapping one hand on Sam’s shoulder. “We’re gonna get him back.” No longer trusting his voice, Sam nods and then pulls free from Bobby’s grip. His eyes burn as he slinks down the hall to his room. If Bobby knew, he wouldn’t have touched Sam like that. If he knew, he’d have taken out his gun and put a hole in Sam’s chest. As he pushes the door to his room closed behind him, shutting the world out and his guilty thoughts in, Sam’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve anything else. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Sam feels himself sliding through the dark place inside of him as he drifts off, but he’s too torn up inside to stop it. One second he’s floating down, his thoughts wrapped up in Dean while a hum of power cocoons him, and the next he’s standing in the guest suite’s bedroom again. Dean is a huddled shape underneath the covers, rolled onto his side with his knees pulled up to his chest. It isn’t anything like his normal sleeping position—sprawled wide and cat-like, taking up as much space as he can—and Sam’s chest tightens to see him curled in on himself like that. Like he’s trying to avoid notice, or shield himself from a blow. The worn t-shirt Dean’s wearing pulls across his shoulders with every breath. His hair is still damp on his pillow. Sam looks at his brother’s face, so lax and vulnerable in sleep, and wants to stride over to the bed and pull his brother into his arms. Wants to stroke Dean’s hair and whisper apologies that will never come close to making up for what he did. But he knows that this isn’t a dream—knows where he is—and touching his brother at all when he’s inside of Dean’s (soul) mind would be even more of a violation. Besides, he has other things to worry about here. Sam turns, scanning the room, and isn’t surprised to find the wolf standing only a few feet behind him. Geri is wearing Dean’s shape again and watching him with a wary, but otherwise unreadable, expression. Sam raises his hands quickly, palms out to show that he means no harm. The scratches that Geri gave him last time they met have only just stopped aching when he touches them, and no matter how much he deserves it, he’s in no hurry to get another set. “I’m not a demon,” he blurts. Geri cocks its head. “Know that,” it says. “Didn’t taste like deathlessdark. Fled, didn’t fight.” Sam starts to lower his hands and then realizes that he’s probably still on the wolf’s shit list for what he did to Dean. “I’m sorry,” he says, offering the apology to something that isn’t his brother but has his face. “I didn’t mean to, I swear to God I didn’t.” Blinking, Geri cocks its head to the other side. “Not your fault,” it says. “Infected. Sick. Bad blood.” For a moment, Sam thinks that the wolf is telling him that his desire for Dean stems from the same place as his powers. That doesn’t make any sense, though. Sam wanted Dean long before he had any visions, and as much as he’s like to blame his desire on the darkness inside of him, he knows he can’t. It’s a sickness all right, but it’s all Sam. Besides, Geri doesn’t seem upset. A little confused, maybe, but not hostile and snarling the way it should be over what he did to his brother. As Sam’s fear eases, he remembers talking to Geri about the Gleipnir: remembers the wolf telling him that it isn’t always aware of what happens to Dean. It doesn’t know, he realizes. It didn’t see what I did. The rush of shamed relief at that understanding only drowns out Sam’s rational mind for a second. Frowning, he turns over what the wolf just told him and then says, “You’re talking about the power.” Geri nods. “Yes. From deathlessdark. Infected.” “How?” Sam asks. Despite his unabated guilt over Dean, he can’t help feeling a little excited. He thought he gave up any chance of ever knowing what was happening to him when he shot the yellow-eyed demon. Now, after all this time, he’s finally on the verge of understanding. “Bad blood,” the wolf repeats. “Makes you sick. Like eating maggot meat.” Sam’s brain refuses to put that together for a few seconds, and when it finally does, a wave of trembling, icy weakness spreads through him and drops him to his knees. There's a part of him—the same part that has embraced the power—that isn't terribly surprised. The rest of him wants to be sick, no matter how useless that would be. There’s nothing for him to throw up here, after all, and there wouldn’t be anything even if he were in his body. It’s years too late to get rid of the taint that way. Sam doesn’t know how many years late: won’t ever know for sure when the yellow-eyed bastard poured the blood—probably its own—down his throat. Based on when his powers began to appear, he’d guess that it was sometime during his last summer at Stanford. On the other hand, logic tells him that it’s more likely his contamination took place when he was six months old. If the powers that the demon’s blood produced are the reason that the yellow-eyed demon wanted him, then the potential must have already been there when it killed his mother in the nursery. When the numb cocoon of shock finally eases, Sam pushes himself up into a crouch and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. He looks up and finds Geri watching him with the unconcerned interest of a child. If that were Dean, he’d be over here with one hand low on Sam’s back, soothing him through this. Well, probably not anymore. Wary of his shaking legs, Sam gets back to his feet. “Is there—” His voice cracks and he has to clear his throat before trying again. “Is there a way to get it out?” But Geri is distracted, head tilted up into the air like a dog on point. Sniffing audibly, it edges forward. Sam lets it come closer, awkward with how much it looks like his brother: with its casual nudity. He keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the far wall as the wolf presses its nose to the side of his neck and draws in a slow, deep breath. “Geri?” he says, trying to ignore his body’s treacherous reaction to having something that looks and feels exactly like his brother pressed up against him. Dean’s lips brush his collarbone as Geri lifts its head. Geri’s eyes skim down his body, narrowed and intent, and before Sam realizes what’s happening, the wolf has dropped to its knees in front of him. Sam’s head swims with images of Dean kneeling in front of him: of Dean’s lips stretched around his cock. He feels the phantom grasp of his brother’s hand on his hip. The wet, tight heat of Dean’s throat. Geri nuzzles at Sam’s stomach with the same, deliberate breaths it gave his neck, sniffing him. Its hands come up and rest on Sam’s hips, echoes of Dean, and Sam realizes that he’s trembling. And hard. Should move, he thinks, because there’s fucked up and then there’s Fucked Up and he’s pretty sure that this falls in the latter category. He doesn’t, though: stomach twitching as his brother’s nose and mouth rub against it through his shirt. Can’t seem to remember how to make his legs work. When Geri lifts its head to look at him, its pupils are tiny little points that are almost lost in a field of gold. “Smell good,” it says. “Smell like—” “Sammy, yeah, I know,” Sam blurts. His paralysis has finally broken at the sound of the wolf’s voice, and he takes the step back that he should have taken earlier tonight. Geri shakes its head, breaking out into a grin as it rises to its feet in a smooth motion. “No,” it corrects. “Smell like mate.” Sam has time to think, oh, fu— and then he has an armful of wolf. Gripping his hips with insistent hands, Geri licks eagerly along Sam’s collarbone. Sam wraps his own hands around the wolf’s biceps, trying to push it off of him, and might as well be pushing at a brick wall. “Stop,” he tries. “Geri, I’m not—we aren’t—” “Mate,” the wolf repeats happily, and then bites down into the sensitive join between Sam’s shoulder and neck. “Ow!” Sam shouts, jerking his head to one side. He isn’t sure that Geri didn’t draw blood with that bite. Geri gives that aching spot another lick and then snorts laughter when Sam squirms and lets out a short hiss. It sounds so much like Dean in a teasing mood that Sam’s chest clenches. “Get off me!” he snaps more sharply than he meant to, getting his hands between them and shoving at the wolf’s chest. “I’m his brother!” As if that stopped Sam a few hours ago. As if he’d hesitate to shove Dean down on his back for one second if Dean wanted him back. “Smell us on you,” the wolf insists, slipping one of its hands around to rest on Sam’s stomach. “Smell us here. Marked you.” Okay, now Sam is completely lost because there’s no way that the wolf can call giving Sam a blowjob ‘marking’ him. The dream—Dean’s release spilling out and smearing them both—flickers at the back of his mind and is ruthlessly shoved away. That wasn’t real. Just like this isn’t real? a snide voice asks. Sam is too busy keeping the wolf’s hands out of his pants to answer. It’s like trying to snatch a toy away from a four year old. The wolf keeps making this snuffing, laughing noise and wriggling its wrist free from his grip. When Sam finally manages to restrain Geri’s right hand with both of his own, the damned wolf immediately starts groping with its left instead. After his indiscretion earlier tonight, Sam knows intimately just how perfectly Geri’s hand mimics his brother's, and his breath catches as it finally gets a hold on him. Geri’s eyes gleam in triumph, but it doesn’t seem to know what to do now that it has him. Thank God for small favors: if it starts actually doing something Sam’s gonna lose what little sanity is left to him at this point. Releasing the wolf’s right hand, Sam wraps both of his hands around its left wrist. The wolf ignores him, glancing toward Dean’s slumbering body and narrowing its eyes in concentration. Sam’s pretty sure that he knows what it’s after, and he scrambles to pull its hand free before it siphons the knowledge from his brother’s mind. He isn’t quite quick enough. As Sam starts to pull up, Geri’s face lights with a mischievous smile and drags its thumb against the head of his cock. Sam’s hand goes lax around its wrist and Geri makes a happy little noise and adjusts its grip. With Sam hanging on loosely, it starts to stroke him with exactly the same pressure and speed Dean used earlier tonight. Instead of hurling hateful words, though, it licks the corner of his jaw and growls, “Mine.” Sam shudders, his eyes slipping shut. “Mine,” Geri repeats triumphantly, and Sam could almost believe it’s Dean’s voice. Dean’s hand on him. Dean wanting him. Then again, this is how he got into trouble with his brother in the first place. If he hadn’t indulged himself in his dreams, then even with the darkness corroding his self-restraint, he never would have been weak enough to fold in real life. “That’s enough, damn it!” he grunts, and shoves the wolf directly in the center of its chest. His mind pulses with the shove, power flexing outward, and Geri is finally driven back. Dropping into a half-crouch, it stares at him with muscles tensed and wide, startled eyes. Oh, fantastic. Now instead of trying to get into his pants, it’s going to try to kill him again. Sam readies himself to slide back into his own mind as soon as it leaps, but it doesn’t move. In fact, after a moment its face crumples and it whines at the back of its throat. Sam stands there awkwardly, feeling like he just kicked a puppy. “Look, I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. The apology feels clumsy on his tongue. “But you can’t—you can’t do that, okay? Do you understand?” It sniffles and then edges closer, shoulders hunched and head held at a wary angle. “Understand,” it says. “SammyMate sick. Have to fix you.” When Sam doesn’t strike out, Geri straightens and closes the rest of the distance between them. Sam tenses, ready to push it away if it tries anything, but it doesn’t do anything more than lean against his body and butt its head against his shoulder affectionately. Which is weird, but not exactly inappropriate. “Can you?” he asks. “Fix me, I mean?” “Fix you,” Geri says. “You save DeanMeMine, then we fix you.” It pauses and then, with an impish smile playing around its mouth, it adds, “Then we mate you.” “No,” Sam tries again, shifting his body away from the erection poking into his hip. “I’m not—we aren’t doing that. Not ever. What you smell, it’s a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened.” His throat constricts painfully, and his next words—the confession he can’t hold back any longer—comes out choked. “I hurt him.” That gets through to Geri enough for the wolf to draw back a step. It wrinkles its forehead in confusion. “You hurt DeanMeMine?” “Yeah, I—he doesn’t want me,” Sam tells it. The wolf just looks at him, uncomprehending, and he shifts uneasily. This would be so much easier to explain if he was talking to something that had human emotions. “He was being—he was trying to make me leave and he pushed too hard. He didn’t know that I—that I really wanted him. Like that. And then when he—he was h-hurting and I sh-shouldn’t have—” Sam is crying suddenly. Weak, helpless tears because it’s true: he as good as raped his brother and he liked it. God help him, he fucking loved it. He’s no better than Vincent. Sam doesn’t register the soft brush against his cheeks at first. He’s crying too hard: sunk too deeply into his misery and self-hatred. Then hands settle firmly onto his shoulders and there’s no missing that. “W-what are y-you—” he gets out. “Shh,” Geri hushes him, and licks at his tears again. “Love you. Mate. Never hurt us.” It isn’t true and Sam knows it: he hurts Dean all the time—hurt him tonight, and badly, and just because the wolf doesn’t understand that doesn’t make it untrue. He doesn’t deserve the comfort he’s being offered, but he’s too weak to refuse it. So instead of pushing Geri away again or flinging himself free from his brother’s subconscious, he yanks the wolf into a crushing hug. Ducking his face against its shoulder, he sobs harder. After a moment, Geri’s arms come up awkwardly to hold him. “SammyMate,” it says, and the licks turn into clumsy kisses against the side of his bent neck. It’s obvious that it’s new to this form of affection, but the artlessness of the kisses pierce Sam more deeply than any of the more skilled ones he’s received over the years. “SammyMate and DeanMeMine hunt together soon,” it soothes. “Two-as-one. Very good.” Oh God, he wishes that were true. He wishes that things could be like that: him and Dean on the road, him and Dean together. Dean loving him back. But he’s never going to have that, not fucking ever, and the knowledge is sour in his mouth. Geri says that Dean loves him, and he doesn’t doubt that. But it can’t possibly understand the difference between the brotherly love that Dean feels and the soul-crushing, heated longing that possesses Sam. No, this—letting the alien intelligence invading his brother’s soul hold and comfort him—is this closest that Sam will ever come to being whole. And even this is a cheat: a lie based on a simple misunderstanding. Sam has no doubt that Geri will understand in time. The connection between the wolf and his brother is frayed and drugged but not broken, and sooner or later it will realize how deeply Sam betrayed Dean’s trust. For now, though, he lets himself sink deeper into its embrace. He lets its voice—Dean’s voice—whisper loving reassurances while he weeps for everything he lost in a moment of angry passion. When Sam finally wakes in the morning, his eyes are sore and dry from crying. His head is fuzzed with sorrow and guilt is a heavy weight on his chest: a weak roil in his stomach. As broken as he feels, he doesn’t think that he could possibly shed another tear. But when he hauls himself into the bathroom and looks in the mirror—when he sees the bruise on his neck from the wolf’s love bite: the promise of what he needs so desperately and is never going to have—he discovers that he has a few more in him after all. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Today of all days, it’s too dangerous to meet Gordon and his team in person. Sam doesn’t want to risk tipping Vincent off at the last minute, and Bela and Bobby both agree with him. They set up an online conference instead, with the three of them crowded around Bela’s laptop on one end, Gordon on the other, and Ash providing the closed channel between them. Ash looks half-awake when the video conference screen opens: eyes bleary and hair mashed into a helmet on one side of his head. He’s nursing a beer, though, so Sam assumes—hopes—that he’s been up longer than he appears to have been. “Sam,” Ash greets him. “Hey, Ash,” Sam returns easily. He’s feeling fairly calm right now, having exerted control over his churning emotions by dipping into the dark power inside of him. As long as he keeps at least part of his attention there, he doesn’t feel nearly so bad about what he did to Dean, and he isn’t worried about tonight at all. How could he be worried with so much strength rushing through him? Sam is fucking invincible, and he’s going to get Dean back, and everything is going to be fine. “I’ve got Gordon Walker cued up,” Ash says. “You ready for him?” “In a second,” Sam answers. “First I need to ask you for another favor.” It’s a formality. He already knows that the challenge of what he’s proposing alone will reel the hacker in. Otherwise, despite the danger of someone unfriendly getting wind of what they were doing (Ash can’t keep his mouth shut for shit), Sam would have gone to work on him sooner. “Shoot.” “Dean’s alive,” Sam says, laying it out there. Ash blinks and then nods. “Congrats, man,” he says, taking a swig of his beer. Bobby makes a soft huff of laughter next to Sam and shakes his head. Meeting Sam’s eyes, he mutters out of the corner of his mouth, “Kid gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘half-baked’, doesn’t he?” Sam, who’s actually somewhat relieved by Ash’s lack of reaction, clears his throat and says, “Um. Thanks. Anyway, he’s being held by Vincent Camargo and we’re getting him out tonight. We were hoping you could do a few things for us.” “Name ‘em,” Ash agrees easily. Between the three of them, it only takes a few minutes to outline the plan for Ash. Just as Sam suspected, Ash brightens almost immediately. “Rocking,” he says. “I’ve got a rig set up in my room that should be able to send a signal that far. What channel are we using?” “You’ll have to ask Gordon,” Sam answers. “His people are setting us up with the ear pieces and the mikes. You’re sure you’ll be able to handle everything from there?” Ash looks a little insulted as he answers, “I could do this in my sleep, man.” Sam’s about to apologize—the last thing he needs is to be on Ash’s bad side right now—but Ash is already scratching his ear and muttering, “I’m gonna need some reinforcements, though.” Glancing off to his right, he calls, “Jo, bring me some nachos, woman!” “Do I look like your fetch and carry girl?” Jo’s voice shouts back. “I’m busy rescuing Dean Winchester. Don’t have time to get my own grub.” “What?” Sam winces—this is exactly why they haven’t let Ash in on the whole story until now—but it’s already too late. Ash is shoved aside and Jo’s face fills the box. Her skin is flushed and her eyes are overly bright. She has her hair in pigtails, and looks all of sixteen. “Sam? Is he—Ash said Dean was—” “He’s alive,” Sam admits, and then interrupts Jo’s whoop of joy by adding, “Jo! Jo, you can’t tell anyone. It isn’t safe yet.” Jo sobers immediately and Sam catches a glint of Ellen in the way her jaw firms. “He’s in trouble?” “We’re going in after him tonight,” Sam tells her, “But if anyone finds out about it we could all wind up dead. So I mean it, you can’t tell anyone—not even your mother. That goes for you too, Ash,” he adds as the hacker shifts back into the frame behind Jo. Ash looks confused. “Why would I tell my mother?” Elbowing Ash in the gut, Jo gives Sam a nod. “He won’t say anything. I’ll make sure of it.” She hesitates, biting down on her lower lip, and then asks, “You’ll come see us? After?” The dark, powerful place in Sam’s mind pulses. He isn’t yours, he thinks. He’s never going to be yours. As the overhead lights flicker and the computer screen fuzzes briefly, Sam realizes that he’s slipping further into the darkness. There’s a bitter taste in his mouth, like sulfur, he can almost see the power flickering around his fingertips where his right hand is resting on the table. At this rate, he isn’t going to safely be able to use it as a shield against his own emotions much longer. Bela frowns as she taps the edge of the computer screen with one nail, oblivious to Sam’s part in her laptop’s hiccup. Bobby knows about Sam’s powers, though, and he isn’t stupid. Sam senses the man’s stare as a physical weight on his skin. Closing his eyes, Sam begins to draw away from the exhilarating thrum of power. It clings to him like tar, slicking his thoughts and fighting to suck him deeper. He moves slowly by necessity, trying to scrape as much of the clinging darkness from his mind as he can while withdrawing. Finally, when there’s nothing more than a thin, trembling wall between him and the fear and the guilt and the growing, bleak despair, Sam opens his eyes again. It feels as though he’s been struggling with himself for hours, but from the expectant, cheerful look on Jo’s face it can’t have taken any more than a few seconds. Forcing a smile onto his face, he says, “We’re heading to Bobby’s for a few weeks first. We’ll see what happens then.” “You’ll come.” Jo’s statement has the assurance of innocence. Her voice and face are filled with the same, blind naiveté that lets her think she has any kind of chance with Dean. Something dark and snapping and green-eyed stirs in Sam’s stomach and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from snarling, ‘We’re never coming. Dean’s mine, he’s fucking mine, and I don’t share.’ The power pulses, reaching for him, and he feels dizzy. “If you don’t,” Jo continues obliviously, “I’ll sic Mom on you.” Grabbing Ash in a headlock, she presses a quick kiss to his temple. “Fully loaded nachos coming right up,” she announces, and then bounds out of view. “Sam, my man,” Ash says as he stares after her. “We should rescue your brother more often.” Bobby’s hand dropping down on top of Sam’s in a warning, but it’s a distant sensation. Feeling as though he’s moving someone else’s body, Sam twists his hand and grasps at the offering. Tightens his grip until he hears the echoing, remote sound of Bobby’s pained grasp. Much louder and more immediate is the oily laughter that spills forth from the dark place inside of him. It’s Sam’s voice, he recognizes that, but so much colder. Crueler. Power floods him, and he can’t figure out if the solid ground he was standing on crumbled from under his feet and sent him tumbling back into the dark, or if the demonic taint is spreading: rising inside his mind like cold, black water. Sam is drowning, and the only thing tethering him to his humanity right now is his grip on Bobby’s hand. “Sam? Are you all right?” Bela’s voice. Bela to his left and if she touches him when he’s like this, then Sam is going to kill her. “Fight it, Sam,” Bobby urges. His voice is tight with pain—of course it is, Sam can feel bones grating beneath his fingers—and urgency. Sam shakes his head. He can’t. He isn’t strong enough. Fuck, that sulfur taste is stronger than ever now, and undercut with the copper tang of blood. Bobby’s hand is making noises in Sam’s grip—snap crackle pop—and if Sam hasn’t broken anything yet he’s going to in a moment. But Bobby isn’t trying to pull free: is actually doing his best to clutch back. “Come on, boy,” he murmurs in Sam’s ear. “You’re stronger than this, damn it. You’re a goddamned Winchester, and you’re going to pull yourself together and get your brother out of that hellhole.” Dean, Sam thinks, only it’s more complicated than that. No, what he really thinks isn’t his brother’s name but a series of images: Dean hauling him to his feet after a demon pounded his face into a puffy, ludicrous mask; Dean snorting laughter after he put Tabasco sauce into Sam’s coffee when he was in the bathroom; Dean sitting on the hood of the Impala beside him, strong and silent while night falls around them in a twinkling shroud of starlight; Dean as a comforting weight at the edge of the bed while Sam shivers and throbs with the flu; Dean’s competent hands lying wet, cool cloths against Sam’s forehead after one of his head-splitting visions. Dean in a million more instants from Sam’s life that all add up to a brilliant blur of love, and trust, and everything good that his brother brings out in him. The cruel, laughing voice inside of Sam hisses and flees in the face of the light shed by those memories, and the power falls away so suddenly that it leaves Sam staggered. He has a moment of achingly pure relief and then his own emotions snap into place. His chest hitches and he breaks down sobbing for what feels like the hundredth time since he shoved his cock down his brother’s throat. Bobby finally draws his hand free from Sam’s and pulls him into an awkward hug. “Sam?” Ash’s voice is tinny over the computer speakers. “You okay?” “He’s fine; just give us a minute.” The rumble of Bobby’s voice is both soothing and shattering. Sam doesn’t deserve this, he isn’t fucking worthy, he’s tainted, he corrupts everything around him, he as good as raped his brother— Somehow, Bobby maneuvers them both up out of the chairs and walks Sam into the living room. Sam clings to the man, desperate and trembling, and is floored by how much he wishes that Bobby were Geri. God, how fucked up is it that he’s longing for the very thing that destroyed his life, Dean’s life, Dad’s? “I’ve got you, Sam,” Bobby says. “You’re okay, son.” Sam shakes his head. “I’m not. I can’t do this, Bobby: I hurt him, all I ever do is hurt him—he’s better off with Vincent—” The punch startles more than hurts him. His words cut off immediately and he stares at Bobby. Rubs one hand against his jaw where there’s a spreading, tingling warmth. “B-Bobby, what—” Bobby draws in a short, harsh breath and then growls, “Shut up and listen, boy. Your brother needs you. As far as he’s concerned, you’re the one good thing left in his life—and he told me that himself one night when he was drunk, so don’t bother arguing with me.” Sam swallows his protest. “Now, you’ve fucked up your share of things, and whatever you’re doing with that power you’ve got is stupid as hell, but if I ever hear you say something that moronic again, I will personally beat your ass until I kick your brains back into your head where they belong, you hear me?” Sam feels worse than ever, but the hysteria is gone: driven out by the shame that Bobby’s words provoked. “If you knew what I did, you wouldn’t say that.” Bobby’s jaw squares and his eyes flit down to the bruise on Sam’s neck. He’s been looking at it on and off all morning, not saying anything or asking any questions. Then again, Bobby’s never needed to use words to get his point across, and as far as he knows there’s only one place Sam could have gotten his neck marked up like that. What Bela thinks about it is anybody’s guess. As far as Sam can tell, she hasn’t even noticed. “Maybe so,” Bobby says as he raises his eyes to Sam’s again. “But we deal with that after. Right now, we need to focus on getting him out of there—or did you want to leave him there to whore and murder for the rest of his life?” “No,” Sam whispers. “But I don’t want to hurt him any more either.” Sighing, Bobby gives his cap a tug. “I ain’t gonna let you do that, Sam. I give you my word.” You won’t be able to stop me, Sam thinks as his power stirs sluggishly. No one will. But Bobby’s right: Sam can’t leave Dean with Vincent. Can’t leave him with Bobby, either, because Bobby’s gonna shoot him like a rabid dog at the first sign of danger. And Sam can’t stay with his brother to protect him without hurting Dean himself. Cross that bridge when you come to it, he tells himself, and, One thing at a time. “Okay,” he mumbles. “Good.” Bobby nods. “You think you’re ready to go back in there?” Sam knows that he isn’t anywhere near ready, but he doesn’t have a choice. They don’t have time for him to break down like this. When they return to the conference room, Bela is already finalizing the plan with Gordon. Any other time, Sam would be pissed that she went forward without him, but he doesn’t have room for any more emotions inside of him. Sitting down next to her, he offers a brief greeting to Gordon. It isn’t a long conversation. Gordon makes sure that they got the package he sent them, and Bela assures him it was picked up. Bobby wants to make sure that Gordon will wait for the go-ahead before getting into position: no point in mounting a rescue if Dean is too injured after tonight’s fight to be moved. Bela wants to be certain that Ash understands the gravity of the situation, and although Ash is more concerned with the nachos Jo brought him than with convincing her, in the end everyone seems fairly satisfied. Sam sits there, silent for the most part, and works to force his mind into game mode. It’s difficult without the power’s help, but he can’t afford to lose himself again, and he has the feeling that he’ll be using it more than enough tonight. Eventually, he finds his focus: guilt-tainted but workable. He’s clear-headed enough to contribute to the end of the conversation, and offers Gordon a genuine “Good luck” before the man signs off. Chewing on a nacho, Ash peers at him from the computer screen and asks, “You sure you’re okay?” “Just a little tense,” Sam tells him. “I really appreciate this, Ash.” “No problemo. I always enjoy a little corporate terrorism before bed.” “Well, thanks anyway.” Because God knows that Sam won’t have a chance to thank Ash later. Even if everything goes according to plan, Sam is done with hunters. Nothing like a little demon blood to burn your bridges for you. “Okie dokie,” Ash agrees, grinning. “Base command, over and out.” The communication box closes and Bobby snorts. “Base command my ass,” he grumbles. “That boy better keep his head in the game.” “He will,” Sam says, and then reaches out to shut the laptop. The three of them sit in silence for a long moment, and then Bela clears her throat and says, “I’m going to order some lunch.” Sam doesn’t feel like eating, but he manages to choke down a few bites anyway. After, he and Bobby sit at the bar over a couple of whiskeys while Bela disappears into her room. They talk about things that don’t mean anything—old times mostly, and nothing too unsettling. Both of them being very careful. Both of them not mentioning Sam’s breakdown, although Sam knows that Bobby is thinking about it from the way the man keeps watching him out of the corner of his eye. Finally, Bela sticks her head out from her room and calls, “If you don’t want to be late, Sam, then you’d better start getting dressed.” Sam taps his fingers on the smooth wood. Time, then. After months of mourning, and then of searching, it’s finally time. His skin itches, pulse too fast. Slight sheen of sweat on the back of his neck. Nerves. “Wish I was going in with you,” Bobby says, staring down at his glass. Pushing his own drink away, Sam reminds him, “You can’t. Vincent knows what you look like.” “Yeah, I know that.” Bobby gives a sour grunt and looks over at him. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Sam could spend a few minutes reassuring him, but they’ve been over this enough. And he’s sick of Bobby sneaking glances at the mark on his neck. “Guess not,” he says, getting to his feet. “Sam.” Bobby’s hand settles on Sam’s arm, halting him. “You be careful in there, okay?” “No worries. Bela’ll be watching my back.” Bobby barks a surprised laugh at the joke and then shakes his head ruefully. “You Winchesters. Should’ve kicked John out on his ass first time I saw him. Nothing but trouble, the lot of you.” One way or another, you’re almost washed of us, Sam thinks. But his smile doesn’t waver as he claps one hand on Bobby’s shoulder companionably. He thinks the mask he’s wearing is as impenetrable as any of Dean’s, but Bobby catches his hand before he can lift it and his expression sobers. “Santa Clara. You’ll be there?” His voice is barely audible, kept low because Bela thinks they’re meeting in Dolan Springs. “We’ll be there,” Sam agrees. He has plans of his own, of course, and they don’t involve either city. Don’t involve much of anything beyond another rundown motel room somewhere well away from Bela’ plans and Bobby’s promises. Somewhere he can find out if there’s anything left to salvage of his relationship with his brother. Where Dean can finally begin to heal. Bobby holds his gaze for a long moment, but in the end he nods and lets Sam take his hand back. “We’ll fix this, Sam.” ‘This’ being the wolf inside of Dean. The dark power inside of Sam. “Okay,” Sam says, but what he means is ‘goodbye’.

Bobby stays with Sam for a week, and by the end it seems like they’re having shouting matches every other hour. Sam doesn’t remember arguing this badly with his father: not even during those last volatile months before he left for Stanford. It’s funny because he doesn’t actually feel angry. He is done with numbness—his encounter with the demons and his subsequent failure to summon them back has left him with a constant, deep-seated ache in his chest that makes breathing painful—but that doesn’t mean he’s any closer to understanding why he feels so driven to fight with Bobby. It’s a relief to both of them when Bobby finally throws his hands up in the air, announcing that he’s taking the book with him and telling Sam not to ‘try any more dumb ass shit’. He doesn’t understand that Sam was never in danger in the first place, and Sam sure as hell isn’t going to tell him. He knows full well what Bobby would say about any power that gives someone the ability to command demons. The prospect of being alone again soothes Sam slightly, and as he watches Bobby pack, he feels calm enough to ask the question that’s been running through his mind on again and off again over the past few weeks. He closes the laptop and then leans forward a little over the table. “Bobby?” Bobby grunts an acknowledgement from his position by the queen bed he’s been using. He doesn’t look up, though, and he doesn’t pause from shoving the last of his shirts into the open rucksack on the bedspread. Sam looks between the beds—two queens not because Bobby is here, but because no matter how strained his finances have been he can’t bring himself to ask for a single—and then asks, “Why did you tell me?” Now Bobby stops what he’s doing to glance over his shoulder. His brow is furled with cautious confusion. “Tell you what?” “That Dean wasn’t dead,” Sam clarifies, leaning forward on the table where he’s sitting. “I’m not doing anything you couldn’t have done on your own.” Bobby’s mouth thins with pain and then smoothes out again. Dropping his eyes, he turns away and shoves the priest’s book into the rucksack on top of his clothing. The zipper won’t go easily with the bag this full, and he struggles with it, muttering things that are probably swears under his breath. “Bobby?” Sam prods after a few seconds. When it comes, Bobby’s answer is so soft that he has to strain to hear it. “I told you because Dean deserved to have someone looking for him for his own sake. And I didn’t—I didn’t trust myself to do that for him.” Sam wants to hate Bobby for that admission, but he can’t. He can’t because Bobby has turned to face him again and there are tears running down the man’s face. His hands tremble on the straps of his rucksack. “It isn’t because I don’t love him, Sam. I love both you boys like you were my own sons. But I—I’m weak.” His voice hitches in something horribly like a sob, and when he continues his voice is slow. Reluctant. “There’s a part of me sometimes that doesn’t want to find him because then I wouldn’t have to end him. It isn’t a big part, but it’s there, and I wanted—I wanted someone else looking for him. I wanted someone looking who wouldn’t hold back anything, no matter what the consequence.” Finished, he stands there looking at Sam with damned, dark eyes. He’s waiting for something—for some kind of absolution or forgiveness, maybe—but Sam has nothing to offer. After a minute, Bobby seems to realize that and, hauling in a deep breath, nods. “You find your brother. But I can’t handle losing the both of you together, so you keep yourself safe. No more demons.” “We’ve been over this,” Sam says. His voice sounds strange in his own ears: too cold and harsh to belong to the man he thought he was. The man he’s rapidly leaving behind. Bobby tugs his cap lower over his face, shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I guess we have. You’ll call me if you need anything?” It’s a promise Sam can’t make so he just sits there with his mouth shut, and after a few moments Bobby gets the message. “Take care of yourself, Sam,” he offers clumsily, and then he’s gone. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Now that Sam is alone again, it’s easy to fall back into his old patterns. The ache in his chest doesn’t lessen, but he starts to get used to it. Sometimes he sits on the subway and thinks about Dean—a tilt of his head; the way he sometimes hunched over his food like he was afraid Sam was going to steal it from him; those slow, genuine smiles Sam saw all too rarely. He lets the memories prod the sore place inside him like an amputee victim relishing the phantom ache of his missing limb, immersing himself in the only sensation left to him. He wonders when it’s finally going to become too much and push him over the edge. When that band connecting him to Dean is finally going to snap and break him open beyond repair. And then, almost a month after Sam’s disastrous attempt to conjure himself an answer, his phone rings while he’s picking listlessly at the turkey club he ordered for lunch. The caller id tells him that it’s Bobby. He considers letting it flip over to voicemail and then picks up instead because he’s feeling restless. He’s been spoiling for another fight for the last week or so, wanting to take his mind off of the fact that Dean has been missing for a little over six months now: that it’s been over a year since he last saw his brother alive. “What,” he snaps. Either Bobby doesn’t notice the tone of his voice or he thinks Sam is entitled to a little sharpness because his response is level and smooth. “I’ve got a name for you, Sam. I can’t believe I didn’t think of her sooner, but I really think she might be able to help us find Dean.” “What?” Sam says again. It’s a whisper. A prayer. Bobby gives him a name and a warning: “She might be able to help, but you be careful with her. She’s not in the same business we are: she’s a mercenary. Keep your guard up.” “Yeah, I’ve got it,” Sam says, tossing some money down on the diner counter and pulling on his jacket. “Just tell me where I can find her.” “Well, that’s the best part. She lives in Queens.” Sam is already on his way to the bus station when he hangs up with Bobby. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to pay this mercenary’s fees with his nonexistent funds, but this is the first concrete chance he’s been offered and he has to at least try. Bela. Bela Talbot. The name sounds like salvation. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ “I wondered how long it would take you to show up.” It’s the first thing she says to him, beautiful and sprawled on a white sofa that probably cost more than all of Sam’s possessions combined. Her place looks like crap from the outside: a six story brick building with the front door hanging askew and the lower windows boarded up. The first three floors are empty; the last three aren’t really separate floors at all but one big loft. Even in the midst of his anxiety, Sam finds it a little mind-boggling. It must have cost a small fortune to set this up: buying a building and renovating the top floors. Doing it quietly enough that she wouldn’t have to deal with petty thieves trying to rip her off all the time. “You knew I was coming?” Sam asks, edging inside cautiously. The loft isn’t cramped by any means, but he’s never been more aware of his size and occasional bouts of clumsiness. Keeps thinking of the way that the employees of the curio-shops Jess liked to poke through looked at him with slight, worried frowns whenever he stepped through the door. Bela offers him an amused smile that tells him she knows what he’s thinking and says, “Shut the door before you let the cat out.” Sam does and then stands there awkwardly, looking at all of the art she has hanging on her walls, and the statues, and the display cases of mystical crap that all has to be worth a fortune, and not a small one either. He isn’t worried about breaking something anymore, too overcome with the devastating realization that he isn’t anywhere close to affording her. Absurdly, he finds himself thinking of Lucy and Charlie Brown and that damned football. “Can I offer you a drink?” Bela asks. She rises and pads into the kitchen and Sam follows, chest twisting with the urge to throw himself at her feet and beg—offer anything, everything, if she’ll just help him get his brother back. Everything is bright and clean in Bela’s kitchen, the counters immaculate and the cat prowling along them as impeccably groomed as its mistress. Sam stands next to the island with his hands shoved into his pockets like a grubby-fingered kid and is too bewildered—too frantic—to do anything but blurt, “I need your help.” Bela spares him a glance, one eyebrow arched, as she sets two glasses on the counter. “Of course you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, would you?” “Yes, I.” Sam makes himself stop, takes a moment to collect his thoughts, and then says, “Bobby Singer gave me your name. He said you might be able to help me find my brother, but I don’t know if I can afford—” “Whisky on the rocks,” she interrupts, handing him one of the glasses. He takes it with the same ingrained response on which people who hand out flyers on street corners rely and she tips her own glass against his with a musical clink. “To profitable ventures. Cheers.” Sam can’t find it in him to return the sentiment, but he doesn’t want to annoy her so he forces a mouthful of the whisky down. It stings all the way. “Look, my brother’s missing,” he says as soon as his mouth is free. “He was taken from—” “Powder, yes I know.” She gives the cat a single, absent pet and then heads back into her living room while sipping on her drink. “Did Bobby call you?” Sam asks, confused. Bobby hadn’t mentioned anything like that, but he can’t figure out how else she would know so much about Dean’s kidnapping. “No,” Bela says, and then lets out a short sigh as she stops in the middle of the living room and turns around. “Look, you’re going to hear about this sooner or later, so let’s cut to the chase and make it sooner. I know where Dean was taken because I helped set up the removal.” Sam hears his glass break on the floor before he knows he’s moved. He sprints across the room, not feeling clumsy at all at present, and collides with Bela, dashing her own glass out of her hand. It thuds onto the rug but doesn’t break as he shoves her backwards and down onto her expensive sofa. She goes, unresisting, and a moment later he has the muzzle of his gun pressed into the soft flesh underneath her chin. Distantly, Sam is taken aback by how angry he is—even angrier than he was that day six months ago at Bobby’s—but he’s too overwhelmed by rage to think of much beyond the red pulse of Bela’s beautiful, calm face. Bitch. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you,” he snarls, and almost hopes she won’t be able to come up with one. Months of searching, and he finally has his hands on one of the fuckers who took his brother. Who lured him and drugged him and shoved him, unconscious and helpless, into the back of an unregistered SUV. “Tad cliché, aren’t you?” Bela asks. Her voice is far too calm for Sam’s sanity and he shoves the gun harder into her skin until she winces. “All right, you’ve made your point. Look, I can help you get your brother back. Or aren’t you interested in that anymore?” Sam’s finger strains at the trigger—he wants to pull it, wants to hurt this bitch who hurt his brother—and then he forces himself to shift back. His muscles are trembling, and he’s so angry that it’s making him nauseous. “Where is he?” Bela puts one hand on his chest, edging him back enough so that she can sit up. “I’m not precisely certain,” she says, adjusting her hair. Then, before he can shove her back down, she adds, “But I can find out.” “Do that,” Sam says. “Now.” “My sources are a tad shy. We have to wait until dark to contact them. While we wait, we can talk fees.” She offers him a broad smile. “You sold my brother out and now you want to charge me to get him back?” Sam demands incredulously. Bela rolls her shoulders in a shrug. “I’m a businesswoman, Sam. I can’t do something for nothing.” “How much did you charge them?” “It was a ‘him’, actually, and three hundred thousand dollars.” It’s more than Megan Capel was paid, and it still isn’t anywhere near enough. Sam’s rage crests to a painful, blinding flare of white—needs some form of release—and he reaches out and grabs a glass statue sitting on Bela’s coffee table. Tosses it across the room where it shatters on the floor. He stares at the shards, breathless, and sees his brother’s staggering, drugged form mirrored in each one. “If it would make you feel better, you can smash everything in here,” Bela tells him. Laughing hoarsely, Sam buries his face in his hands. Bela is silent for a few minutes, giving him time to try to collect himself, and then she says, “About a year ago, I was approached by a client who wanted to make an acquisition.” “Name,” Sam demands, lifting his head again. The shards of Bela’s statue glitter at him, empty. “Vincent Camargo, not that it would mean anything to you. You don’t exactly move in the same circles.” It isn’t said with any particular condescension: just a statement of fact. “Do you mind if I get myself another drink?” “Knock yourself out,” Sam mutters, adjusting his grip on the gun. If she tries to bolt for the door, he’ll shoot her in the leg, but he doesn’t think she will. She knew he was coming, after all. She could have run before he got here. She could have refused to buzz him in. She could have shot him as he walked through the door. He’s going to have to trust that she’s at least willing to talk to him: give him some answers. Of course, this ‘Vincent’ could be on his way here right now to take care of Sam himself, but that’s a risk Sam is going to have to take. He needs Bela’s help, as distasteful as that idea is, and they both know it. Bela rises smoothly, and as she heads back toward the kitchen she continues, “Vincent told me that the target was very dangerous and not to be harmed, and I did some research and worked out several scenarios for him. He chose the one he thought would have the best chance at succeeding, paid me for my time, and here you are.” She falls silent and Sam watches as she pours herself a new glass of whiskey. He looks at the graceful line of her neck, and the sweep of her hair. He’s never hit a woman, but he’s really fucking tempted to hit this one. One bruise for every day Dean has been missing. It wouldn’t be justice, but it would at least be a start. “You can have details if you want them,” Bela adds as she screws the cap back on the bottle. “No,” Sam rasps, and then clears his throat and repeats, more loudly, “No.” He saw what happened to Dean: he doesn’t need anything more specific. It won’t help get Dean back, and it’s only going to unbalance him further. He’s having enough trouble keeping his temper already. Bela nods and then stands there sipping her drink. Her glittering eyes watch him over the top of the glass. Calculating. Cautious. Letting him know that it’s his move. Sam knows what he has to ask. What he both longs to know and yet dreads to uncover. His eyes drift back to the glass littering the floor and he makes himself say it. “What did he want Dean for? What’s he been doing to my brother?” “I don’t ask that kind of question,” Bela answers. “It’s bad for business.” Of course it is. But Sam feels a tiny pulse of relief all the same. For a little while longer, he doesn’t have to deal with the knowledge of just how Dean is being tortured, or used, or broken. He’ll be seeing the damage soon enough, now that he’s found Bela. Whether she wants to help him or not. He tightens his grip on the gun. “I’m sorry,” Bela says into the silence. Sam’s jaw clenches and he looks up to find that she’s moved a little closer and is standing in the no-man’s land between the kitchen and the living room. She’s looking at him with a sincere, genuine expression of pity and regret, and she doesn’t get to look like that. Not after what she’s done. “You’re sorry?” he repeats, pushing himself up to his feet and advancing on her. “Twenty two people died so that you could lure Dean here—” “I didn’t have a hand in that,” Bela protests, but Sam keeps right on going, backing her up against the island and looming over her. “—and you sold my brother. You fucking sold him! Like some kind of animal.” He doesn’t touch her. If he touches her, he’s going to hit her, and if he hits her, he’s going to end up using the gun he’s still holding in his right hand. He needs her alive. He needs her help to find Dean. That knowledge is enough—barely—to keep him in line, but it isn’t enough to stop the furious, vengeful tremors from wracking his muscles. “You’re right, I did,” Bela agrees, looking up at him with liquid, honest eyes. “And I can’t undo that. But I can try to make amends.” She sounds so sincere, and Sam wants to believe her—God, does he want to—but this show of repentance is almost too genuine. Like a play put on for his benefit. Or maybe he’s just finding it difficult trusting the person who’s responsible for his brother’s kidnapping. “Why should I believe you even give a shit?” Sam demands. “You didn’t have a problem selling him six months ago.” “Put the gun away and I’ll tell you.” Sam hesitates. He doesn’t know her. Doesn’t—can’t—trust her. Bela rolls her eyes, moves suddenly, and is holding a small revolver—where the fuck did she get that?—against his chest. She offers him a tight smile as he blinks down at her. “Now, I’ve been very cooperative, Sam, and I understand that you’re worried about your brother, but I don’t appreciate being held at gunpoint in my own home.” It takes all of Sam’s willpower but he manages to put the safety on and tuck his gun away at the small of his back. “Good boy,” Bela murmurs, offering him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She lays her own gun on the counter and then slips away and heads over to the bookcase sitting kitty-corner in the living room. Pausing in front of it, she trails one hand along worn spines that belong to antique books that look just as expensive as everything else she owns. “I’ll help you get your brother back for the Colt,” she announces. “The Colt?” Sam repeats stupidly. He’s have difficulty keeping up with the conversation, too preoccupied with keeping the urge to tie Bela down and bleed her for what she did to Dean under lock and key. God, he almost wishes she wasn’t cooperating. “Non timebo mala?” Bela prompts. “Kills demons?” “But it’s useless: there aren’t any bullets left.” Bela tosses a pitying look over her shoulder. “You haven’t ever bargained with someone before, have you?” she says, and then before he can respond, adds, “Are you willing to trade the Colt for your brother or aren’t you?” “Of course,” Sam says. “You can have it. It just, uh, seems a little too good to be true.” “Well, the gun is just part of my payment. The other half is freeing your brother.” When she turns around, she’s holding a book in her hands. It’s bound in dark red leather and there’s an arrow on the front cover. No, not an arrow: a rune. Teiwaz. Sam’s breath catches. “That’s—” “Tyr’s Bible, yes. I acquired it two months ago.” She soothes her hands over the cover lovingly. “I thought it didn’t exist. I thought it was just a legend.” If he had even suspected otherwise, he would have torn the world apart looking for it. According to legend, the book that Bela is holding was written by the god Tyr himself. It describes his battle with the wolf Fenrir, and the battle’s aftermath: describes the first union of man and animal spirit. If there’s a cure anywhere—some way to reverse the soul bleed—then it’s there. Dean’s salvation in Bela’s well-manicured hands. Sam moves forward, reaching, and Bela immediately holds the book over her head. As if that’s going to stop him from taking it. As if anything but death is going to stand between him and that book. “It’s warded,” she says quickly. “If anyone but me touches it, it’ll be no more than a pile of ash.” That stops him. “There are quite a few interesting things in here,” she continues when she sees that he isn’t going to come any closer. “If I’d known what it meant that the wolf chose Dean, I never would have taken the job. Not for any amount of money. I don’t traffic in human souls.” She’s telling the truth about refusing the job: Sam can feel it in his bones. But she’s lying about why. Does it matter? he asks himself, staring at the book. The answer—of course it fucking matters—comes back instantly. Bela’s after something here, and it isn’t absolution. She lied to him about knowing what Vincent wanted Dean for, and she’s lying now about why she’s willing to help Sam get him back for nothing more than a gun that no longer works. She’s dangerous, and can’t be trusted. But she’s all he has. Sam licks his lips and asks, “Is there a cure in there? Some kind of reversal ritual?” Bela regards him blankly for a moment and then her lips twitch up in a too-bright smile. “Why, would you like to buy it?” “I … how much?” Bela stares into his eyes, and Sam knows she can see the desperation there. His need. Then she turns and slides the book back into its proper place on the shelf. “You can’t afford it,” she tells him. “But I might be willing to sell it to your brother, once he’s his own man again.” Sam doesn’t know what Dean could possibly offer Bela that he can’t: has a feeling that he wouldn’t like the answer if he did. But it’s a chance. “So, are you going to let me help you?” Sam meets her eyes and admits, “I don’t have a choice.” The words grit against his throat like sand. “No, you don’t.” *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ In the end, Bela’s mysterious ‘sources’ are anticlimactic. She picks up a black ball, shuts her eyes, and shakes it. Then she turns it over, squints down through a window in the bottom, and says, “Las Vegas. Why am I not surprised.” “Your ‘source’ is a magic eight ball?” Sam demands. “No, my sources are the spirits. The magic eight ball is just a conduit.” She tosses the ball onto her couch and flops down beside it. “Be a dear and make us some reservations, will you? First class? There’s a boy.” *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ It’s tomorrow morning and they’re 37,000 feet up and well on their way before Lewis Ferron’s bloodied, pain-wracked face suddenly fills Sam’s mind. He glances over at Bela, who is half-dozing in the seat next to him, and asks, “How come you could find him?” She blinks heavy lidded eyes at him and then arches one eyebrow. “Sorry, I don’t quite follow.” Frowning now, with his muscles tight and thrumming with Bobby’s warning, Sam presses, “The other psychics I tried couldn’t find him.” Understanding sparks in Bela’s eyes and she shrugs and looks back out the window. “I expect that Vincent has him warded against scrying. But I wasn’t looking for Dean: I was looking for Vincent.” “How the hell is that supposed to help?” Sam demands. “You can’t know they’re in the same place.” “Wherever Vincent is, Dean will be,” Bela announces. “Trust me, Sam.” Sam’s stomach gives a roll at the lazy assurance in her voice, leaving him with the illusion that the plane just hit some turbulence. Trust her, she says. The woman who sold his brother to Vincent without a moment’s hesitation. The woman who’s almost certainly lying to him, who knows Vincent well enough to know that he’ll be with Dean. What am I doing? he thinks, staring at her profile. What in God’s name am I doing with her? But he knows what he’s doing: saving Dean the only way available to him. He’s just going to have to be careful. Keep his guard up and both eyes on Bela. I’m coming, Dean. Just hang on, man. Sam leans back against his seat and stares up at the ceiling while the plane speeds on, carrying him to Vegas on swift, silver wings. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ They touch down after a bumpy descent just a few minutes before noon. Sam is impatient after months of waiting, can feel Dean’s nearness as a steady pressure on his skin, but Bela brings them first to the Bellagio, where she throws some money and some names around and books them a suite. Sam tries to insist on having another bed brought up—he wants the assurance that there’s going to be a third person with them soon to use it—but Bela gives him an overly cheerful look and says, “You don’t really think we’re going to be hanging around here once we meet up with your friend, do you?” It’s a measure of how stressed Sam is that he’s halfway to correcting her—my Dean, my brother, when we rescue him—before belatedly realizing that, although the desk clerk seems to be busy entering information into the computer, he’s undoubtedly listening to their conversation. Sam forces an ‘aw, shucks’ smile on his face. It feels plastic and fake, but Bela’s eyes brighten encouragingly and she turns back to the clerk. “So,” she says. “I think the Presidential Suite will do just fine as is.” Sam’s a little taken aback by the sheer size of the suite. It’s bigger than Bobby’s house, it seems, with a foyer and a living room and a dining room with a full bar set up at one end. An honest to God fountain in the foyer. Solarium with an adjoining indoor garden. Across from the L-shaped bar is a long, official looking room that a tiny gold plaque on the wall helpfully labels the ‘Conference Room’. “Base of operations,” Bela says, opening the Conference Room door and peering in. “I’ll let the maid service know it’s off limits. It would be helpful if you left your weapons in here when we’re out.” It’s possibly a little ungrateful, considering that it’s Bela’s case he used to package his semi-automatics in compliance with airline regulations, but Sam tightens his grip on the metal handle. “Who said I was going anywhere unarmed?” Regarding him calmly, Bela taps one nail against the plaque. “You don’t honestly think that a couple of guns are going to make any difference against these people, do you? If we’re going to get your brother out, then we’ll need brains, not brawn. I was under the impression that you were going to be an asset in that department.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Or was I wrong?” Sam lets all of his mistrust and hate show on his face for a moment and Bela is startled into taking a single step back before she catches herself. “They’re not for them,” he says. Bela’s mouth firms. “I’m not the enemy here, Sam.” Sam is surprised into a laugh. He doesn’t know if she thinks he’s naive enough to believe that or if she’s just hoping he’ll be blinded by a pair of pretty eyes and a body to match. As if anything she has to offer would ever come close to measuring up to Dean. “You sold my brother to some rich fuck for three hundred thousand. You helped them drug him, and drag him off the street like an animal. I think I’ll decide who the enemy is.” “I’m also the one who’s helping you get him back,” Bela points out. Sam drops his duffle off his shoulder, leaving him unburdened except for the weapons case, and narrows his eyes. “And why is that, again?” he asks. “I told you: I didn’t have all the information at the time. I’m trying to make up for a mistake.” “Bad girl with a heart of gold wants to redeem herself, is that it?” “Of course not,” Bela replies disdainfully. “I’m not a saint, and this isn’t some storybook tale. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t have a conscience, and I’d like to be able to sleep properly at night.” She looks slightly angry, as if she doesn’t like having to admit to such a weakness. Sam wishes he could believe that the expression is genuine, but it feels too much like a new variation on an old theme. He’s only known Bela for a little more than twenty-four hours, and he’s already tired of pretending to believe her bullshit. Setting his mouth in a hard line, he demands, “What did Vincent want my brother for?” Bela’s eyes sharpen for a moment, and then her face eases back into its normal, carefree emptiness. “I told you, Sam. I don’t know. Now toss your things in your room. We’ve got some shopping to do before tonight.” *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ They don’t go far: just a few blocks over to a gaudy stretch of the Strip that seems entirely devoted to high-end fashion. Sam spots a Dior, and an Armani’s. The women who are strolling down the street are wearing fur and diamonds and carrying tiny, jewel-collared dogs. The men are dressed in suits and impeccably groomed. Sam is wearing an old pair of jeans, a flannel shirt and three days worth of stubble. He understands, in a vague way, that if he still cared about anything aside from getting Dean back that he’d be feeling a little out of his depth right now. As it is, he just glances at Bela and asks, “What are we doing here?” “Getting you some proper attire,” Bela answers, taking Sam by the arm and leading him into a shop with a pink, flashing Andre’s over the door. A man with fuzz-short blond hair and a white suit appears in front of them before Sam can press Bela for a straight answer. The man adjusts his tie, which is as pink as the sign out front, and gives Sam a despairing look. “Oh, honey,” he says, sounding more than a little devastated. Bela gives Sam a little shove forward. “This is Sam,” she announces. “Sam, this is Andre.” Andre’s hands twitch forward and Sam starts to take a nervous step backwards, only to run into Bela. “It’s all right, Sam,” she assures him with no small amount of amusement. “Andre’s the best.” “I should hope so,” Andre sniffs. He reaches out again and starts unbuttoning Sam’s shirt. Sam slaps the man’s hands away. Utilizes the utmost restraint and doesn’t follow up with a right hook to his jaw. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he grounds out. “Grouchy, aren’t you?” Andre says with an affected pout. “Bela,” Sam growls over his shoulder. “Just let him do his job, Sam,” Bela says. Andre reaches forward again and Sam halts him with a frown. After a moment of consideration, he undoes his buttons on his own and shrugs out of his overshirt. Andre whistles low, tracing his eyes over Sam’s chest. “Well, well. You’re certainly going to clean up nicely.” Sam glances over his shoulder to glare at Bela again, but she’s drifted off to stroke a black, slinky number that probably costs more than the Impala. He considers leaving now that he isn’t being herded, but he’s reasonably sure that Bela didn’t bring him down here for her own amusement, so instead he clenches his jaw and stands still while Andre whips a strip of measuring tape around his shoulders, waist, and biceps. Finally, after a measured glance between Sam’s hostile face and his crotch, Andre takes a step back and asks several embarrassing questions about length and ‘which way do we normally hang, gorgeous?’ Sam stutters out answers and then lets himself be led to a fitting room that’s larger than some of the motel rooms he and Dean have stayed in. Andre leaves him alone for a few minutes and then reappears with a pile of pants and jackets in his arms. As he hangs them up on the wall, he’s followed in by two other men with similar burdens. Then, with a final wink and an admonition to ‘call if you need anything, hon,’ all three men disappear and shut the door behind them. “How are you doing, Sam?” Bela calls somewhere between the fourth and fifth suit. “Fine,” Sam answers shortly, and then pulls off the jacket and tosses it across the room. He doesn’t know how Andre expects him to be able to move in those things. They’re practically plastered to his skin. Make him feel twitchy and uncomfortable. Exposed. After trying on three more suits, he finds a pair of pants that actually fit and reaches for the shirt and jacket with a certain amount of relief. Then he gets them on and realizes that it isn’t a suit after all. “What the hell do I need a tux for?” Sam calls as he tries to figure out the bowtie. He hasn’t had to knot one of these since his senior prom, and he couldn’t manage it then either; Dean had to do it for him. His hands stutter and then stop as he remembers the look of amusement on his brother’s face: the easy, methodical way he worked through the looping knot. Dean’s always had clever hands. “Because you want to fit in tonight,” Bela says. Sam jumps, whirling around to find her in the dressing room with him. He pulls the jacket closed. Feels a flush creeping up his throat. “How long have you been there?” “Long enough to tell that you’re hopelessly inept. Here.” She steps closer and lifts his chin up with one hand, eyes focused on the dangling ends of the bowtie. Her fingers perform some intricate dance—faster than Dean’s, more impatient—and Sam is suddenly having difficulty breathing. “Little tight,” he gasps. Bela steps back and smoothes down his jacket. “It’s supposed to be.” She draws her gaze up and down his body with a critical tilt to her eyebrows. Then, pursing her lips, she gives a nod. “You’ll do. We’ll take this and, hrm, five of the suits—any of the black or charcoals. I’ll have Andre pick out some ties.” She turns to leave, but her words have finally sunk in through Sam’s bewilderment. Grabbing her wrist, he yanks her back from the door. “’Fit in tonight’?” he says. “Where the hell are we going?” Bela’s mouth goes thin and hard. “Let go of me,” she insists. Sam just tightens his grip. She isn’t going to pull a gun on him in the store, and she isn’t going to call for help if he gets a little violent. If she did, the police would inevitably get involved, and she needs him just as much as he needs her. That realization stuns him for a moment, and he rolls it around in his head, tasting it. For the past twenty-four hours, he’s been so focused on how much he needs her that he completely missed out on the fact that the reverse is also true. She wants something from Dean, and in order to get it she needs to get him away from Vincent. And to do that, she needs Sam’s help. She needs him and she hates it, and she’s been keeping back information because she knows it’s driving him nuts and she’s deriving some bitter satisfaction from pissing him off. Amusing herself with his pain. Smug, sadistic, sociopathic bitch. “Tell me,” he demands. “Tell me what’s going to happen tonight.” When Bela remains defiantly silent, he twists her wrist hard enough to make her arrogant mask slip in a wince. “Vincent Camargo is an entertainer,” she says, voice clipped with anger. “He caters to the wealthy, anything they want. Exotic hunts, illegal substances, high class prostitutes, gambling.” “Which of those categories does Dean fall under?” Sam can feel the bones in her wrist grating together: she’ll be wearing his fingerprints like a bracelet in a few hours. He finds the thought oddly satisfying. “I told you, I don’t know.” “You’re lying.” Sam draws her closer and offers her a tight smile. “Now, you can either start telling me the truth, or I can break your wrist. Your choice.” Bela hisses in pain as Sam bends her hand just a little bit further and then snaps, “He wanted Dean for the Arena.” “The Arena,” Sam repeats. She tries to pull her hand out of his grip and he hangs on. Digs his nails into her skin. “Which is what, exactly?” Bela gives up struggling and stands there panting, her cheeks flushed with a combination of pain and anger. “Think of it as human cock-fighting,” she bites out. Sam stares at her. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel. On the one hand, it’s better than he was expecting: better than Dean being tortured or fucked or hunted like he’s nothing more than exotic game. On the other, it’s just so totally and completely fucked up. “You sold my brother to some kind of underground fight club?” he blurts. “Are you insane?” “If this is how you’re going to react, I’m glad I told you now,” Bela hisses back. “Pull a scene like this tonight and you’ll completely blow our cover.” She tries to pull her hand free again and Sam refuses to let go. He just had a nasty, unpleasant thought. “To the death?” he says. “Is it to the death?” “Vincent modeled the Arena after the ancient gladiatorial contests. He lets the audience decide the fate of the loser.” Sam thinks about the type of person liable to seek out ‘entertainment’ like that, and knows that if Dean’s still alive, he’s had to kill. More than once. If there’s a way to hurt Dean more than that—to shove a knife inside of his soul and shred up everything that makes him who he is: protector, champion, hero—Sam doesn’t know what it is. “I ought to kill you,” he grates. “But you won’t,” Bela responds immediately. “You need me to get you in.” Sam stares down at her and wants to do it anyway. He’s never hated anyone before, has never known how, but Bela’s a good teacher. He could leave her a red smear on the dressing room wall and sleep nightmare free. In the end, though, she’s right, and necessity forces him to open his hand. She steps back as soon as he releases her, rubbing at her wrist gingerly, and stands just out of reach. “Can we get him out tonight?” Sam asks. Bela shakes her head. “I’ll need at least a week to set things up. And I need to get a look at the facility; see what kind of security we’re up against.” Sam nods, jaw locked on a frustrated scream. After a moment, the pressure in his throat lessens and he’s able to say, “If he dies—if you fuck this up or double cross us in any way—I’ll kill you.” Bela blinks at him, that high color still in her cheeks, and then nods. “Fair enough.”

Before the war, there wasn't a shred of doubt in Hermione's mind that Fred and George would still be around for decades to come. She was convinced that they would keep life interesting by unleashing their special brand of humour on every unsuspecting soul who happened to cross their path. Of course, that was then, back in those days when optimism still stood a fighting chance. Fred's untimely death changed everything, and it was only the first of two terrible tragedies to strike the Weasley family. A few weeks after the victory celebrations, Ron suffered a serious Quidditch accident. He was clowning around, trying to make everyone laugh, but he lost his balance, slipped off his broom and fell ten feet, breaking his spine and neck as he hit the ground. There was nothing the Healers could do for him. Three months after Fred's memorial service, the Weasleys had another funeral to organise. Staying with the mourning family at the Burrow soon became too painful for Hermione. She couldn't handle the terrible anguish reflected so vividly in Molly's eyes, or the constant reminders of a future that might have been. It was time to move on. Unfortunately, she had no relatives left who would still remember her, let alone welcome her into their home, so at the age of nineteen, Hermione found herself living in some grotty East End flat all by herself. From thereon out, things went downhill fast, or rather, at a more rapid pace than they had done before. Strong-willed Hermione may have been, but she had no means of preventing the breakdown that followed. The grief and isolation had become too much to bear. One gloomy Monday morning, a concerned neighbour—a Muggleborn witch who'd fled the wizarding world during the war—took her to St. Mungo's, literally dropped her off at the door and then Disapparated, never to be seen again. Two years have passed since that day, but it might as well be a lifetime. Hermione cringes whenever she recalls those endless hours of tedious talks and pointless therapy. Just a few night of restful sleep would have sufficed, or a change of scenery. As she sits here today in another bleak, barely decorated flat—it's merely a temporary accommodation, for she has other plans—she wants nothing more than to erase those terrible years from her memory. She strongly disagrees with the so-called experts who insisted that every aspect of the treatment was part of a 'learning experience' and 'an essential phase of the healing process', and she can't help thinking about all the precious time she lost, and about how she misses all her friends who are no longer there for all sorts of reasons. She has been giving the future a lot of thought recently, and finally reached the conclusion that there is also another option open to her, one that has been dangling in front of her eyes the entire time: Hogwarts. The Muggle world no longer has anything to offer her, not to mention that she wouldn't even succeed in finding a decent job there, given her lack of relevant qualifications. She does want a career. She always intended to have one. She takes a sip from her coffee and gazes out into the distance. Yes, she will return to Hogwarts come September, so she can finish school. Finish school, pass her NEWTs, and take care of something else besides. ~*~ During Hermione's stay at St. Mungo's, a friend would come and see her occasionally. It was usually Luna. The others never seemed to know what to say or how to act, and so their visits became less and less frequent as time went by. Luna, on the other hand, was always her usual chirpy, chatty self. She happily kept Hermione up to date on every little topic under the sun, from sightings of mythical creatures in tropical rainforests to political shifts in the wizarding world and even Hogwarts' members of staff. The girl was an inexhaustible mine of information. She seemed to know everything. One of the advantages of running a newspaper, Hermione supposed, and it wasn't difficult to sift out what might be useful later or to steer every conversation into a certain direction. One little titbit Hermione found particularly intriguing was the strange leap Lucius Malfoy had apparently made on the road to redemption. The man had become a Professor at Hogwarts, to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts, of all things. Even today, it remains unclear how and especially why that came about. Possibly, he was mortally afraid for repercussions from former associates and sought the kind of sanctuary only the strong wards of Hogwarts would be able to provide. Or perhaps it was more a case of loneliness and not knowing what to do with himself after Narcissa had walked out on him and persuaded Draco to join her. The Malfoy divorce was a much-publicised event. All its sordid details were plastered over the front page of every wizarding newspaper in Europe and beyond. Those articles, Hermione only skimmed, however. Lucius Malfoy's private life didn't interest her in the slightest. It still doesn't. Now, those rumours on the other hand… She has been hearing them for years. She even found something akin to evidence once, when she was seventeen and able to steal a quick glance at Tonks' files. Some people whisper—very quietly, for it's not the sort of thing anyone with half a brain would consider shouting from the rooftops—that Lucius Malfoy is not only a former Death Eater, but also highly skilled at Necromancy. Necromancy. The art of raising the dead. Ever since she first heard the news of his new career, Hermione hasn't been able to get those rumours out of her head. Perhaps, if there's even a hint of truth to them, she shouldn't be worrying herself with all this 'healing' and 'moving on' nonsense. Maybe she can just pick things up where she left them. With a little help from a— No, never mind that. He's no friend by any stretch of the imagination, but then nor does he need to be. ~*~ Being back at Hogwarts fills Hermione with a feeling of familiarity that's both comforting and daunting, in more or less equal proportions. Upon her arrival, she is given a private room in Gryffindor Tower. Because of the age difference between her fellow students and herself, apparently, and in case she prefers some solitude. "It'll be less stressful that way," she is told. "Not so tough on your nerves." Hermione is mildly offended at the implication that she might not be up to sharing a dorm. She's not that crazy, never was, and there is no logical reason to keep her apart from the other seventh-years. It's not as though she'll hex them all into oblivion, at least not without valid reason. Still, she decides to keep her objections to herself. A private room also has its advantages, after all, and plenty of them. This way, she'll be able to conduct all necessary research without any irksome interruptions, and no unsuspecting dorm mates will accidentally stumble upon the unusual reading matter she's bound to peruse over the next few weeks either. McGonagall is glad to have her back, though also slightly concerned about her general wellbeing. "You chose a very heavy study load for yourself, Hermione," the Headmistress says during the obligatory chat in her office. "So many NEWTs, including Divination. You have never shown much interest in that subject before, and of course you'll have to pass the OWL before you can take the NEWT as well." "Yes, Professor," Hermione replies, politely and without blinking. "I'm fully aware of what I'm about to tackle, and I'm more than willing to put in the extra work." "I don't doubt that you are, dear, on both counts, but are you certain that all this is… entirely wise, after—" the woman pauses as she peers over her glasses, clearly unsure how to continue without potentially causing offence. "I have made a full recovery," Hermione states firmly, "and am entirely confident about my capabilities." "Very well," McGonagall says with a placating smile. "I'm sure you know what's best. Should you ever need a sympathetic ear, however, please keep in mind, dear, that my door is always open." ~*~ Friday night, two weeks later, she hears him approaching behind her in the Restricted Section of the library. She'd recognise the rhythm of his footsteps anywhere. Her prolonged stay at the mental ward left her observant about such things. Besides, he's the only one at Hogwarts who'd still wear boots like that, with old-fashioned brass buckles. They resemble something from a previous century. Rather like his views and values, she decides wryly. As far as she has noticed, he doesn't mention politics anymore, not even in veiled terms, but she's certain that's only a well-calculated move on his behalf, one that's entirely inspired by his keen sense of self-preservation. She can't imagine that he has had a genuine change of heart. His kind rarely does. Just a few more steps and he'll be standing right next to her. Hermione bites back a smug grin. He doesn't know, of course, that being discovered was her intention all along. With no warning, never mind a prior request, he snags the book out of her hands. His eyes widen as he reads the words on the cover. "What on earth could you possibly want with… this, Miss Granger?" Were she not so bitter and desperate, the horror in his tone might make her laugh. "I had two options," she states plainly, "either get my hands on a Time-Turner or take this route, and well,"—she pauses for effect—"everybody knows that we've long run out of Time-Turners." He shakes his head slowly, befuddlement written all over his face, which looks paler than ever in the light of the flickering candle. "Sweet Salazar! They should never have let you out of the institution. You're clearly… not well yet." In one swift move, she roughly pulls the book back out of his hands. "Are you a qualified Healer now, Professor? Or do you have some kind of personal experience with maladies of the mind, one you picked up in Azkaban, perhaps?" He glares at her, but refuses to take the bait. "I believe it's high time you return to Gryffindor Tower, don't you?" His tone is stern, but also carries an underlying weariness Hermione wasn't expecting. Without a word, she rises from her chair. His burning gaze follows her out as she walks away slowly, the controversial book tucked safely under her right arm. ~*~ From that day onwards, she's aware of him watching her whenever they happen to be in each other's proximity. He's extremely subtle about it—obviously; It could spell all sorts of trouble for a teacher if he was caught repeatedly staring at a student —but she seems to have developed a sixth sense for noticing these things. Wednesday's breakfast in the Great Hall is no exception. His gaze is on her when the owl arrives and he's still watching her out of the corner of his eye as she rips open the package with eager hands. Her fellow students lose interest as soon as they see the book-shaped object appear. They're painfully familiar with Hermione Granger's unquenchable thirst for reading material, and it's a topic they'd rather not go within a mile of—if it's all the same, nothing personal and no offence meant, of course. Hermione smiles. No one appreciates being lectured or bombarded with random facts. She might not have realised as much a few years ago, but she's certainly aware of it now. She has even discovered that overloading people with random information is a tactic that works like a charm when she needs to keep them out of her business. Her eyes shine as she reads the notes on the back cover. The book was written by Guillaume Destré, a notorious French sorcerer whose work cannot be sold in Britain. Even translating it would be breaking the law. Not that the language presents a problem to Hermione. One of the Assistant Healers at St. Mungo's was from Avignon originally. One day, Hermione told him that she was bored out of her wits and desperately needed to occupy her restless mind, preferably with something that had no connections to the past. So at her request he brought her French textbooks and dictionaries, and in exchange she told him about British Muggle life and what it had been like for a little girl to discover that she was, in fact, a witch. Hermione has barely exited the Great Hall when Lucius accosts her in the corridor. "What are you planning, Miss Granger?" He quickly glances around to check whether they're still alone. "Surely you don't intend to bring anyone back from the grave? That Weasley boy, for instance?" Hermione crosses her arms, but remains silent. She doesn't owe him any explanations. She doesn't owe him a bloody thing. "I could report you, you know," he says, sounding every bit like he means it. "So could I," she tells him. "I imagine your ex-wife would be very interested to learn about your little—well, not so little, actually, but that only makes it better—bank account in Switzerland." Hermione shakes her head. "Such an ingenious, not to mention, Professor, ironic course of action. Tell me, do you launder the money in the literal sense before you exchange it for the wizarding variety or do you simply wear gloves? I can imagine you wouldn't want to end up contaminated with filthy Mudblood germs." Lucius looks at her then, his mouth agape. He's not used to people getting the better of him, or indeed talking to him in such an audacious manner. The Granger girl was never this abrasive before, was she? No. The female Weasley was always the rude, loudmouthed one. Granger seemed more reserved, more… charming, despite her tendency to spread her knowledge around as if the whole world had just turned into Hufflepuff Haven. But, of course, appearances can be deceiving. "Fine. Do as you wish with your little…side project," he snaps, "but I sincerely hope you're aware of the risks. I'd strongly advise against summoning some dark, soulless creature over which you'll have no control." "Don't worry," she says dryly, with a sneer that reminds him far too much of Bellatrix for comfort. "I have no intention of bringing back Voldemort. I've heard things didn't turn out so well the last time someone did that." Lucius looks like he'd like nothing better than to backhand her for her insolence, but he remains standing there motionless instead, not allowing his professional demeanour to slip, not even for a second. "Your first class starts in ten minutes, Miss Granger," he informs her. "I suggest you run along now, so Professor Slughorn doesn't deduct any points for tardiness." ~*~ Lucius continues to watch her closely, his feelings a combination of curiosity and apprehension, with just a hint of envy mixed in as well. Only a Gryffindor would be this stubborn-headed and loyal, he thinks, and all things considered, this isn't altogether… fair. He did everything he possibly could for his family and yet, at the first sign of trouble, Narcissa left him stranded. Well, all right, true enough, not exactly the first sign. She had been patient and faithful during his stay in Azkaban. She had never blamed him for the unbearable pressure the Dark Lord had put on Draco. She hadn't even faulted him that— Regardless. The fact remains that she did leave and took Draco and a large chunk of the Malfoy fortune with her. So much for family, so much for loyalty, and that after so many years and after everything they'd been through together. Lucius shakes his head. The painful end of his marriage is such a shrill, painful contrast to what's presently unfolding right in front of his eyes. Hermione Granger, who by some mockery of fate is a Muggleborn to boot, is willing to go so far as to defy the God she was probably brought up to believe in and resurrect a loved one. Ronald sodding Weasley. What is it about those blasted Weasleys anyhow, Lucius wonders, that they always seem to get the best of everything, in spite of their chronic lack of both money and charm? He shakes his head again. No. This just won't do. He's above petty jealousy, not to mention too old for this nonsense. Besides, Granger's unfortunate devotion to Weasley isn't exactly the point here. It scarcely skirts the heart of the matter. Lucius' main concern, as he sits there in his dungeon office drinking sweet, expensive wine that does nothing to soothe the bitter taste in his mouth, is that the reckless girl might cause a lot of damage with what's she about to attempt. Perhaps he should get involved and assist her, for everyone's sake. He knows all about the un-dead; the ones that come back wrong. He knows more about them than he'd prefer, frankly. They rarely make for pleasant company, with their ferocious appetites, their murderous dispositions, and he'd rather not bring to mind their vile stench. Just as well that house-elves aren't exactly known for their keen sense of smell, or certain parts of the Manor would be a lot less inhabitable than they are today. But the worst of it is that if Granger's experiment goes wrong, and some poor sod must be called upon to clean up the mess, every finger in the building will undoubtedly point at the DADA Professor, the local expert in all things ghoulish and gruesome. Lucius refills his glass and downs the contents in one large gulp. He considers himself lucky to have made it through the war relatively unscathed, and the last thing he needs in his life right now—or indeed, at any point in the nearby or distant future—is another Dark creature. He lets out a long, weary sigh, and finally accepts the obvious. He really has no choice but to offer her his assistance. For everyone's sake. Especially his own. ~*~ Familiar footsteps echo off the library floor until they come to an abrupt halt right in front of her. Hermione doesn't look up. Lucius' arrival is no surprise, though part of her does wonder what took him so long. "So," he says, his arms crossed, "you appear to have found what you were looking for." She nods, and any doubt she may have had about his knowledge in these matters vanishes in an instant. He probably recognised the cover of Destré's book. She wouldn't be surprised to learn that he owns a copy, himself; one he has safely stashed away in some hidden room at Malfoy Manor. He must know her reasons for reading up on Hemlock and Hellebore as well, and that's probably the reason he's approaching her now—finally—after all those days of silent observation. "You do realise what the Resurrection Ritual entails, don't you?" he continues, taking the chair across from her. "It goes beyond the mere summoning of a sprit. It involves creating new life, or rather: recreating old life." He pauses briefly before he adds, his tone even and businesslike as though this is just another lesson he must teach. "So obviously there will be highly advanced spells and potions involved, as well as one rather more… unorthodox requirement." Again, Hermione nods. "Sexual intercourse," she says, and despite her fierce determination to remain cool, collected and above all, practical about this, she can feel her cheeks blaze. He raises a pale eyebrow. "Yes, you're partly correct." She can tell that he's enjoying this a tad too much, and she's not amused—definitely not—that he seems to consider her unaware of all the facts. Oh, the very nerve! Some Gryffindors do think before they act, and Hermione always makes sure not to overlook even the tiniest detail. After all, the way she sees it, anything that is worth doing is also worth doing properly. But back to the matter at hand; everything she has read about the Resurrection Ritual so far has clearly stated that the… coupling—and really, she shouldn't be blushing at the idea; she's twenty-one now, a grown woman, not some silly, giggly teenage girl—must leave both participants feeling fulfilled, or the magic won't be strong enough. She swallows hard. "You're not a virgin, are you, Miss Granger?" Not only does his question take her by surprise, part of her—the old, sensible Hermione—also can't decide which is the most offensive of the two: the assumption that she's sexually inexperienced, or the suggestion that she might not be. "No," she replies curtly, and leaves it at that. Her past relationships—both of them—are none of his business. The "Very well" he gives her in response reveals nothing of his feelings on the matter. Smug Slytherin bastard. "If I may be so blunt, who do you have in mind for a… partner?" he goes on to ask. His tone is still neutral, unsettlingly so. Hermione blinks. "Well, I—" she begins, but in that very moment she can tell, just from the way he's staring at her, that something has already given the game away. She always was quite hopeless at bluffing. "I see," he says plainly, as if her plan is nothing out of the ordinary. Well, she reasons, perhaps to him, it isn't. In recent months, Hermione has digested plenty of reading material about more controversial magical practices. Chilling tales of barbaric sacrifices, for one. Some of those accounts brought her to tears, and the worst gave her horrific nightmares for weeks. Then there were also those other rituals, the ones that utilised sexual acts as a means of channelling magical energy. Of course, Hermione is well aware that a lot of the literature in that field is largely based on folklore, tall tales made up by Muggles with overactive imaginations. Even the stories that do have some truth at the heart of them mostly describe customs that have long since been abandoned, if not for ethical, then definitely for practical reasons. These days, a sacrifice is merely a symbolic gesture; a basket of fruit placed on an altar, a straw puppet set alight, or a silver coin dropped into a bubbling cauldron. There is no actual cruelty involved, not unless the forces one wants to invoke are wholly Dark, and that's definitely not Hermione's intention. The Resurrection Ritual is one of life, not death. It's controversial, certainly, but there is no actual Dark Magic involved; not according to her sources. The correct sources, she reassures herself. It does require…. that other thing, though. Still, she also knows that, at least in theory, the sex doesn't mean anything beyond the Ritual. It's just a means to an end, and this, of course, must explain why Lucius Malfoy seems so utterly unfazed at the mention of it. He has probably done this sort of thing countless times before—most of the powerful purebloods probably have—whereas she… Well, perhaps she's just being too… Muggle in her reasoning. It's a habit she should kick—sharpish. If she wants this to work, she has to open her mind and think like a witch. Lucius Malfoy, meanwhile, still hasn't uttered a word. Hermione holds her breath. She expects mockery or anger. No doubt she deserves both. He might even take this further and insist she be expelled. Strictly speaking, she did just proposition him, and then there's that whole 'wanting to raise a dead bloke' thing. People get kicked out of school for less. When he finally does speak, all he says is: "We have to wait until the next full moon falls on a Wednesday." "That's six weeks from now," Hermione blurts out. "Is it?" He smirks. "Excellent. That will allow us plenty of time to gather all the necessary ingredients for the potions, and to ensure that you possess the required skills and mindset. Make no mistake, Miss Granger. Nothing about this will be simple." "I know," she tells him in a voice so soft he can barely hear her. ~*~ Every evening after dinner he teaches her, and the lessons continue well into the early hours of the morning. It isn't merely knowledge she needs to acquire, but also—and perhaps most importantly—know-how and confidence. Hermione has always felt fairly certain about her ability to study, but she cannot deny that the time she spent at St. Mungo's has left its mark on her self-esteem. She is no longer as confident as she was a few years ago. People constantly questioning your sanity will have that effect on you, no matter how hard you try fighting it. Thankfully, the private tutoring turns out to be highly interesting and even fairly pleasant. Now and again, Lucius Malfoy reminds her of Severus Snape—minus the late professor's bitter, biting sarcasm—and she is starting to understand why the two men were friends. Somewhere halfway into the first week, Hermione is puzzled to realise that she enjoys Lucius' company more and more. Sometimes, when the two of them wait for a potion to brew or a complicated spell to take effect, the 'shop talk' turns into a regular chat. Lucius proves to be well read—something that shouldn't surprise her—and a fascinating conversationalist. She can't tell whether he still harbours a vast dislike for Muggleborns, but perhaps he doesn't. Perhaps her earlier assessment of him was too rash—too harsh—and he really has changed for the better. Whichever the case may be, he always treats her with respect, almost like an equal. One night, he accompanies her to the Forbidden Forest to pick fresh herbs and Moonflowers. An ominous howl sounds in the nearby distance. "Come on," he says. He takes her arm and leads her onwards, and in that very moment, she feels safe in his presence, and that isn't something she ever expected to happen. After that night, she finds herself looking forward to the evenings they spend together, and not only because the lessons are so captivating. This isn't a development she ever stops to think about, however. Perhaps she doesn't want to. Still, when Ron returns—when, not if; of that, she is fully certain now—she does intend to ask him to re-evaluate his opinion of the Malfoys. Well, of Lucius, at any rate. ~*~ Hermione takes a deep breath before stepping into the room. The hot bath she just took, with lavender oil, was supposed to help soothe her nerves. It didn't. Standing face to face with him, she can practically hear the blood pumping through her veins. She knows why she is doing this—why she must—but the embarrassing fact of the matter is that she has only had sex twice before, and that was years ago. No, she's no longer a virgin, but she couldn't possibly feel any more out of place if she still were. With shaking fingers, she removes her cloak, revealing the long blue dress she bought three years ago. It fits like a glove. Lucius looks her up and down, and gives a smirk of approval. "Drink this," he says. "It'll help you unwind." She accepts the glass and studies the red liquid intently. "Is this some kind of potion?" she asks, her tone tinged with suspicion. He shakes his head and smiles. "No, it's red wine—Châteauneuf du Pape; a very good year, too." Hermione frowns, still uncertain. And since when does Lucius Malfoy drink Muggle wine anyhow? Isn't that beneath him? "I have no intention of drugging you," he informs her. "I'm quite confident that we can complete this Ritual successfully without the need for any… outside stimuli." She inhales sharply. It's almost impossible to fathom how nervous she is feeling, even though from a practical viewpoint, she doesn't suppose she has that many reasons to be concerned. She didn't forget about the contraceptive potion this morning, and everything written about the Ritual states quite clearly that she has to enjoy herself, or it won't work. So he won't be rough with her, or do anything she doesn't want. Will he? She swallows thickly. "Through there," he says, gesturing towards the open door to his right. Funny, she thinks, how unfazed he seems, and she has to wonder how often he has done this before, slept with virtual strangers, and for that matter, girls who went to school with his son. She walks into the adjoining room and almost gulps at the sight of the luxurious four-poster bed. Has that always been there? She glances around and notices the candles and roses on both beside tables. Her heart races again, and not just from nerves this time. "Aren't you drinking your wine?" he asks. She turns around to face him, and shakes her head. She can't risk getting drunk tonight, or falling asleep. Given past experiences, it'd most likely be the latter. One glass of wine, and she's out like a light. The twins used to joke about it all the time. She bites her lip. That's really not the sort of thought she should be having right now. "Right, then," she says, and takes a seat on the bed. He joins her, smiling. She opens her mouth to speak, but he silences her with a kiss. Her breath catches in her throat, and before she can even think about what she is doing, she's kissing him back—and again. When they break apart, a long moment later, she's breathless and giddy. Goodness. The man can certainly kiss. She lifts up her hands, places them behind his head and carefully undoes his ponytail. The hair that falls over his shoulders is a mix of grey and light blond now. It clearly betrays his age, even if nothing else about him does, but that doesn't matter. He's gorgeous. Though from a rational perspective, that's probably something Hermione should also put out of her mind. This, what they're doing here—what they're about to do—is merely something that needs to be done. It's a means to an end. It bears no other significance. It doesn't mean anything. It isn't supposed to. Though that fact is difficult to keep in mind as he starts to unbutton her dress, ever so slowly, and then slips it down so he can kiss her bare shoulders. The touches of his lips are feather light, barely even there, and yet they make her sigh and shiver in anticipation of what's to follow. His gaze travels down her body, briefly rests on her cleavage, and then that sinking feeling of self-consciousness is back. Hermione has never thought of herself as beautiful. True enough, she has always been more occupied with improving her mind than her looks, and she'd rather give up books forever than be as vain and shallow as the likes of Lavender Brown and Pansy Parkinson, but nonetheless, she hopes that Lucius isn't currently comparing her to his ex-wife. With all that beauty and sophistication, Hermione couldn't even begin to compete. She considers herself to be quite… ordinary and plain in comparison. "You're a very desirable young woman, Miss Granger," Lucius says, before she can even ask herself why she is suddenly so keen to impress him. She exhales in relief, but soon her breath hitches again as he slowly kisses a trail down her neck and collarbone. He pauses at her bra and looks up in question. She bites her lip and nods. She never used to be this shy before, but then he's… not intimidating, exactly, but definitely somewhat overwhelming. He's an experienced man of the world, not some overeager teenage boy fumbling his way around. Pale, surprisingly soft hands stroke her breasts, slim fingers slowly circle each nipple, and she is stunned to find him so gentle, so careful, with her. It's almost as though he means it. No. That's nonsense. "What is?" he asks, a confused look on his face. "Nothing," she says quickly, embarrassed for having voiced her thoughts out loud. He murmurs something she doesn't quite catch and continues his ministrations. He takes his time caressing her breasts before his hands travel downwards. He dips his head lower and kisses her breasts, one by one. His lips move to her right nipple, licking and sucking lightly, before he gives the left one the same attention. Sighing, Hermione throws her head back. Her earlier nervousness is as good as gone, and it occurs to her that she should probably do something, too, get involved and not just lie there like some— Oh blast. Whatever must he be thinking of her? Her fingers tremble as she lets them wander down his back, and then under his shirt. It's a silky, old-fashioned garment with an insane amount of buttons. Well, yes, she supposes it would be. "Would you feel more comfortable if I disrobed?" he asks. "Yes," she says, her voice a mere whisper. She expects him to get up, and she isn't looking forward to the loss of contact (being this close to him feels too wonderful), but he doesn't. He mutters a wandless spell and in an instant, his clothes are gone, neatly folded over a chair next to the bed. Hermione blinks. Will he ever stop surprising her? She looks at him, then. His skin is pale and smooth and his grey eyes glow in the candlelight. "Where were we?" he whispers and before she can form any kind of coherent response, he kisses her again. She responds eagerly, vaguely aware of her dress landing on the floor, and of her bra joining it a few moments later. He kisses a trail down her neck, over her breasts, her stomach and her abdomen. "Oh," is all she manages when his hands come to rest on her inner thighs. His tongue starts to explore her and she can't stop the moans and sighs that escape her lips. She squints her eyes shut. One of her hands tightly clutches the sheet beneath her, and the other grabs his shoulder. "Ready?" he asks. She opens her eyes again, looks at him and their gazes lock. "Yes," she breathes. "That part about not being a virgin," he says softly. "I presume it wasn't a lie?" "No," she says. "But, um…" "Yes?" Is that concern in his eyes? She must be imagining it. "It has been a while, though," she tells him. It feels like a confession. He nods, slides a hand underneath her bum to tilt her hips up slightly, and then carefully pushes himself inside her. She grits her teeth, just for a moment. It has been so long. He bends down to kiss her earlobe and her neck. She moans again. He begins to move, slowly, gently, experimentally almost, until a certain angle makes her gasp in pleasure. The grin he gives her is triumphant. Vaguely she thinks that she might be tempted to slap him, if this wasn't so enjoyable. But it is—extremely enjoyable. Merlin. She moves back against him, back and forth, and grabs his waist with both her arms, guiding him, helping determine the pace. The antique bed creaks beneath them. He's moving faster, harder, his hand squeezing her bum now, pulling her closer as he plants more kisses down her neck. One of them is almost a bite. She moans loudly and mutters something unintelligible. She's close, so close. She wraps her legs around him, to make him go even deeper and to increase the friction, until she can feel it—the pleasure coiling deep within her and bursting to the surface. "OhGodOhGodYessss…" She clenches around him, shudders, and climaxes with an intensity she has never experienced before. A few more thrusts and he reaches completion too, groaning somewhere by her right ear. He rolls off her, breathing hard. She doesn't speak. What could she possibly say? "God. You're amazing. " "Wow. Could we please do that again? Every night?" All of those would be true, but also highly inappropriate, because this didn't mean anything. It can't. It mustn't. Her gaze drifts off in the distance and comes to rest on the cauldron in the adjoining room and the yellow mist that now hovers above it. Hermione smiles wryly. Just in case there was any remaining doubt, the Ritual was a success. Lucius rises from the bed. "We'll meet here again in six days," he says as he steps away from her, casting first a cleaning charm and then a spell that redresses him. "Yes," she replies softly, as if in a daze. She too, gets up, and with shaking legs starts to put her clothes back on. She'll take a shower in her private bathroom later. He doesn't spare her even a fleeting glance. "Kindly lock up when leave," he says and heads for the corridor, quietly shutting the door behind him. Hermione is overcome with a sense of loss she can't explain, and when she heads back to Gryffindor Tower ten minutes later, there's a chill around her heart that, she is quite certain, has nothing to do with the freezing cold corridor. ~*~ She doesn't speak to him privately over the next few days, nor does his gaze follow her around the room like it used to. She supposes as much stands to reason. Soon enough, they'll be slipping into their former roles again, student and teacher, Muggleborn and Malfoy. One more spell to be said over yet another potion, and the Ritual will be complete. Just two more days, and Ron will be by her side again. Three weeks after the funeral, when she and Ginny were sorting through his belongings, to give some away to charity, Hermione plucked a few hairs from one of his jumpers before putting it in the laundry basket. Though no one ever breathed a word about it, she was sure that everyone considered her mad and desperate for keeping them. Well, perhaps she was… slightly unstable back then, but at least those keepsakes will serve their purpose soon. They'll allow her and Ron to be together again. Together. Unexpectedly, Hermione's stomach plummets as she realises something. And it doesn't make a bit of sense. She'll finally get what she has wanted for so long, what she has worked so hard to get, and yet, the idea of being reunited with Ron no longer fills her with the longing and unbridled joy it once did. All she can think about, the only person she has been able to think about lately is… No. Her head spins from the onslaught of conflicting emotions. She takes a deep, calming breath. She must stop this nonsense. Everything will be all right again once Ron is back. It has to be. ~*~ Lucius surveys the room for the second time, and gives a satisfied nod. Everything appears to be in order and set up as required. The potion is ready, brewed to perfection. Ten candles are strategically placed on the makeshift altar, and a circle of runic symbols is drawn on the floor. One more joined incantation, and all will be over. Ronald Weasley will return. He'll be sitting right over there, on that wooden chair by the purple tapestry. Lucius shakes his head and inwardly curses his mounting anxiety. He knows that he has no rational reason for feeling this way. None at all. Everything should go well here today and over the next few weeks, and that includes the complicated but necessary plan of keeping the Weasley boy hidden until the end of the school year. Lucius knows that the cause of his unease isn't a question of competence, either. He knows what he's doing and by now, so does Hermione Granger. Hermione. Which brings him straight to the heart of the problem. He has barely spoken to her in the last few days. Not that he'd been hoping for anything different. After all, there was no longer any need for her to beseech him, and he, for his part, has never been one to pursue women, nor is he terribly inclined to get into the habit now, after that regrettable business with his ex-wife. Perhaps he should send Narcissa roses and a note of congratulations. He has finally become a greater coward than their son, and in the process, he has also got his feelings—and what's far worse still, his pride—hurt. He must have lost his mind to even be harbouring these feelings. Hermione Granger is just a girl—a Mudblood, technically, though he really shouldn't think about her in such prejudiced, degrading terms any longer. No. The plain fact of the matter is that he shouldn't be thinking about her at all. He never expected to feel this way about anyone again. He always thought—No, he was convinced that Narcissa was his soul mate and that the two of them would be together forever, no matter what the future might hold, but of course, life turned out very differently. He knows that it can't possibly be the nature of the Ritual that has him confused He had done such things before, slept with virtual strangers in the name of magic, or indeed, for the sake of getting something he desperately needed or simply wanted badly enough. Of course, he was much younger back then, and the sex with those people wasn't something he thought about. It was insignificant, as were they. Hermione Granger, however… Somehow, the girl has managed to get under his skin. It turns out that she's not infuriating at all. She's rather attractive, and quite charming in her own Gryffindor way, and she does possess a brilliant mind. The only consolation, the only solace he has, as far as he can see is that in a few months' time, she'll take her NEWTs and leave Hogwarts behind her for good. Or perhaps she'll even decide to move on as soon as she has been reunited with her precious Weasley and then it won't even be necessary to hide the boy. Perhaps the happy couple will go to Europe, set up a home there, and Hermione will spend the next two decades looking after a horde of freckled, red-haired children. Lucius sneers at the thought. That scenario might be amusing if she didn't deserve so much more. Then again, if this really is what she wants, then she shouldn't get anything better. And to think of the life she could have—the one he could offer her. He shakes his head. Perhaps the girl isn't that smart after all, or he's just getting soft at his age. Before he can ponder the matter further, she walks in, empty-handed. "Did you forget your supplies, Miss Granger?" he asks, bemused. Her gaze rests on the bubbling cauldron rather than his face. "No, I—" "Yes?" "I've um, made up my mind. I've decided not to—" He narrows his eyes, fast losing his patience. Just what kind of game is she playing here? She takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Lu-Prof-Lucius, but I'm afraid I cannot go through with this. I—" He blinks, unsure whether to be livid that all his work has gone to waste, or relieved and delighted at her change of heart. "And why is that?" he asks. If his hopes are about to be dashed, she'd best get it over with quick. "It's wrong, immoral, to bring back the dead." Her answer sounds like a speech, one she spent hours rehearsing in front of a mirror, and he wouldn't be surprised if that's exactly what it is. "I see," he says, unable to stop the sneer that follows. "A belated attack of conscience. Only a Gryffindor…" He slams the book closed and extinguishes the candles with a spell. "Very well. Good night then, Miss Granger." He expects her to leave, to run for the safety of her Tower, but she doesn't. Again, he has misread her. He pretends not to notice her lingering presence and starts Vanishing the symbols on the floor. Once more, she speaks up. "But—" "Yes?" he says casually, but doesn't turn around, not just yet. Hope is a dangerous weakness, and always comes with a high price. "I've sort of…" Even from across the room, he can hear her sharp intake of breath. "Ron will always hold a special place in my heart, but things wouldn't be like they were before, and furthermore, there… There is someone else I feel drawn to at present. Someone I—" Lucius finally turns around. She's blushing and flustered when she meets his gaze. "I'm afraid I find myself strongly attracted to you, Profes—Lucius." "Do you, indeed?" he says, slowly, enunciating every syllable. She bites her bottom lip and nods. He strides towards her until they're standing toe to toe. He places his hand under her chin and tilts her head up, so she has to look him in the eye. "You do realise, do you not," he says, "that my getting romantically involved with a student would be going against every rule Hogwarts has about these matters?" She looks at him, and he can see the fear of rejection clearly reflected in her wide brown eyes. "On the other hand," he adds, smirking slightly, "neither of us has ever been very good at following rules. Fortunately we do both excel at discretion. " Before she can reply, he kisses her with a passion that takes her breath away and a tenderness that makes her heart melt. Her arms slip around his waist. Hermione closes her eyes, and all she can think is that for someone who is about to jump, feet first, into another branch of insanity, she feels of surprisingly sound mind.

CHRIS: My past is my own, Buck. It's not somethin' you can use for conversation. BUCK: She asked. CHRIS: Guess you didn't hear me. BUCK: ( groans ) I hear ya, and I'm sorry, Chris but what the hell am I supposed to say when people ask? CHRIS: Nothin'. From "One Day Out West" (transcript taken from Zennerd's excellent website: http://www.geocities.com/zennerd/oneday1.html) "You ain't going." Buck blinked his eyes open, forcing himself out of the post-climax lethargy, and the drowse that had started as his breathing had slowed. He wasn't surprised to find Chris standing at the dresser, drinking from the whiskey bottle, scratching at his come-splattered belly. "What?" he said, but it came out more a rumble than a word, his voice rusty. Chris took another deep pull on the bottle, then held it out toward Buck as he swallowed. Buck took it, but he kept his eyes on his lover even as he drank, listening to the hard tone in the flat voice. "In the morning," Chris said. "You ain't coming." He twisted, reaching for the lamp and turning it down, the flame dying. Buck managed not to choke on the alcohol sliding down his throat, but he did swallow a little faster than necessary and almost coughed. Chris took the bottle from his hand, setting it on the table beside the bed before crawling over Buck to get back under the covers – the night was a little chilly, a cold wind blowing in. Would probably rain tomorrow, making the ride to Tascosa – "What the hell do you mean?" Buck asked when he found his voice. "Don't see how that's your – " "You're still hurting – don't lie about it, it's clear in your eyes, Buck. That wound's still healing and you ain't up for a long ride, and I ain't up to losing you because of it." Buck stared at the other man, confused. "What the hell does that mean?" And for the first time in all the years they'd known each other, in all the hell they'd been through, Chris Larabee blushed. Buck just stared, feeling a strange wonder. It fell apart when Chris answered roughly, "Means you ain't ridin' with us in the morning." He felt the stir of his anger again, but it was a little more tempered now. "I thank you for worrying, Chris, but I think I'm old enough to make my own decisions. And I like Vin. I don't want to – " "I know you do. So how you gonna take it if this don't work and I end up coming back alone?" He was settling back into the pillow, yawning even as he closed his eyes. "If I go, you ain't coming back alone," Buck said quietly, the meaning clear. He rolled to his side so that he was looking down into Chris' face. He'd left one lamp burning, turned low on the table beside his side of the bed, and shadows cast him in deep lines. His eyes were closed, his lips set in a hard line. "If I have to get him out of there, I don't want you in the line of fire," Chris said quietly and without opening his eyes. "And if something else goes wrong, you'll be coming to get us both out." Buck snorted. "That's a sorry-ass plan, Chris." And it was. 'Cause Buck knew that it was bullshit, and he knew that Chris did, too. If Vin ended up hanging, Chris would be dead. He wouldn't come back alone, it wasn't his nature. Chris almost smiled, the corners of his lips twitching, but he didn't open his eyes. "Only one I got. Other than letting him go alone." "Could hog-tie him and not let him leave at all," Buck mused. Until he saw the smile actually develop on Chris' face and knew what image his lover had in his head. "I didn't mean that," he groused. "Don't think Vin would take too kindly to being trussed up. Reckon it's happened to him before and it wasn't nearly as fun as what you're thinking." He sighed, letting his arm fall away so that he was on his own pillow, thinking about sleep. The sword slash itched a little under the bandage, and he shifted, trying to ease it without touching. "You seem to know him pretty well," Chris said quietly, just pulling Buck back from the edge. "You heard something?" Buck opened his eyes so he could see the other man. "Didn't have to. It's there in his eyes, Chris – you seen it, that fear. That first time, in this very bed – don't you remember?" Chris' head rolled on the pillow, turning slightly toward to Buck before forcing his eyes open. "Saw some fear there, lotta anger aimed at me – probably deserved. I wasn't real gentle with him." "No, you weren't," Buck agreed but there was no heat in the words. They were past that. "But you weren't as bad as others have been, and that's what he sees in you." Chris watched him, those green eyes tracking in the soft light. "What do you see in me, Buck? Why do you stay?" Buck blinked, startled. "What do I – Chris, you feeling all right?" It was almost worrisome, this sudden concern on Chris' part. This sudden – affection. No, he caught himself, he'd always known Chris cared. It was this sudden demonstration of it, these words. Chris was looking at him, something soft in his eyes. Buck recognized the look – it was one he hadn't seen in a while though, not since Sarah had – "Buck?" He smiled, couldn't help himself, then moved the short distance to find Chris' lips. "I stay because you're the best thing in my life." He didn't have to see Chris to know he was blushing, he could feel the heat under the layer of scruff as they kissed. Neither of them blew out the light, so when Buck woke to the noise of someone moving around the room, he could see Chris pulling on his gunbelt. He blinked, knowing that the sun wasn't up yet, not all the way. The room was too dark and the chill just enough to make him want to roll over and go back to sleep. But he fought it, knowing that Chris was thinking of sneaking out to meet Vin, as if his words from the night before - hours ago – had settled the matter. "What time y'all planning on leaving?" he said, struggling to push back the bedclothes. Chris started, almost dropping the boot he was holding, and Buck couldn't help but chuckle. "Don't know, but don't you worry about it," Chris countered, fumbling his way into the boot. "Go back to sleep. If we're not back in a couple of weeks, come hunting." Buck finally managed to get free of the cloth and pulled his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up. "My ass. Gimme about ten minutes – " "You're not going, Buck. I thought I made that clear – " "You said a bunch a shit, none of which matters on this point." He scratched at his belly even as he forced himself to stand. "Besides, if it weren't for me, you wouldn't be going either, 'cause that boy would be long gone." Chris stilled then, looking up from where he was crouched over, his eyes shiny in the dimness. "You jealous?" Buck turned to look at him, again surprised by Chris. But before he stopped to think about an answer, his mouth jumped in ahead of him and said, "Should I be?" And there is was, open between them. Chris straightened slowly, pressing his foot into his boot unconsciously, while Buck shivered slightly, looking around for his clothes. They were on the nearby chair, even his longjohns which he figured Chris had probably picked up while he was looking for his own clothes. He was pulling himself into the sleeves when Chris finally said, "What we got – well, I wasn't bullshitting last night, Buck. Don't want nothing to happen to you. Don't want . . ." He paused, took a deep breath that Buck heard across the room. "You're important to me, too important to lose. We ain't never put no name on . . ." He sighed then, waving his hand around, and Buck almost smiled. Instead, he reached for his pants, slipping them on as he said, "No, we ain't, and don't reckon we need to now. We both know what it is." He couldn't help himself, chuckling at the look of relief that settled on the other man's face. But as his amusement died away, he asked softly, and with some fear, "This thing with no name ain't over, is it? You planning on leaving me behind to take up with Vin?" Chris looked up from where he was setting his coat on his shoulders, meeting Buck's gaze straight on. "No." His voice was dry and flat, the sound one that Buck had learned over the years meant that Chris was as scared of the question as he had been. He nodded, but before he could say anything, Chris went on. "I like him – maybe too much. I want . . ." He swallowed, but didn't look away as he continued, "I want . . I want to get to know him better." Buck stared at him. "You done fucked him – how much more is there to know about him?" But even as he asked the question, he knew the answer, remembered the questions last night, about Vin and his past experiences with men, about what Buck saw in Chris. Remembered Chris' 'plan' and the lie behind it. For half an instant, he saw something in Chris' face, a flash of something in his eyes – something that cut deep. Chris was protecting Vin – but he was doing something else, too; he was using him, making him the reason for the distance between them. For the fear Chris had of losing Buck. That idea, though, was distant, causing a hurt that Buck wasn't ready to see. Instead, he latched on to the other, the protecting. The wanting. Buck rarely felt jealousy, but right now, watching Chris watching him, seeing that strange look on the other man's face, he wanted to find Vin Tanner and shoot him dead. "Leave him be," Chris said, his voice low and dangerous. "Ain't his fault – hell, he don't even know." "I shoulda let him leave," Buck shot back, the jealousy finding its companion anger. But the anger wasn't all about Vin; it was about what Chris was doing because of Vin. For the first time, Chris was seeing what was right in front of him, what had been there longer than either one of them knew. And Chris was running from it. "I should never have gone into that livery yesterday – what the hell was I doing?" "You leave him outta this," Chris repeated. "I ain't ending anything between us – hell, I shared him with you that first time, and ain't shot ya for taking him yesterday – taking him, Buck! You told me yourself he let you fuck him – " "Reckon he knew more'n I did," Buck snarled, jerking on his shirt. "He seemed to know he should leave – should run before he got hurt. Smart boy. I shoulda done that a long time ago, too. At least he had enough sense to run before you did." He looked down, searching for his boots. He was angry enough that he didn't care about the noise he was making as he stomped into them – "Buck." Chris's hand closed on one of his upper arms, hard and sharp. "Don't – " "I ain't gonna hurt your precious little fuck-boy," he snapped, wrenching himself free. "I won't say the same about you though." He whirled, jerking his jacket off one of the nearby chairs, then grabbing up his gunbelt and whipping it up his arm. "Stop it!" Chris hissed, trying to grab for him again, trying to slow him down. "Ain't no need in acting this way – I ain't – " "You're taking off with him and leaving me here," Buck shot back. "Telling me I ain't welcome to go along 'cause you want to 'get to know him better' – now, what we got might not have a name, but I can tell you this – what you're doing does have a name and it's called bullshit." Chris caught him then, pushing him hard back against the wall and pinning him long enough so say, "I didn't lie to you, last night or before. I need you – I ain't leaving you behind. I just – I need – I – " "You need him. And you want him. Fine, Chris, you go right on ahead – go on and get to know him, and go right on telling yourself that that's what this is all about. And when you get tired of him, or, more likely, when he gets tired of your sorry ass moods and temper, you come on back here, and if you're damned lucky, maybe I'll still be here." He pushed then, catching Chris unprepared and driving him back long enough to get to the door. And out. His anger pulsed, driving him down the stairs and out the door, into the darkened street. Dawn was just breaking, the sky lightening slowly and softly, storm clouds gathering. He was so angry that all he could do at first was pace, walking up and down the street as the sun rose slowly, thinking about the contradictions of Chris' words from last night and this morning. Thinking of being set aside for that slip of a man with the big blue eyes. But like jealousy, anger wasn't something that found a home in him, and by the time others were beginning to move around on the boardwalk – Mrs. Holcombe opening up the restaurant for breakfast, Mrs. Travis making her way to her newspaper office, he had drifted into a sort of oddly detached sadness. It was then that he saw the familiar form coming out of the boarding house, saddle bag over one shoulder, the rifle cut down to be worn in a long holster strapped to one leg. His anger pricked again, but not enough to control him. As Chris had said, it wasn't Vin's fault. Whatever was happening between those two wasn't something Vin was trying to encourage. Whatever was happening between all three of them. Because, Buck knew, it was happening between all three of them. Some part of that jealousy he had felt just now was for Vin, too. He knew that had Chris been riding out with anybody else, he'd have been just as content to wait with Vin. Or to leave Chris behind for a while and ride on with Vin himself, try to talk the younger man out of this foolishness. Get to know Vin a little better himself, then come back for Chris. He didn't sneak up on Vin – couldn't; knowing what he did now about Vin's past – the bounty on his head – he understood a lot more about why he was so jumpy. So careful. And so innocent, Buck thought, watching Vin grin at him as he neared. Wasn't his fault, he told himself, wasn't Vin's fault. All Chris, all Buck himself. Not Vin. "You're up awful ear – Hey!" Vin ducked the wide roundhouse Buck threw, so that Buck's fist passed easily through the air to collide harmlessly with the wall. Buck stood, breathing hard, leaning on the fist that was pressed hard now against the rough wood planking. Vin came up several feet away, and Buck could feel the weight of his gaze, the confusion. "Buck?" he asked quietly. Buck sighed, shaking his head and pulling his fist back, forcing it to flex. "You got me, boy," he said, as softly as Vin. "Thought I knew him, but you slipped right past my guard on that one." Peripherally, he saw Vin shift, watched him debate, his blue eyes catching in the random rays of sunlight as he looked around to see who had seen. "I'm sorry if I done something." Buck sighed again, hating the way he was feeling. He turned, shaking his hand now, even sorrier when Vin took another step back, out of any reach. "You ain't done nothing. I . . ." "You and Chris?" he said, with a perception that startled Buck – but only for a second. Vin nodded though, catching the brief surprise Buck knew he must've shown. "Worried about that. Knew I shoulda – " "Wouldn't have mattered," Buck held up his hand, waving off Vin's words. "'Spect the damage was done by the time we reached that Seminole village." He waved it again when Vin started to speak. "Don't matter, what's done is done. I . . . I only ask that when y'all get done in Tascosa, would you, please . . ." He stopped, unsure that he could ask. Unsure of what he was asking. Unsure that he had anything to ask. "He'll come back to you," Vin said softly, and he took that step back, closer to Buck. "No matter how it comes out, he'll come back – you're his home." Just like that. Buck shook his head, but said, "He wants to get to know you better. Don't sound like – " Vin blushed, the tinting visible even in the indirect light, but he interrupted. "He knows all he's ever gonna know. Ain't me he wants to find out about, it's hisself." The idea – coupled with the fact that it came so easily from someone who had only known Chris for days – caught Buck completely unprepared. He stared, knew he was staring, gaping probably. Vin grinned a little at him and said, "I was thinking 'bout getting my horse ready. Walk with me?" He didn't really make a conscious choice, just found himself walking along with Vin. Eventually, when the shock – and the reality of those words had worn off a bit, he stammered out, "You really think that . . ." Vin glanced at him, then said, "He came for you that first day, Buck, without me knowing nothing about you two and what he wanted. If you'd said no, I don't think it woulda gone any farther than the three of us having a drink and talking about what to do with them Seminole. Hell, if you were to say 'no' now, I 'spect that would be the end of it, too – he'd still go with me, 'cause he gave his word and he lives by that, same way I do. But if you think he's going just to get back inside my britches, you're wrong." Just like that, Vin had put it together, and done it right. Buck shook his head at his own stupidity. "If I asked you not to let him, would you?" He glanced to Vin as they walked, watching. He wasn't surprised this time when Vin turned to look at him and slowed. "Yep. If that's what you want. But you know it ain't me yer worried about losing." This time, though, he was wrong, at least a little. Buck reached out, dropping hand to Vin's shoulder and pleased when this time, even though he tensed, Vin didn't pull away. "Yeah, I am. You're the one stubborn enough to go walking into a noose. And I am worried about that, 'cause I reckon I want ta get ta know you better, too." Vin chuckled a little, but his eyes were serious. "I ain't aiming to get between you two – " "I know. Guess I just needed to be reminded." He nodded, then let his arm drop away. "Wish you wouldn't do this – and not just because of riding off with him." Vin shrugged and turned, starting toward the livery. "Got to. Got ta clear my name, get this off of me. Tired of looking over my shoulder all the time, worrying 'bout who I can talk to and who I can't. Gets old, Buck, makes a man tired." Buck fell in beside him. "Yeah, guess it does. But you let Chris help you. He'll find a way through it for you – he's good that way. Then y'all get your skinny asses right back here. I don't cotton to having to come bust either of you outta jail." Vin laughed at the idea, shaking his head. "Won't let it get that far – I'd shoot myself 'for I'd let 'em hang me." He meant it to be funny, but there was a slight tremor in his voice and Buck caught the shudder in his hands before he knotted them to stillness. They entered the livery, greeting Tiny and several of the others who were there. Buck spent a few minutes with his own horse while Vin started tacking Peso. Didn't take long – Vin was efficient and prepared, and knew his horse well enough to work around the fussing. But as he tightened the girth, nudging the gelding's belly with his knee to force out the breath the horse was holding, Buck said softly, "Just so's we're clear, I wasn't asking for a promise. Fact is, I know you're right 'bout all of it." And he didn't like the idea that still played at the back of his mind, that Vin might not come out of this. Wasn't fair for him to spend what might be his last days worrying about Buck and Chris – and if these were Vin's last days, damned fool that he was, Buck couldn't ask him not to take advantage of what little comfort he could get. Whatever was or wasn't between him and Chris shouldn't be the last thing on Vin's mind. Vin grunted as he tied off the cinch, then turned to look at Buck. "You sure? I can live with –" "Thanks. But I'm sure." He grinned, slapping Vin on the shoulder. "Don't mean I ain't still a mite pissed at Chris though, so don't take personal anything I say to him. He owes me an apology – he owes me some explanations about what's going on in his head. And he owes me the truth." Vin arched an eyebrow. "Don't you put me in the middle, Buck. You two need to work it out – " "We will, we will," Buck rushed. "Now – how 'bout we get some breakfast?" But as they exited the livery, Buck caught sight of Chris standing on the boardwalk, watching them, a frown on his pale face, worry in his eyes. "Newspaper, gentlemen?" a pleasant female voice called, and before he even thought about it, Buck sauntered over, offering to help Mrs. Travis. He smiled at her, but even as he took the papers from her arms, he caught sight of Vin's hesitation before the younger man continued on, joining Chris. *&*&*&*&*&*&* Buck paced again, rubbing at the spot on his neck where the razor had cut. Goddamn Chris – he needed to track him down, punch him out – how dare he – Because it was easier for Chris to be mad at Buck about talking to Mary Travis than it was to figure out this other thing between them, this unnamed thing that Chris didn't want to put a name to. That Chris didn't want to admit to. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stop moving. The streets were thinning out now, even this side street, running behind the livery. He'd come here looking for Chris, thinking that he and Vin would have made it this far already, to the livery, what with the storm coming. It was getting close to noon, too, the big trial that dumbass JD would be tending to – he sighed. Dumbass kid. Gonna get himself killed, while Chris and Vin were off getting themselves killed. . . He looked up at the sky as the first drops of rain started, hitting him full in the face. The first shot made him duck instinctively, but by the time the next few sounded, close together, he placed them – the saloon. The trial. Damned kid. He started moving, staying close to the buildings and low. Glass shattered, more gunfire – Chris' familiar revolver, more glass now, louder and longer. Horses, then, hooves pounding the ground as they went from standing still to moving fast. A rifle sounded, then a call, indistinct except that it ended with "JD!" and he was moving faster, fear and worry driving him. The front of the saloon was a shambles, the window shattered, barrels and chairs overturned. Several bodies lay on the road, scattered about, and Vin was dropping his mare's leg back to his side as JD was moving away from the saloon doors, looking okay but scared as he called out for Nathan. Buck hurried over, not really surprised to hear Chris yelling from inside the saloon to hurry up and get Nathan. But Nathan was already there, pushing past Vin even as Buck stepped up, dropping a hand on the younger man's shoulder. Vin nodded at him, looking toward the waving batwing doors as they both heard Nathan say, "Let's get him up to my place." The next several hours were a confusion, Nathan needing help with trying to save the Judge, JD unsure of what to do and anxious. Buck found himself sitting on the boardwalk, sometimes with JD as he moved between the jail and Nathan's clinic, sometimes one of the curious town's people, wanting to know what was going on – and blaming them for trying to do the right thing, but mostly sitting alone. Vin had ridden out, not to Tascosa, but to see if he could follow the tracks of the men who had escaped. A tracker, Buck knew, and damned good at it. "This seat taken?" He glanced up, not too surprised to find Chris standing there, looking at him. He shrugged, some of the irritation still in him, but not as bad as it had been. Seeing the dark stains on Chris' shirt helped some – it wasn't Chris' blood, he knew that, but it could have been. Reminded him of the damned-fool plan. "How's the Judge?" Buck asked as Chris settled himself. "Alive," Chris answered shortly, "but just barely. Figure we ain't leaving today." Buck nodded, knowing that Chris was trying to apologize. His irritation ratcheted up a notch; as usual, Chris was doing a piss-poor job of it. "Sent Vin out to see if he could find their trail – even though seems pretty clear that they'll be off to James' place." Buck sat back, crossing his legs at the ankles, knowing already where this was leading. "Figure we might have to ride out there and get the James boy back before this is over." There it was, then. Drawing himself back in, he pushed himself up to standing, turning to look down at Chris. "Y'all have fun, then." He had the pleasure of seeing rare surprise on Chris' face as he strolled away into the saloon. Even better was the grim annoyance Chris wore several minutes later when he waltzed back out, Miss MaryAnn on his arm. *&*&*&*&*&* "Rocks?" Buck laughed out loud, the story more amusing because of Chris' involvement in it. Served him right. JD grinned back. "I don't think Vin ever quite cottoned on to the idea that we were supposed to make it look like a real funeral – he bitched the entire time about – " "I did what, JD?" JD nearly spilled his beer as he leaned forward, startled by the voice behind him. Buck had watched the younger man approaching, and he laughed aloud again, his amusement drawing a sort of grin from Vin as well as he moved past JD to settle into a chair between the two of them. "I didn't mean nothing by it," JD sputtered out, scrambling to edge his chair away from Vin's. "I was just telling Buck here about – " "Best be not telling it so loud," Vin interrupted quickly, but quietly. "It ain't a secret if everybody and his brother knows." He was drinking beer, his mug full and frothy, leaving a little white line across the stubble on his upper lip. "Y'all leaving in the morning?" Buck asked, changing the subject quickly. No need in having JD feel any more embarrassed than he already was. Vin looked at him, even as JD jumped in, protesting that they might be needed, that things were getting crazy. Buck looked back, letting his face show what it would. Vin shrugged. "Reckon that depends on how things stand in the morning. We're here for tonight though." It was an invitation, as clear of one as Vin could make in the company they were in. He nodded, acknowledging it. "Where's Chris? He know you're here?" Vin's eyes flickered, and Buck regretted the little hurt he saw there. But Vin's voice was even as he answered, "He said he'd be over in a while. He's checking in with Mrs. Travis again, gonna see how she's holdin' up." "She's pretty tore up," JD said loudly, looking around to see if anyone was listening. "Must be a shock for her, losing the Judge that way, and all." Buck grinned, and despite himself, so did Vin, and they both glanced at the younger man who was still going on about Mary's pretend pain and the Judge's pretend death. They let JD chatter on for a little while longer, Vin shaking his head while Buck egged him on, but eventually, when Josiah ambled in, looking tired and worn, Buck rose. "I'm gonna leave you boys to hold down the fort," he said easily, ignoring the way Vin's eyebrows arched. Harder, though, to ignore the question that he actually asked. "You gonna be back in a while?" He looked down, smiling, even as he said, "Hope not. There's a pretty little lady at the bar who needs some of my attention and I aim to see that she gets it. Night, boys." Josiah was chuckling as Buck eased away from the table, settling in across from Vin and talking, so that Vin couldn't argue. And it was just as well. He was on Miss Amanda's arm when Chris came through the door, and he pointedly ignored his old friend. Harder though, to ignore the way Vin shook his head, looking away from Buck. Well, he'd warned him. *&*&*&*&*&*&* He slipped out of her room earlier than he wanted – nothing he hated more than leaving a pretty lady asleep, especially when he had his own interests already up and, well, up. But he hadn't slept well, the memory of Vin's eyes haunting his dreams. And truth be told, he didn't know if they were leaving this morning; if they were, he wanted to at least say good-bye. Even if he wasn't sure how he felt about Chris right now. He pushed into his boots, settling his coat on his shoulders and tying off the bandanna, placing it so that it hid the bruising from their love-making; she'd seen the cut Chris had left behind, the cut he'd made in his failed attempt to turn their battle from one about Vin to one about Mary, and in trying to 'kiss it to make it feel better', she'd ended up sucking on it the way she'd sucked later on his cock. He hadn't regretted either action, but he didn't want to show it to the world. Not yet anyway. Maybe later, he'd make sure Chris saw it. He was down the stairs, heading for the door, when a soft voice caught him unawares. "You always this pig-headed, or is this for me?" Vin was leaning on the wall, chewing on a stalk of hay, rumpled and sporting another day's growth of stubble. His hat was pushed back on his head, a hole evident in the angle of it. His hair was less curly, in need of a good wash, Buck thought, but then, they pretty much all were. He was smelling kinda rank himself and had already decided that today was gonna be a good day for a bath. Buck smiled at him. "Told you not to take it personally," he said. "Ain't about you, Vin." "Told you I didn't want to be in the middle of it," Vin countered, pushing out of his lean to stand straight. "You ain't being fair here." Buck tilted his head, feeling the warmth of annoyance flare in his belly. "Really, Vin? You been there all those years with him, fighting in that damned war with him, standing by him at his wedding, then helping him dig the graves for his wife and boy?" Vin shifted, but he didn't drop his eyes, holding Buck's gaze and saying softly, "I ain't claiming that – and I ain't claiming to be the one who's getting hurt here. You know that." Buck let the fire cool a bit, then nodded. "But you don't know him like I do, you ain't put up with – " Words failed him for a minute, too many rushing to fill in the gap. Vin didn't push though, waiting until he found what he wanted to say. "You ain't put up with what I have." Vin nodded. "Never said I had. But this ain't about me, it's about you two – and you damned well know it. We didn't get up to nothing last night – hell, he don't even have – " He stopped, for the first time glancing around. And Buck knew, just as surely as if he were reading his mind. "Goddammit," he swore softly. "Where'd he sleep?" Vin's lips twitched in a sort of grin, but he said, "Don't know. Mrs. Travis', I reckon. Last I saw, after you took off with – well, after you took off, he sat fer a while, 'til Nathan came down and he and Josiah and Chris – well, they took off to take care of some business." Moving the Judge, Buck knew. Moving him into Chris' room to hide him out. He snorted, the irony cutting deep. "Spent the night with Mrs. Travis, well how about that." Vin sighed. "Doubt it was like that. Chris – he ain't – hell, you know him. Do you think – " "No, I don't think," Buck said shortly. "I know, dammit. He probably slept on the floor or some such nonsense – where the hell is he now?" Vin looked at him, no expression on his face, but his eyes were amused. "He's – in his room." Buck snorted again. "Y'all leaving?" Vin shrugged. "Don't know. He seems to have taken a liking to the Judge, wants to do right by him." "Ain't no big surprise there," Buck muttered. "Two hard-headed bastards like those two, convinced that they're they only ones who know a damned thing." Vin glanced around, his face grim. "Seems like you know a bit about hard-headed yourself." Buck snorted. "Learned from the best." He shoved his hands into his front pockets, rocking a little. "You come looking to find me to lecture me, little boy?" Vin tightened a little more, and Buck felt almost good to see a line of anger in the smooth brow. But Vin's voice was even, as always, when he said, "Iffen you wanted to put a line between me and him, ya done it. Ain't nothing happening, and nothing gonna happen. I done told ya – " "I said this before, but I'll say it again. This ain't about you, not really. I know you think so, know you happen to be the one this time." He saw something flicker in Vin's eyes, a sort of surprised pain, but he didn't stop, steam finally needing release. "What's going on here has been a long time coming, and I'm sorry you happen to be the one got caught – but it ain't none of your concern. So you just run on back to him and – " Vin stepped into him then – not a punch, not a strike, but a sudden, full body press that pushed him back against the closed door of the boarding house. Vin didn't move away, but his voice was flat and clear in Buck's ear, despite their differences in height. "I don't run to no man," he rasped, low and hard, "seems you fergot that it was you that actually got me into this. But that ain't the point, is it? So let me spell it out fer you: yer the one thing he's got left of his life that he wants. And he wants it bad. But he's about as scared of having it as he is of losing it. What he's thinking about doing right now ain't for this fucking town and it ain't for that fucking old man – it's to throw himself into something that he might not be able to walk out of. And that's 'cause he don't know what to say to you or what he wants." He eased back a little so that he could actually look up into Buck's face as he continued, "You're right, it ain't me. It's you, you son of a bitch, and if he does something stupid because you want more than he can give when he's already giving you more than he's got, I'll be more'n happy to make that bounty on my head the truth instead of the lie it is now." Even though he knew the threat wasn't empty, it wasn't the part that held him in check when Vin stepped clear, then left in a swirl of buckskin and dust and grass. The part that held him in check was the real threat, the reality of it. The fact that Vin could see so clearly what Buck had ignored for too many years. The fact that what he himself had seen in Chris taking this trip to Tascosa, the thing that he was most angry with Chris about, was right here and right now. Because of him. The anger ebbed, but not the frustration or irritation or even guilt. He hadn't intended to get a bath this early, but that heat might cool him down. *&*&*&*&*&*&* Mandy was a pretty thing, full breasts fitting just perfect in his hands, long legs wrapped around his waist, lush heat closing tight around him in a way just meant to draw the life right out of him. And she was working it, too, wanting the release as badly as he did, arching under him, drawing him deeper and more intently into her with every thrust, her tongue worrying his in time to their joining and leaving him gasping for air and simple thought. But despite the power of the want, the pull of the feelings he wanted to lose himself in, Vin's voice ghosted through his mind, riding the sounds of her sighs and cries, his blue eyes coloring the haze of lust and distraction. When he came, finally, it wasn't with the mind-numbing, memory-taking explosion that he wanted, taking away the uncertainty and fear, but with a flash of sensation that twisted through his head, ending far too soon and leaving in its wake the image of Chris's need of him, of Vin's disappointment in him, those all-seeing gazes empty. The image of Chris' surprise and the hurt in it, Vin's cold anger as the younger man had looked at the bullet hole in his hat and made some comment about James owing him a new one. The image of Chris staring with a sort of expected disappointment as Buck had twisted away, Mandy over his shoulder, and his own voice angrily using the word 'suicide'. Goddammit. He waited until his heart was beating a little less hard, her body relaxing a little more under him, before pushing himself up and pulling out of her, appreciating the way her flesh gave way reluctantly but not with pain. That, too, made him think of Chris, and of Vin, and he sighed, wiping at the sweat on his brow even as he rolled to one side. "You all right, Buck?" Mandy's voice was gentle and concerned, a sweet womanly sound that just seemed to add to his annoyance. "Yeah," he muttered, forcing his eyes open as he smiled at her. "You?" She smiled at him, her full lips reddened from kissing, her eyes still flaring with little explosions of her own release. "You ain't never disappointed me." He didn't really think about it – wasn't thinking at all yet, but his hand moved between them, coasting over her soft belly and down into the damp tangle of curls between her legs, two fingers slipping easily between the soft folds to find the little button. She gasped, one hand curling into the sheet under them, the other catching at his arm, but not to stop him. He kept his touch light, knowing how she liked it, and it wasn't but a few strokes before she was arching again, her muscles quivering with another release. The scent of her sex drifted through the room, a lighter smell and one that he treasured. But not the one he was wanting at the moment. She was still breathing hard but her body relaxing back into the bed when he forced himself up and away, looking for his clothes. "Goddamned idiot," he muttered, pulling on his union suit and his pants. "Buck?" her voice was raspy now, reminding him of Vin, and he felt a stab of something else. 'Little boy', he'd call him, 'the one this time', he'd said, as if there had been other times, other men. There hadn't. And to his credit, Vin had never asked. It had been a cheap shot, an attempt to get even for something that, as he himself had said, wasn't Vin's fault. "Did I do something?" Mandy's hand was warm on his shoulder, her tone insecure. "No, honey," he said instantly, turning to see her face. "Just got something I gotta take care of – it's weighing on my mind, distracting me from the more important things in life." He grinned at her, leaning down to kiss her on the nose and managing to stand up all at the same time. She reached for him, catching him around the neck, and he wasn't cavalier enough to avoid the soft kisses she wanted, the reassurance that everything between them was as it should be. "You come back later?" she asked as she let him go, not helping him find his clothes, but not holding him from it either. "No man in his right mind would say 'no' to that," he said, buttoning his shirt then reaching for his jacket and bandanna. He tied off the cloth around his neck, then, as he slipped into his boots, he said, "You know the way to James' place?" *&*&*&*&* He leaned on the post that supported the roof over the boardwalk, watching Chris walk up and down the street. In the background, he could hear Judge Travis holding court in the saloon, his voice hard and flat, the jury muttering, the James boy trying his damnedest to argue that it was self-defense to shoot an unarmed man. He knew Vin was sitting on the roof above him, and something about that didn't seem right, but it didn't seem too wrong either. Vin had the best eyes and if James himself was gonna cause trouble, Vin would spot it first coming down the road and probably have the best aim to taking out the lead riders and slowing them down. "Good thing you showed up when you did," JD said, his hands fidgeting with his guns even though they were still in their holsters. "Heard that already," Buck chuckled, but it felt good. Really good. From the street, Chris looked up, catching his eye. Nodding. Trial didn't last long – not much need; the Judge had seen the shooting, as had several others who actually got up the balls to testify. The hanging would be the next morning, giving James the time to find his own forgiveness. "Oh, here we go," Conklin was the first one out the door, his crab-like sidle jerky as he looked back over his shoulder. "There's gonna be trouble now – James' men will be here any minute, shooting up the town." He glared at Chris, almost tripped over Buck before darting down the boardwalk, continuing to proclaim the demise of the town. The rest of the crowd in the saloon followed, everyone chattering nervously, excitedly, and Travis calling over them for the sheriff. "Teams of two," Chris called, stepping up to the porch, "Buck, you and JD get James back to the jail. Vin," he called louder, "stay on watch up there, the rest of us will walk the town." It was just at nightfall when Vin whistled, the sound shrill in the cooling air. Buck joined Chris on the road, staring up as Vin leaned down to say, "Small group, three riders, James in the center." "Aim for him," Chris said, and he stood in the center of the street, Buck to his right and Josiah to his left. The three riders came in slow, then two of them, the ones flanking James, stopped on the outskirts of town, waiting as the old man rode in, slow. "Hear my nephew was convicted," James called as he drew near. Chris was holding his revolver, but it was aimed down. Buck had his rifle resting in the crook of his arm, his shooting hand on the stock and trigger, and he knew Josiah was positioned the same. Only Vin was aiming and he was doing it well. "Only fair since he killed Mr. Potter. Little late to be offering a defense if that was what you came to do." Chris smiled, but it wasn't friendly. "Came to say goodbye," James said, his tone cold. "I am allowed to see him one last time?" Chris studied him, then nodded. "You alone." James sneered, but said, "My nephew has been out of my control for too long. I don't see how I can save him this time. But I can promise you, you have started something you might not live to see the end of, Larabee – that is your name, isn't it?" Buck was amused, and a little awed, as usual, at Chris' balls. "My name don't matter. What matters is that no one man decides for everybody, James, no more. Justice is equal for everyone, no matter how much land they got or how many cows." James snorted, then spat on the ground beside Chris. "My nephew?" Chris smiled at him, still not friendly. "Josiah, would you escort Mr. James to the jail?" Several hours later, they sat on the boardwalk outside the saloon, sharing cold bread and cheese and some salted meat that the townsfolk had provided, a gift for their work settling things with James, for helping Mrs. Potter get justice. The old man was still at the jail, Josiah and Nathan with them at the moment, while the town's undertaker and several carpenters threw together a hanging platform on the other end. "You okay, Vin?" Buck asked quietly, noticing that Vin was restless, the noise of the hammers seeming to wear more at Vin than the rest of them. For the first time in a while, Buck remembered the worry he'd had for Vin going off to Tascosa. The worry that he wouldn't come back. Vin shrugged, pushing up from the barrel he was sitting on and moving to lean heavily on the support beam. "Reckon this wasn't quite what I had in mind when I agreed to stay for 30 days," he answered, and Buck saw his head turn, his gaze going toward the construction rising from the street farther down. "Reckon none of us did," Buck agreed. "Reckon there been a lot of things said and done today that weren't what we had in mind." Vin turned and looked at him, but it was the gaze of the man sitting beside him that Buck felt most heavily. And that man whose words, simple as they were, carried the most weight. "That's the damned truth. Maybe past several days." For a few seconds, the three of them were still, the pull of the strange thing between them even and strong. "Think we're going to have any trouble tonight?" Chris asked eventually. Vin shifted, looking away from them and back up the street. "If so, it's gonna come from the other end of town." "You wanna ride out that way, keep an eye on things? Ain't no use sitting on top of the buildings, not in the dark." Buck felt that warm stir in his belly, the one that came when Chris' voice sounded the way it did now, his tone gentle, his words sweet. The suggestion was good – but the reason was to let Vin get out of town, away from the reminders of what he stood to lose himself. "Could do that," Vin agreed after a time. "Iffen you think it won't leave you short here." Chris snorted. "Won't leave us short – you'll be back ahead of them if you see 'em, and you'll be warning us. Don't go too far away – they might decide to sneak around and we might need you." Vin's head turned back to look at Chris, and Buck knew that Vin knew what was being offered. "I'll stay close," he said. "I'll be back before dawn – " "If there's no trouble, there's no need in you being back 'til after it's done. They might try to do something just before dawn, before it happens. You watch, and watch close." Vin straightened, his hand rising in the darkness to touch the brim of his hat. "Shoot off your Colt twice if you need me. I know the sound of it." "Watch your back," Chris answered, and he rose, reaching out to catch Vin by the shoulder. "Thanks for staying. We'll get there, I promise." Vin leaned into the grip, or Buck thought he did; in the deep shadows of the boardwalk, it was more something he sensed than saw. It didn't last long, just a few seconds that could have well been just the two men standing close, then Vin stepped off the boardwalk and away from Chris' touch. He didn't say anything, just walked away, blending quickly into the darkness as he headed for the livery. Chris moved slowly, retaking his seat and stretching out. It wasn't the first time they had been alone this evening, but this time, there was the tension of the past few days hanging over them, the very stark absence of their accidental other. They sat in the thick silence, listening to the hammers and the mutters of passing people, the tinny piano from the saloon behind them and the sounds of people drinking and passing the time. Eventually, they heard the sound of a horse trotting and looked up to see Vin riding out, his silhouette familiar now, even in the darkness. "Haven't touched him," Chris said softly. "Won't." There had rarely been these kinds of words between them- Buck could count on one hand the number of times they'd ever made a promise to each other, ever felt the need to explain. The need wasn't there, now – Buck hadn't asked, wasn't going to. The fact that Chris was offering it, actually stating it – if he'd needed proof of what Vin had said earlier, it was right there in the words. Of course, he'd had proof of Vin's words already today, managing to show up in time to keep Chris from getting his ass shot dead. To keep him from letting himself get killed. "You know, I been giving it some thought these last few days, and I mighta been wrong about that," he said, pitching his words as quietly as Chris' had been. Chris shifted next to him. "You decide that after keeping company with all your lady friends?" There was something in his voice, then, something Buck had rarely heard. Something he didn't want to hear, even though hearing it right now was bittersweet. For an instant, the anger was there, driving him to taunt, to play on the fear that he himself had been living as of late. But he couldn't cause Chris to feel what he had been feeling – it was too cruel, especially after all the man had been through. 'You want more than he can give when he's already giving you more than he's got' – Vin's words, clear and true. "Decided that after keeping company with that young buck you like so much," he answered instead. "He's pretty smart for such a young 'un." For a few seconds, he thought his attempt at humor was going to fall flat. But Chris couldn't hold the anger either. There was a low sound, a chuckle, and Buck smiled himself as Chris answered, "Don't think I'd let him hear you call him that." "No," Buck agreed, "don't think I will." They sat for a while longer, but with less tension. Eventually, Chris lit one of his little cigars, the red embers glowing in the darkness. As the smoke drifted through the air, curling around Buck in a pleasant and comfortable way, Chris said, "Thirty days. Surprised you agreed to it." Buck shrugged. "Figured I needed something to do until you and him got back from Tascosa. Maybe somewhere to be when you didn't." He let that hang for a minute before adding, "Didn't expect you both to sign on, too." There was a palpable hesitancy before Chris said, "You wait for me?" It sounded so casual, but they both knew far better. "Always have before," Buck answered. "Guess there ain't no need in stopping now. Not as long as you're serious about coming back." The red flared to a soft orange, a thread of blue burning in its center. "Thirty days before we can leave." "Yup." "Long enough time to get to know someone." Buck shifted, not certain what to say, so he said nothing. "Long enough for both of us to get to know someone." He looked over, caught the glimmer of Chris' eyes in the glow of the cigar. "Both of us?" "Both of us or none of us." He settled back in his chair. "You sure about that?" But he was smiling. "Ain't much I am sure of any more," Chris mused. "But yeah, I'm sure about that." Buck smiled, at the words as much as the tenderness and the questions in the quiet voice. Chris wasn't a man given to uncertainty, but Buck supposed he'd given him cause of late. They'd both given each other cause. He reached in the darkness, touching his hand to Chris's wrist, waiting while he turned it to give up his cigar. If their hands strayed too long over each other, well, that weren't nothing at all. Nothing compared to what they'd be doing with Vin real soon. "I reckon thirty days is gonna pass real quick," he said softly. "Would feel better about it if you'd think some more on this plan of yours, for heading out to Tascosa." Chris sighed into the darkness as Buck puffed on the cigar. "Weren't no real plan. Don't want to lose him. Don't want to lose you. Don't know how not to." "This ain't about choosing," Buck said quietly, blowing a smoke ring into the darkness. "You know that." "Do now." He heard more than saw Chris' shrug, and held out his hand to offer the cigar back. Chris's fingers, when they reached out, circled his wrist, not even pretending to take it. "It's about . . . this thing." "Yeah," Buck agreed, reaching with his other hand to take back the cigar. "It is. About you not getting yourself killed because of it." Chris' fingers tightened for an instant on Buck's wrist, but his words were even as he said, "Judge asked me what I believed in." Buck waited, knowing he didn't need to ask. "Got me thinking," Chris said after a while. "I know what I believe in, Buck. Sometimes I just have to stop and remind myself that things are worth having, even if they don't have names." For the first time in days, Buck felt the knot in his stomach loosen, slowly unwinding. "Maybe that Judge ain't so bad after all," he said agreeably, puffing on the cigar. "In thirty days, you gonna let me ride with you?" Chris let go of his wrist, and Buck felt the knot pull again. Chris leaned in, though, taking the cigar back as he said, "Don't think I could stop you," he said easily. But as he sat back in his chair, bringing the cigar to his lips, he continued, "I don't think I'd try to. Welcome the company." He puffed, the fire burning brighter, then said, "Reckon, though, that there could be thirty days after that." Buck let his hand drop to his chair, but extended the short distance between them, so that his fingers brushed against Chris'. "Pard," he breathed, leaning forward until their heads were very close, "right now I'm just lookin' forward to tomorrow night." Chris turned toward him, then shifted just a little, so that his lips brushed over Buck's nose. Smoke clouded around them as he said, "Reckon so."

"Oh my God, your skin is soft," Luke babbles, his fingers tracing up and down the thin skin on the inside of Reid's forearm. "You're so handsome, Reid. Did you know that? Did you know that you are so handsome?" "How long has he been like this?" Reid asks Casey, the harsh light of the hospital intake room glaring down on the three of them. Luke's hands are all over Reid, skimming along the exposed skin of his wrists, and then traveling up over his lab coat, along his neck, to stroke at his hair. "Like this?" Casey asks. "Since you came in the room. But he's been acting funny and kind of high for about an hour. That's why I brought him here." Reid pulls out his pen light, flashes it in Luke's eyes, notes the pupils aren't as reactive as they should be. "You were at Yo's, right?" he asks. "Yeah," Casey agrees. "Wait, you're not thinking...no, no, man. I was there. He didn't drink anything but cola the whole time." Reid isn't thinking that actually, but he doesn't correct Casey's assumption. "Did anyone talk to him? Besides you, I mean," he clarifies before Casey can be an idiot. "I love your face," Luke says to him, his eyes wide and earnest, his lips parted a little, and his cheeks flushed. Reid feels a clutch of affection in his chest, and he returns Luke's gaze for just a second, before turning back to Casey. "Well?" he asks. Casey's standing with arms crossed over his chest, and one hand over his mouth, thinking. "There was this one guy, came over and asked Luke where he got his shoes or something gay like -- wait, wait, do you think? Was he hitting on Luke?" Reid shrugs ,wrapping his arm around Luke to keep him from falling off the exam table. Luke nuzzles his neck, and whispers, "You taste good. I like how you taste," and then presses a wet kiss to his jaw. Reid moves back a little from him, and gives him another reassuring look when Luke makes a sad sound. "I don't know," Casey says. "Don't you think Luke would have said something if the guy was hitting on him? He just told him where he got his shoes, and--" "Luke wouldn't know if a guy was hitting on him until it was spelled out in no uncertain terms." "Spare me the terms," Casey says grinning and waving his hands. "Uh, no thanks." Reid ignores him. "Luke," he says. "Do you feel sick?" Luke grins. "I feel great, Reid. If we could get a little privacy," and he looks pointedly at Casey, "I'd be even better." Reid's a jumble of emotions -- worried, angry, protective, and definitely a little turned on. It's hard not to be when Luke's doing and saying everything he's wanted to hear for the last six months. He's also disappointed because he's pretty sure they were actually going to have real sex for the first time tonight They’ve jerked each other off a few times in the last few weeks, and Reid got the divine experience of blowing Luke last night out by the Snyder Pond, but every indication had been that tonight was the night. As soon as Reid was able to get away from the hospital, that is. Because Katie is staying with Chris while he recovers at his new place, and Noah is gone for good, and it is time. Luke had said as much. Now, Luke's high and unable to even give consent. But, most of all, he's freaked out. Someone roofied Luke's glass. He just doesn't know who. "Reid," Luke whispers. "I feel like I might be in outer space." Reid nods, cups Luke's face and strokes along his cheekbone. "Mm-hmm, I bet you do." "So?" Casey asks. "Call your mother," Reid answers. "It looks like this is police business." * Luke’s whining now, and running a fever, delirious, and definitely not himself. He’s got a hard-on and he keeps rubbing it against Reid in desperation, making little sounds that are insanely hot and needy, but there is absolutely no way Reid’s taking him up on these offers. Not here. Not now. Not in a hospital intake room with an audience. And, hell, Luke’s going to be so mortified when he’s finally past whatever’s going on with him. Reid sends Casey out of the room early on, once it’s clear that whatever this is that’s got Luke under its thrall is escalating into something uncontrollable. Luke should be spared the embarrassment later. And Casey doesn’t need to see Luke like this: begging, needy, wanting, and completely out-of-his-mind horny. No one but Reid should ever see Luke like this, but unfortunately this is a medical emergency, and plenty of folks are getting an eyeful. Reid’s just glad he’s been able to keep Luke from taking of his clothes, or Reid’s clothes for that matter. It’s a struggle, but they manage to get blood from Luke, in order to test for the particular intoxicant. Luke’s so restless and in constant, wild, humping motion that Reid can only calm him by holding him close and kissing him to distraction, while Becca, wide-eyed but professional, ties the tourniquet on Luke’s arm and takes a few vials worth. “What is this, Doctor?” she asks. “A new kind of Ecstasy?” Reid pushes Luke’s hand away from trying to stroke his cock through his pants, and says, “If I knew that, we’d be on the way to making this stop --” “No, don’t wanna stop,” Luke mutters. “Wanna feel you, need you--” “Get out,” Reid says to Becca. “And not a word to anyone. No gossip mill. Do you hear me?” Becca nods and takes off with the blood sample. Reid knows she’ll push it to the front of the line. She’s his favorite for a reason. They can’t give Luke anything until they have an idea what he’s on. Drug interactions are unpredictable and can lead to respiratory arrest, coma, or death. “Need you,” Luke says, panting like he’s been running a marathon, his breath hot and wet against Reid’s neck. “Gotta get you in me. Please Reid. Please. Please, need it so much.” “Shh,” Reid soothes. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. We’ll find out what this is and start a counter protocol.” “No,” Luke says, and he sounds desperate. “Fuck me. It’s all I want.” “Luke, you don’t mean that. You’ve been drugged. You’re not yourself.” “I know,” Luke whimpers. “But I’m gonna die, Reid. If you don’t help me, I just know it, I’m gonna die. I feel it.” The door opens and Margo Hughes comes in with a grim expression. Reid tries to disentangle himself from Luke, but it’s no use, Luke’s humping his leg and whispering about need and dying and all kinds of insane crap Reid doesn’t know how to process. He opens his mouth to speak to Margo, but she holds up her hand to stop him. “Dr. Oliver, I’ve been filled in on the situation here by both my son, Casey, and the nurse who’s helping you treat Luke.” Luke makes a whimpering sound, shudders hard, and starts trying to get Reid’s shirt buttons undone again. Reid grabs his hand to make him stop. “I need you to join me outside for a moment,” she says, and Luke keens, clasping onto him like he’s never letting go. Reid looks at him, his flushed face, his frantic expression, and he holds Luke’s hand clasped against his chest, where Luke can feel his heart beating. “Dr. Oliver,” Margo says in a tone that brooks no disagreement. “This is a matter of life or death.” That gets Reid’s attention. He presses Luke back onto the examining table, making what he hopes are reassuring noises. Luke looks utterly betrayed, and he starts begging Reid to stay, clutching at him, before Reid can even take two steps away. Margo comes forward then, making a kind of motherly face, which Reid finds weird on her for some reason, and she’s clucking at Luke. “Honey, I know. I know. You’re going through a lot right now, and you need Reid.” She takes Luke’s face in her hands, and tries to get him to focus on her. “But it’s important, honey, that I speak with him. I’ll only keep him as long as I have to. Then I’ll send him right back to you.” She’s manages to signal to Reid to head toward the door while she’s got Luke’s eyes on hers, and he doesn’t move. He’s not sneaking out on Luke, no matter what she thinks. “Dr. Oliver,” she says. “Luke, I’ll be just outside the door --” “Too far,” Luke says, his body starting to shake. “I need you, Reid.” “I know you do, honey,” Margo says. “Let me have him for just a second and he’ll be all yours.” Luke is trembling so hard that Reid’s afraid he’ll fall off the table, but he lets Margo pull him toward the door. Reid never takes his eyes off Luke’s until the door is shut between then, and when Luke wails, the only thing that keeps him from jerking it back open to get to him is Margo forcing her way between the door and him. “I’m not afraid to hit a woman,” Reid says, trying to get past her. “If you want to help him, you’ll listen to me. Now. From what I understand, there’s very little time to lose.” * Holden and Lily are running down the hall. Reid sees them out of the corner of his eye as he stares Margo down for a second. When she sees Luke’s parents, too, she slumps in relief and turns from Reid, not moving away from the door, though, and says, “Good. You’re here. As Luke’s next of kin, we’ll need your consent for the treatment.” “Treatment?” Reid says. “What are you talking about? I’m his doctor and I don’t have enough information to start a course of treatment.” “Actually, you’re not,” Bob Hughes says from somewhere over Reid’s shoulder. “I think it’s a conflict of interest, and so I’ve taken over the case myself.” “You can’t--” “Oh, I can, and I will, Dr. Oliver,” Bob says. “But don’t worry. I’m not separating you from him. I think you’re going to be instrumental in his recovery.” “What’s going on?” Holden asks. “What’s wrong with Luke?” Lily says, breathless from running down the hall. “Reid?” she turns to him automatically, and Bob steps in. “Lily, Holden, I’m glad you’re here. Margo and I have discussed it, thoroughly on her way over, and while--” There’s screaming from the other side of the door, and Reid moves to try to push it open. Holden and Lily do the same. “Not yet,” Margo says, blocking their path. “You need to make a choice and Luke’s parents need to give their okay. Otherwise--” “Otherwise, what?” “Well, you won’t be able to be with him while he goes through this. We’ll need to find someone else.” “Just cut to the chase,” Reid says. “If you know what’s wrong with him, tell me now, or--” Margo gets to the point. “There’s a new street drug -- they’re calling it TripX -- because it has triple the effect of Ecstasy. It’s a new kind of drug, though, dangerous and not something we’ve ever seen before. It just showed up in Bay City two months ago and this is our first case of seeing it here.” “Luke doesn’t do drugs,” Lily says. “No,” Margo agrees. “I think someone slipped it to him. In his drink or food.” “Oh my God.” Lily covers her mouth. “This drug -- in most cases does nothing but produce a great high and an increased appetite for sex, as well as enhanced sexual pleasure. But in extremely rare cases, apparently only when the person ingesting the drug is also taking immunosuppressants, as Luke does, the drug interacts in such a way that it becomes possibly lethal.” Lily gasps and Reid’s blood runs cold. “It builds up and causes the heart, kidneys, liver, and brain to shut down,” she goes on. “Blood transfusion,” Reid says. “We can get it out of his system if we --” Bob shakes his head. “This drug gets directly into the tissues and will only bind with semen. It’s the only way to expel it from the body.” “It what now?” Reid says. “That’s absurd.” Bob nods. “I know. But it’s the fact of the matter.” “What if Luke were female?” Holden asks. “What would happen to him then?” “He’d die,” Margo says. “It’s almost a blessing that he does have an option. Though, frankly, from what we’ve learned about the drug -- Bob?” she nods at him. “Well, the ability to....” Bob clears his throat. “The ability to have as many orgasms as is needed is extremely difficult.” “The good news is that of the four other men who have experienced a reaction like Luke’s, the two that survived twenty-four hours were able to make through relatively unscathed. Tired, a little traumatized, but no worse for the wear.” Reid looks around and pinches himself. “Dear God, what is this freakish hell I’m in? There’s no logic to this. I’m having a nightmare. A kinky nightmare, and my subconscious clearly needs psychotherapy, but a nightmare all the same.” “I wish you were,” Bob says, taking his arm. “But, you’re not. Luke will need help dealing with this. Unfortunately, the drug also seems to alter the brain’s interpretation of self-pleasure, so that the afflicted individual can’t bring himself to orgasm. He’ll need someone to...well. You get the picture.” Reid blanches. Oh, hell no. That’s...just...what the hell is going on? Everyone is staring at him now. Holden and Lily look half-angry and half-relieved, Bob’s got his eyebrows raised in his patented look of expectant patience, and Margo’s staring at him like he’s got a job to do and he better get to it. “Holden, Lily,” Bob goes on. “If Reid agrees to this...unorthodox treatment...do you give your consent? I’ll need you to sign a form.” “It’s so...violating,” Lily says, and then there’s another wail from behind the door. Bob peers through the small glass slit in the door and says, “Reid, Holden, Lily -- the time is now. A choice needs to be made. And, Reid, if it can’t be you...we’ll need to find someone else. Fast. Can you think of anyone who might be willing--” “I’ll do it,” Reid says. There’s no way in hell that he’s letting anyone else touch Luke. “Yes,” Lily says. “Okay. Right, Holden? For Luke?” “Whatever it takes,” Holden says. Lily touches Reid’s arm. “I know you love him, and you’ll take good care of him.” Great. He’ll be the gentle rapist who’s in love with his victim. Perfect. “Well, then,” Bob says. “That’s settled. I’ll get the paperwork for you to sign. And, Reid, there’s no time like the present. I’ll station Becca out here to make sure you’re given your privacy.” * When Reid goes back into the room, Luke’s huddled on the floor beside the hospital bed with his pants undone and his cock jutting out from him. His cock is so hard it’s nearly purple, there are beads of pre-come slipping down the sides. Luke’s face is anguished. “I can’t touch it,” he says, pitifully. “It hurts when I touch it. I need. Reid, God, I can’t breathe, or think, and I need, so much--” Reid kneels down beside him, pulls Luke into his arms, and holds onto him, shushing into his hair. “I’m going to help you, Luke,” he says. “It’s going to be okay. You’ve been drugged, and as insane as this sounds, the only way to get this out of your system is for you to have a lot of orgasms.” “What?” Luke asks. “It’s a drug that will only bind --” Luke cuts him off. “Yes, please. Hurry.” “I’m going to touch your cock now,” Reid says, waiting for Luke’s response, which is a sound of such relief that Reid goes ahead and wraps his hand around Luke’s length. He’s thick, and his skin is so hot that Reid thinks his fingers must feel icy against it, but Luke just moans, and turns his head to Reid for a kiss. Without letting go of Luke’s cock, he moves so that his back is pressed to the wall, and Luke’s leaning against him, legs trapped in his pant legs pushed down on his hips, and his hard cock sticking straight up, the head of it slipping over and over into Reid’s fist as he jerks. Luke grips his lab coat, pulls him in for another kiss, and then freezes, shooting a huge load of come all over Reid’s hand and both of their shirts. “Oh, God,” Luke whimpers, settling down a little. “So good. Feel better. Oh, God. Reid. I love you.” “I love you, too,” Reid says, and he stares at Luke’s flushed face, his heaving breath, and his cock still twitching in Reid’s hand. This is nothing like he wanted it to be. Still, one orgasm down; who knows how many to go. * The second orgasm comes close on the heels of the first, and after it, Luke seems calm enough that Reid can get him up on the hospital bed, take his pulse and bp, and report those to Bob, who’s standing with Becca outside the hospital room door. After the third orgasm, which produces a much lesser amount of semen, Reid tells Bob, “I wanna get him out of here. Take him home with me. We need...something more conducive, and I’m gonna need something to keep him hydrated -- for his kidney and so that he can make more semen --” “I understand. Are you sure that taking him home is a sound idea?” “This place is so impersonal, Bob,” Reid begins. “We’re looking at a life or death situation here, and there’s only one cure. You’ve made it plain that there’s nothing you can do for him here if it fails. He’s uncomfortable. Hell, I’m uncomfortable, and he needs more than I can give him here.” Reid looks pointedly at his own crotch. “If you know what I mean. It’s not...gonna work here, Bob.” “If we made a few changes --” “No, it’s not like you can turn down the lights, bring candles and some chocolate covered strawberries in to make this a better experience for him. I need to get him somewhere...I want to take him home.” Bob frowns, wipes a hand over his face, and then nods quickly. “I’ll ask Holden and Lily.” “Tell them to say yes,” Reid says. “You know I can’t do that, Dr. Oliver.” “Tell them I told them to say yes.” Luke’s whimpering again, calling for him, and thrashing around on the bed. Reid groans. “I have to go. Make it happen.” * Reid’s alone with Luke in the back of the ambulance. He’s extracted a promise from the driver not to look into the back at any point during the trip, and Bob okayed that request. And, God, is he glad now, because Luke’s writhing on the tiny bed, covered only with a sheet, sweaty and flushed all over. He’s come five times since this began and he’s sore. He’s whimpering about his balls aching, and begging Reid to suck him instead of stroking. “Luke, soon we’ll be at my place. We can be alone. Can you hold off?” “No,” Luke says, tossing his head back and forth, sweat dripping down his forehead. “Hurts. It hurts so much. I need to come again, Reid. Please.” The moments of calm between the pain and ecstasy seem to be getting a little longer at least, and Reid’s hoping that’s a good sign that he drug is getting out of Luke’s system. Still, Luke’s wired to a drip because, between the sweat and the loads of semen, he’s in danger of becoming dehydrated. Reid’s afraid Luke will dislodge it with all of his scrambling at the bed. Reid lubes up his hand again and slips it under the sheet. “Shh,” he murmurs, stroking Luke’s cock in sloppy, fast jerks, something he’s found Luke seems to love. “It’s okay, Luke. Just come for me.” “Fingers,” Luke says. “In me?” “When we get home, okay. Anything you want when we get home. Just hang on.” Luke whimpers, and Reid leans over whispering in his ear, “I love you. You’re hot. Come for me.” Luke’s fingers dig into Reid’s arm, dragging him down so that he’s almost on top of Luke, and he comes again, grunting. Reid’s glad to see that it’s a bigger spill than the last time. That means his body’s hydrating and doing it’s job. When Reid pulls away to clean them both up, Luke looks at him with the first measure of clarity that Reid’s seen in his eyes since Casey first brought him in. Reid runs his hand through Luke’s hair, and gazes down at him affectionately. “Reid?” Luke asks. “Yeah?” “Am I going to be okay?” Reid sighs. He wants to tell him that he’ll be fine. “I don’t know.” “Reid?” “Mm?” “I hate this.” Reid closes his eyes and opens them again, nodding slowly. He hates this too. It’s all wrong. Luke’s face twists a little, and Reid knows it’s beginning again. Luke grabs Reid’s wrist, though, and says, “Reid, I’m glad it’s you.” And then Luke’s gone again lost in the drug and the need, moving against the sheet, hips thrusting up seeking some kind of contact, and his eyes are all glassy and full of lust. * Reid hates this damn town. Its insanity permeates everything and it’s full of gawkers to boot. All of the neighbors poke their heads out their door, watching with open mouths and expressions of faux or real worry, as they hustle Luke on the stretcher down the hall to Reid and Katie’s apartment. He’s had Margo call Katie to tell her what’s going on, and to order her not to come home. Whatever’s going to happen here, Katie doesn’t need to know anything more about it until it’s over; and maybe not then. Luke’s delirious again. After the EMT leaves Reid with six more bags of fluid for Luke, plenty of needles, and everything he might need in the event that resuscitation becomes necessary, Reid gets Luke onto his bed, and quickly jerks him off again to stop the wailing that is likely terrifying the neighbors. After Luke comes, he settles into an exhausted, whimpering mess, and he’s muttering something Reid can’t hear. Reid shucks his own clothes down to just his underwear, needing to cool off, and to let Luke touch him as much as he wants. Luke’s been begging for Reid’s skin and now that they’re some place private, Reid can give it to him. Reid sits next to him the bed, trailing his fingers up and down Luke’s side, making soft noises to keep Luke calm. “Burn,” Luke says. “They burn. So much. Too hot. They’re too hot, Reid.” “Shh, what’s too hot, Luke?” “My balls. They’re too hot. They hurt.” Reid’s sure they do. Coming that much will hurt any guy, no matter how good it feels in the moment. Looking at Luke’s balls, though, they’re drawn up and tight, like he’s the verge of orgasm again, and they’re red, obviously aching. “Luke,” Reid says. “Do you want me to help you?” “Do something. Anything. I don’t care, Reid. Just make it better.” “If you don’t like it, if it makes it worse--” Luke’s whimpering again, and Reid doesn’t know anymore if that means yes, or what, so he moves down the bed, blowing a cool line of air over Luke’s body, the chest hair growing sparse at his stomach, and then a nice line of hair leading down to his pubic hair. He’s got a beautiful body, and Reid’s not really had time to admire it in the rush to help Luke come. He gets to Luke’s balls and gently blows on them, and Luke spreads his legs wantonly, begging with his body for more. Reid licks the tight, hot skin holding Luke’s balls, and Luke moans. Reid blows again and Luke responds immediately. “More. More, Reid. Please.” Reid dives in, wraps his hand around the top of Luke’s sac and opens his mouth, sucking Luke’s balls until they’re wet, pulling back to blow on them again. Reid’s hard now. He never once got hard at the hospital. It was too wrong there, but now, with Luke in his bed, reacting to Reid’s mouth and hands, he’s achingly hard. And he has no intention of doing anything about it. This is for Luke. This isn’t about Reid getting off. “Reid, need something inside me,” Luke whimpers. Reid quickly grabs lube and slicks up his fingers, and presses one against Luke’s hole, amazed when Luke bears down and his finger slides in. Hot, tight, twitching heat, and Reid presses his forehead against Luke’s quivering thigh. He’s wanted to be inside of Luke for so long, to feel his ass around his fingers and cock, and now -- Luke moves and begs, “Suck me, Reid. Please. I need it now, now, now.” Reid quickly takes Luke in his mouth, sucking hard and fast, and Luke’s hands are in his hair pulling, tugging, dragging him back down on his cock while Reid adds another finger, and Luke arches, plants his feet on the bed, and cries out as he comes again. Reid pulls off quickly to avoid ingesting any of the drug himself. A thick stream hits him in the chest. Luke’s panting, and then a sob bubbles up, and Reid pulls off, climbs up Luke’s body, leaving his fingers stuffed in Luke’s ass, pressing at his prostate, milking as much semen from his exhausted body as possible. “Hey, no, don’t cry,” Reid says. “If you cry, I’ll...well, I don’t know what I’ll do. You need all the fluid you can to stay hydrated, okay?” Luke’s face crumbles again, and Reid kisses his mouth, his eyes, shushing him. “I know. This sucks. But this drug...it can kill you if we don’t get it out. Let me do this, Luke.” “I want you to,” Luke whispers. “Just...not like this.” “I know.” “I love you,” Luke says, and he sounds so scared, like he’s afraid Reid isn’t going to say it back this time. “I love you, too.” “I’m scared.” Reid swallows and says nothing. “It’s going to start up again soon.” “Yeah.” “It hurts.” “I know. You can handle it. I know you can. You’re doing a great job, Luke.” Luke breathes slowly, in and out, and Reid keeps his fingers in Luke’s ass, pushing against his prostate, and every few seconds a stream of fluid dribbles down the side of Luke’s cock. It seems to hold the symptoms at bay for a lot longer than just the orgasm alone. Luke’s eyes are more clear, and he stares up at Reid, at his mouth, and his eyes, and then he licks his lips. Reid kisses him, and it’s sweet, hot, and it goes on and on. He’s still achingly hard, and he’s rubbing his own cock against Luke’s side, holding him close as he works his prostate, and they kiss for a long time. Reid knows the moment it starts again. Luke pulls out of the kiss, squeezes his eyes shut like he’s fighting it, and then groans, arching off the bed, grabbing at Reid frantically, begging, “Fuck me, fuck me. Something big. Need something big in me. Please, Reid. Please.” Reid wants to fuck him. He’s wanted to fuck him for months, but not like this. So he pulls away from Luke, wipes his fingers on a towel by the bed, and pulls out the bedside drawer. He’s got a few different dildos in there of various sizes. He’s not much of a size-queen himself, preferring to top, but having something in his ass sometimes is just the thing to push him over the edge. And having a selection is always a good idea. Luke’s not really with it anymore, though. So, Reid chooses for him. It’s the middle size, and he covers it in a condom, and coats it with lube. Luke’s losing it on the bed, writhing and curling around a pillow that he’s dragged between his legs, hunching and desperate. Reid scoots over, runs a hand done Luke’s back, trying to still him, and says, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” When Luke presses back against the head of the dildo, taking it in, clutching the pillow tighter and moaning in relief, Reid wipes his other hand over his face, trying to keep focused, to not just lose it himself. Luke buries his face in the pillow, and arches his hips back, pushes down, and the dildo slides deeper as Reid twists it in. Luke lurches up to his hands and knees, dropping the pillow, and Reid has to scramble to follow him. Luke grabs the head board and Reid jerks the dildo in and out, twisting it as Luke loses control, fucking himself on it, and begging like crazy for more, bigger, more, please. Reid grabs the larger dildo, manages to lube it up one handed, and then swiftly pulls the medium sized one from Luke’s ass. Luke yells in disappointment, but his head snaps up and it turns into a cry of ecstasy as Reid pushes the thicker, longer dildo in, watching in awe as Luke’s ass struggles to accept it, and suddenly Luke stops throwing his hips back, trying to get it all in, just keening and shaking as his asshole spasms around the dildo, and then he comes, shaking and collapsing against the headboard for support. Reid gently pulls the dildo out, easing Luke down to the bed, where he shudders through some after shocks, and stares at Reid with clear eyes. “Hey,” Reid says softly. “Hey,” Luke whispers back. He closes his eyes, looking a little ashamed, and then he asks, “Would you...last time, when you had your fingers pressing...it lasted longer.” “Anything you need, Luke. Just ask.” He knows Luke’s going to need another bag of fluid soon, but he presses a glass of water into Luke’s hand and makes him drink the whole thing. Then presses his fingers in again, finding Luke’s prostate and pushing it. Luke groans and covers his face. “I’m sorry,” Luke says. “Every crappy thing that happens to you isn’t your fault.” “I just...I can’t believe you have to see me this way.” “I’d kill anyone else who did,” Reid says. He’s not sure that’s even hyperbole. “Reid,” Luke says, his eyelids drooping in exhaustion. “I’m not...I’m not usually like this.” “No, really? I thought the waiting thing was all a cover for your porno side job.” Luke chuckles and then he’s sad again. He slides his hand down to Reid’s hip, and he grips Reid’s cock. Reid bites down on his cheek to keep from coming, and he moves Luke’s hand away. “It’s okay if you need to come, Reid. You’ve been hard a long time now. I don’t want you hurting.” “I’m okay,” Reid says. “Don’t think about me, Luke.” Luke’s eyes go even softer. “You’re all I can think about.” Reid wants to tell him how ridiculous that is. Instead, he kisses him, and they move together, warm, and sticky, and comforting. Reid’s fingers constantly pressing against Luke’s prostate, pushing the semen out in slow, dribbling streams. Luke grips his arms in warning and says, “Reid,” against his lips, and it’s back again. Luke’s writhing against him, and Luke curses, something he almost never does. “It hurts,” Luke moans. “My balls are killing me, Reid. They hurt so much.” Reid knows they do. He aches just thinking about it. He tries licking and blowing them again, but it’s no good. “Ice,” Luke begs. “Please.” Reid hates to leave him even for a second, but he stumbles to the kitchen and grabs one of the frozen cold packs Katie keeps for Jacob’s bumps and bruises. Luke wails when Reid wraps the soft cold pack around Luke’s balls, but he also grabs it and holds it there, panting hard and groaning. Reid rolls Luke onto his side, props his leg with the pillow, and as Luke holds the ice against his aching balls, Reid pushes the biggest dildo into Luke’s ass again. Luke moans pitifully, and moves back on it. Reid pours more lube over the thicker part, and begins a hard, steady pace of fucking the dildo in and out of Luke, keeping his eyes between Luke’s face, and Luke’s ass clenching and releasing the huge fake cock. Luke’s mouth is hanging open, his eyes scrunched shut, and he’s flushed and sweaty, his entire body is wet with sweat and pink with exertion. “Oh, God,” Luke cries when Reid manages to slam right against his prostate, and he begs for it again. Reid aims carefully, going deeper with each thrust, and Luke lets go of the ice, thrusting the pillow between his legs again, hunching forward against the softness and back onto the thick length. “Need to be inside something,” Luke says. “I need in...in, in, I don’t know. More. Something more. Please, Reid. Please..” Reid rolls Luke onto his back, stills the dildo in his ass for a moment, and sucks Luke’s cock into his mouth, tonguing the head, and then deep throating him quickly. Luke arches and grabs the sheets. He grunts, thrusting into Reid’s throat, while Reid buries the dildo in deep. “More,” Luke says. “Something. Something more.” Reid’s at a loss, but then he pulls off of Luke’s cock, kisses his inner thigh before biting down hard on the soft skin there. Luke jerks and comes, the stream of jizz from his cock a lot smaller this time. Reid leaves the dildo shoved inside, kisses Luke’s mouth, and offers reassurances, before turning to the medical supplies and starting another hydration drip. * “Only two more hours,” Reid thinks, staring at the clock. Luke’s come so many times that he spends the moments between in much needed sleep. At least that time has stretched from minutes to hours now. Hours of time that Luke is lucid, aware, and completely exhausted -- unless he’s asleep. “Reid,” Luke says, stirring. He’s got the dildo jammed inside to press against his prostate, and he looks like someone utterly used. He’s covered in his own come, and he’s streaked with sweat and tears. “Is it starting again?” Reid asks. It seems too soon. It’s only been half an hour. He hopes it’s not speeding up again in its final throes. “No,” Luke murmurs. “I think...I think it’s over.” Reid’s not sure. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet. “I feel...I feel like it’s gone. I feel different.” “Good,” Reid says, though he remains skeptical. Reid’s exhausted. He’s come so close to orgasm so many times in the last twenty four hours, but always held back. He feels hung over. Sick. Horny. And all around like he could sleep for five days straight after this harrowing experience. “Reid,” Luke says again. “Mm.” Reid slumps down to lay beside him. “I want you to come now.” “Luke -- “ Reid shakes his head. “No,” Luke says, propping himself up on weak, shaking arms. “Let me rephrase that. I need you to, Reid.” “Why?” “So I’m not alone in this.” “You’re not alone, Luke. I’ve been here the whole time.” “Exactly, Reid. And if we’re gonna come back from this, if we’re ever going to be...equals again? I need you to come now.” “Luke. That makes no sense.” “It does. To me. You’ve seen me at the mercy of this drug, and...you’ve stayed in control. I want to see you lose control, Reid. For me. Right now.” Control. Reid can imagine how out of control of everything Luke must feel right now. To command this performance from Reid, to take some of that control back? He gets that. He understands. “How?” Reid says. “Kneel over me. Look at me the whole time,” Luke says. Reid swallows, nods quickly, and does as he’s told. He kneels on either side of Luke’s hips, looks down at Luke’s spent cock nestled against Luke’s stomach, and runs his hand down Luke’s chest, through the come-tangled chest hair, down to his vulnerable belly, and he looks at Luke. Luke’s gazing up at him with an expression of exhausted determination. “Let me see, Reid,” Luke says. Reid takes hold of himself, and begins to jerk. It’s not going to take long. He’s been on edge for hours, and staring down at Luke’s dilated eyes, his pink, open lips and feeling the up and down of his chest rising with each breath, brushing against his thighs, he’s almost there, almost, and Luke says, “No, let me.” Reid doesn’t even know how Luke has the energy to for it, but he wraps his hand around Reid’s cock, jerking hard and fast, until Reid’s thrusting into his fist, grunting and tossing his head back. He hears Luke hiss, “Look at me,” and he does, and he’s coming so hard that he sees stars instead of Luke’s face, and he’s shooting over and over in harsh, hurtful bursts. He collapses on Luke shaking. He feels Luke’s hands on his back, rubbing gently, and Luke says, “You only owe me about twenty more of those before we’re even.” Reid makes a choking sound, still panting. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll let you have more than 24 hours to pay it to me. I’m thinking a month? Maybe two?” Reid curls onto his side, holding onto Luke. “I love you,” Luke says. “I know this was hard for you. Thank you.” “I love you, too.” Luke kisses him softly. “Feel better?” “You?” “Yeah. A lot better.” * The phone is ringing like crazy, and Reid reaches out to snatch it up, to make the noise stop. “Reid?” It’s Bob. Hell, he’d fallen asleep before calling to let everyone know that Luke is okay. “He’s fine. Sleeping.” Reid yawns. “So were you,” Bob guesses. “Guilty. It’s been a long night.” “It’s been a long night for the Oakdale police, too. They caught the culprit at a roadblock headed back to Bay City. Casey fingered him.” “Bobbo, after the night I’ve had, you really don’t want me to go there.” “I imagine not. Turns out, the guy was trying to get the drug in Casey’s glass. Apparently my grandson looks like a potential buyer, and he was letting him ‘sample the goods’.” “So he wasn’t trying to get to Luke at all,” Reid says. Because apparently Luke is just that lucky. “No. He wasn’t. But now the young man is behind bars, where he should be.” “Yeah. Well. We’ll see how long that lasts.” Reid rolls his eyes. In Oakdale it seems that murders, rapists, and drug dealers often go free, but doctors who are just trying to get back to their patients in Dallas serve a life sentence. “Get back to Luke,” Bob says. “I’ll tell his parents the good news. You rest, and keep him hydrated.” “Will do.” “Oh, and Dr. Oliver?” “What now?” “You’re a good man.” Reid snorts and hangs up the phone. Bringing Luke Snyder to orgasm more times than any human should be expected to endure in less than a day? Reid’s a goddamn super hero. Or he’s willing to violate every ethical standard in the book for Luke. He’s not sure which. Possibly both. Luke rolls up next to him, rubs his face in the side of Reid’s neck, and whispers, “Stay. I need you.” Reid settles in. He supposes that as far as what he is, and what it means, he’ll have to let Luke decide. He just knows that if Luke needs him, he’s not going anywhere. THE END

I. I Waited in the Rain for Hours. Charlie is on his back, legs spread, lips damp and swollen before he has a chance to register what’s happening. Before he has a chance to realize that this is Adam, his best friend, linemate, roommate; before he has a chance to recognize that it’s Adam’s cock pressing into his hip and long before he realizes that he’s harder than he’s ever been in his life. And Charlie’s arching into the touch, his hands skimming under Adam’s polo shirt and pressing, hot and sweaty, against the small of Adam’s back, pulling him closer, long before he realizes what he’s doing. Long before Adam does, too, as he suddenly rips his mouth away and flinches back. “Um-” Adam runs a hand through his hair and Charlie’s hip burns where the hand used to be. What the fuck? is what Charlie wants to say, but looking at Adam, resting back on his heels and chest heaving, Charlie’s throat is dry. Adam’s eyes trail down his body, to where Charlie’s thighs are still spread around Adam’s knees, and Charlie’s erection is still clearly outlined through his sweats. Charlie swallows and he watches as Adam blushes, deeply, and he has the insane urge to see if the color spreads all the way to Adam’s bellybutton. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean – I don’t know what came over me.” Adam’s voice is hoarse, brittle. It goes straight to Charlie’s groin and he feels the blood start to rush back to his head, enough so that Charlie can see how much Adam is shaking above him and Charlie can’t do anything other than reach up a hand to wrap in the collar of Adam’s shirt and pull him down. Adam catches himself on his hands and Charlie reaches up to wrap a hand around his neck. “It’s okay,” he whispers, even though it’s anything but. If his pounding heart is anything to go by, things are never going to be okay again. Not in the way they were before. Adam shakes his head, his hair falling across his eyes and Charlie gives into the urge to push it off of Adam’s forehead. Adam’s eyes close and Charlie feels his cock begin to swell again. “I’m sorry,” Adam chokes. Charlie doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know if he forgives Adam, he doesn’t even know if he has something to forgive Adam for. But he does know that Adam is still hard against him, and that he really wants Adam to do that thing with his eyes again, so he tightens his thighs around Adam’s hips and uses his free hand to flick the button on Adam’s jeans. Adam’s eyes are wide, pupils blown, his breath hitching as Charlie takes him in his hand. Adam’s already swollen and leaking, straining towards his belly. Charlie is transfixed by it, unsure of what to do, but he wraps it in his fist and gives an experimental tug. He’s sloppy and unpracticed, too soft and too hard all at once, but Adam’s close already. He’s done this once or twice behind the bleachers in the gym, but it’s never felt like this, and he’s done almost before it’s started. “God, Charlie, fuck-” He tries to pull Charlie’s hand away in time, but Charlie’s eyes are trained on him, fascinated when the head of Adam’s cock swells and he pulses, hot and wet into Charlie’s fist. Charlie keeps stroking until Adam flinches and wraps his hand around Charlie’s, pulling it away. He doesn’t know what to do with the disappointment in Charlie’s face, so he ducks his head and drops his shaking hand into Charlie’s sweats. Charlie is iron hard, pushing up to meet him, seeming to like any friction Adam has to offer. It only takes a couple of pulls and Charlie’s arching his back and coming harder than he ever has before. Adam works him through the aftershocks, until Charlie is limp in his grasp, his chest heaving. Adam’s eyes are trained on where his hand disappears below Charlie’s waistband, and he doesn’t look up until Charlie catches him below his chin, his fingers still sticky with Adam’s cum. “That was good,” Charlie whispers, his eyes already half-lidded. Adam laughs. It’s stilted and shaky, but it’s a laugh and it turns into a moan as Charlie reaches down to tuck him into his boxers and help him push his jeans off his hips. Adam looks at him questioningly, but Charlie looks back with sleepy eyes and Adam just knows that he’ll never be able to deny Charlie anything when he’s like this. He scrambles up, Charlie groaning as his thighs fall to the bed, stretched and soar, and Adam lays a hand on Charlie’s hip before heading into the bathroom. He comes back out with a washcloth and pushes Charlie’s pants down just enough to clean him off. When he’s done, Charlie’s looking at him again and Adam maintains the gaze as he slips under the covers and lies on his side, pressed alongside Charlie’s body in the small Eden Hall beds. “We need to talk.” “Mmm.” Charlie turns his head. “I just got laid.” And he closes his eyes again. Adam sighs, but he settles down and forces himself to sleep as well. *** They never do get around to having that talk. Mostly because every time that Adam tries to bring it up, Charlie finds increasingly inventive ways to distract him. Or, perhaps, Charlie can’t keep his hands off of him, but that would probably be too much for Adam to ask. He knows that he should just be happy Charlie hasn’t given up the gig and punched him yet. It’s just, there are times, little hints, like that first night when Charlie cuddled with him afterwards, slept beside him. That’s not something a completely straight guy would do and it gives Adam hope. Even if Charlie won’t have the fucking talk. The first time, they’re in history class and Adam’s so transfixed by Charlie’s fingers as they twist his pencil back and forth that he doesn’t hear their teacher ask the question. Not ‘til Fulton jabs him in the side and it’s a good thing Adam’s a good student, ‘cause he rattles off the answer without thinking. Fulton’s giving him a look, one that speaks way too much of things that Adam is in no way ready to talk about yet, not at least until he has the talk with Charlie. So, when class ends and Fulton makes a beeline towards him, Adam grasps Charlie’s elbow. “We need to talk.” Those words seem to set something off in Charlie, ‘cause he pulls Adam into an unused classroom and shuts the door, pushing Adam up against it. Charlie’s lips are warm and pliant, and their teeth click unpleasantly for a moment before Adam adjusts the angle and Charlie opens his mouth up to him. Charlie seems to love kissing. Hours of leisurely kissing, on their beds, on the couch in the lounge long after everyone’s gone to bed, in the empty locker room. Wherever they can catch a moment together, Charlie’s kissing him. It’s not always with intent, either. Charlie is happy to just kiss him senseless before he leaves Adam, breathless and panting and completely unprepared to handle whatever it is they’re supposed to be doing next. This time, though, Adam isn’t having any of it. Not when he pulls away, his chest racing to catch a breath, and Charlie’s lips are swollen and glistening. Adam groans. Charlie raises an eyebrow, as if just noticing the effect that he’s having. “Want a hand?” Adam nods, unable to do anything but moan as Charlie’s palm, clammy and still-unpracticed after a month or so of trying, closes over the bulge in his khakis. What Charlie lacks in skill he makes up for in enthusiasm, and Adam is too close to the edge too fast, and he squirms, reaching down to cover Charlie’s hand with his own. “Stop, stop, I’m so close.” “Isn’t that the point?” Charlie’s giving him his confused look, the one that makes Adam’s knees weak, and Adam has to grasp his bicep to stay upright. “I-” Adam licks his lips, not missing the fact that Charlie’s eyes glaze over as he watches Adam’s mouth. “I have math in 20 minutes, and I’d really rather not have the mess.” He doesn’t mention that he’s going to smell of sex no matter what, doesn’t mention the look that Fulton was giving him earlier. Charlie frowns, biting his lip and tilting his head as if thinking this through, then nods to himself as if coming to a decision. When Charlie rests a warm palm on Adam’s hip, Adam assumes that Charlie’s decided to throw caution to the wind and use tissues or something, even though they’d have to throw them away in a classroom trash can. He is completely unprepared for Charlie to sink to his knees. Adam’s dick twitches, and he’s sure that Charlie can see it, what with being eye-to-eye with the bulge now, but Adam can’t bring himself to care. Not with Charlie’s warm breath puffing against him and his shaking fingers reaching for the button on Adam’s pants. Adam swallows, figures he has to at least protest a little. “You don’t have-” But then Charlie’s hand is wrapped around his bare cock and no one’s ever been able to deter Charlie when he sets his mind to something, so Adam sees no reason to start now. Not when Charlie is wrapping his hand around the base of Adam’s cock and licking experimentally at the head. Adam moans, splaying his palms against the door to hold himself upright. Pre-come is leaking steadily from his cock and Charlie reaches out again to taste it. He looks so concentrated that Adam has to bite his lip from laughing, but it does have the effect of tempering his libido just long enough so that he will at least last until Charlie has put his whole mouth on him. Barely. Charlie takes the head between his lips, slipping his tongue under the ridge, and Adam’s eyes slip shut. Charlie is hot and warm and Adam thrusts his hips forward, wanting more, needing more, but Charlie pulls back, choking and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Sorry, god, Charlie, I’m sorry,” Adam whispers, but it’d be a little more believable if his cock wasn’t angry and purple, bobbing against his belly. Charlie’s sitting back on his heels and he looks a little rueful, but Adam doesn’t miss the fact that his pants are no longer tented. “That didn’t happen in the clips.” Charlie’s blushing and Adam gapes at him. “You – you watched porn as research?” Charlie blushes even deeper, confirming it, and Adam shakes his head, fighting the urge to do something stupid, like tell Charlie how cute the whole thing is. Charlie’s frowning up at him now, moving forward again to work Adam with his hand. “I wanted it to be good the first time, you know? I wanted you to like it.” And there’s that look on Charlie’s face, the one he gets when he decides to use the Flying V or when he’s about to stand his ground with Orion, and he moves forward in one motion, taking Adam half-way in. “Oh-” Adam grasps at Charlie’s head, making sure to use it only for balance and not to push or pull. He’s careful now, forcing his hips back against the door as Charlie’s tongue flattens against the vein on the underside of Adam’s cock. Charlie looks up at him, through eyelashes still a little wet from his choking, and Charlie hums, as if he actually likes this. The thought is enough, too much really, and the hands in Charlie’s hair start to tug. “Charlie, I’m gonna cum.” Charlie doesn’t move back, doesn’t flinch as Adam swells and cums, hard and long, extended as Charlie swallows around him, pulling everything from Adam that he has. When he’s done, Charlie does his pants back up and rises to his knees. “You didn’t pull back.” Adam knows he sounds hoarse, somewhat accusing, and Charlie just frowns at him. “That would have defeated the point of this not being dirty.” Charlie’s looking confused again and Adam loves it, loves the expression on him, and he leans forward to kiss him, tasting himself in Charlie’s teeth and almost getting hard again at the thought. “Thank you,” Adam whispers, reaching his hand down to Charlie’s erection only to be batted away. “You have class,” Charlie reminds him, almost chuckling. “But-” “Tonight,” Charlie whispers, as if it’s a promise he’s making to himself more than to Adam. Adam nods, absently, and Charlie pulls him forward enough so that he can slip out the door, leaving Adam to gather himself for class, wondering why Charlie always seems to come out of these encounters so much more in control when it’s his first time at all these things and Adam is the practiced one, even if not by much. It scares him. *** The second time, Adam shouldn’t really have expected an answer. They’re on the couch in the lounge on a rare Friday night without a game the next day. They’ve had a couple beers, just enough to feel warm and comfortable, and much less than the rest of their teammates have. Goldberg stumbled away about thirty minutes ago, mumbling something about donuts. Guy and Connie had left not long after, giggling and holding hands and ignoring all the raised eyebrows. It’s just Charlie, Adam, Dean, and Fulton now. They’re playing Resident Evil, taking sips of beer every time they lose. Somewhere along the way, they had lost the fourth controller and no one had the money to replace it, so Adam is leaning against the armrest, his arm brushing against Charlie’s, watching the way Charlie moves every time he throws his hands in the air after blowing something up. When Charlie’s won for a sixth consecutive time, Dean throws his controller in disgust. “Fuck this.” He stands, downing the rest of his beer and dropping it in the trash before holding out a hand to Fulton and pulling him to shaky feet. “I need some fresh air. And to hit something real.” Fulton nods, finishing his own beer and waving as he follows Dean out to do whatever Dean has in mind. Leaving Adam and Charlie. Alone. “Ah-” Adam starts, his arm twitching against Charlie’s, and Charlie grins, leaning over to kiss him. “I’ve been waiting for them to leave all night.” Charlie’s eyes are dark, his pupils dilated, and Adam feels himself grow hard in his jeans. “Really?” Adam licks his dry lips and Charlie’s eyes darken further. “Because I-” Charlie kisses him again, and Adam really doesn’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want to hear what’s next, or because he’s transfixed by Adam’s mouth. Either way, he’s smirking when they pull apart. “What were you saying?” “Um,” Adam swallows, trying to remember exactly why he wants to ask so much. “I just, um, I just wanted to know-” Charlie’s staring at him, that confused look on his face again, and Adam rushes out in one breath. “-what you want.” Charlie laughs. “You want to know what I really want?” Adam nods, vigorously. “Yeah.” Charlie bends over to dig for the controller that Dean had thrown to the floor. He tosses it to Adam. “I really want to kick your ass in Mario Cart.” Adam should be disappointed. That’s not the answer he was looking for, not an answer at all, really. Except, as they start playing, Charlie presses the entire length of his body against Adam’s and, instead of throwing a fit when Adam wins the first race, he lifts Adam’s arm and scoots underneath it. They play for hours that way, cuddling and playing Mario Cart and drinking beer, and Adam truly can’t decide if it’s enough. *** Three days later, and Adam’s pretty much convinced himself that they never need to have the talk. They’re on the ice after a good, hard practice, staying late to work on some breakaways and no-look passes. Their chemistry on the ice is even better after all that’s happened in the last couple months, and they tumble into the locker room afterwards sweaty and giddy. Adam’s laughing as he hangs his gear in his locker and strips off his clothes, before he notices that Charlie isn’t laughing anymore. Peering over his shoulder, Charlie is just looking at him, a shy smile that looks so out of place on his face. Adam raises an eyebrow, before grabbing his towel and heading into the showers. His eyes are closed, head under the spray when he feels two arms around his waist. They’ve been naked together before, but this feels intimate, exposed, and Adam shivers despite the heat of the shower. “I’ve been thinking about this. For months.” Charlie’s voice is low and Adam wonders if he had planned this, asking Adam to stay late and practice so that they could have this time alone in the locker room. Not that he can bring himself to complain if he did, not when Charlie runs a hand down his spine and stops, questioningly, on his ass. Adam freezes for a moment. They haven’t done this yet. In fact, Adam’s never done this before, and, despite how talented Charlie has become with both his hands and his mouth, this is different. This is real, and dangerous, if more so emotionally then physically, and Adam has to bite his lip not to make Charlie have the damn talk right then and there. Charlie must feel him tense, ‘cause he draws his hand away, curling it around Adam’s hip and wrapping it around his cock in apology. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-” Adam can feel his chest as he takes a deep breath against Adam’s back. “I heard that it feels nice. That some guys like it. And I wanted you to feel good.” Charlie sounds so earnest, and Adam turns around, wrapping Charlie in his arms and feeling him shiver. He takes a step back so that Charlie is immersed in the warmth of the water. “You do, Charlie, you do make me feel good.” He reaches for Charlie’s hand and places it on his hip, invitingly. “Just be careful, okay?” Charlie nods, but instead of reaching his hand back, he drops to his knees and takes Adam in as far as he can in one go. Adam gasps, his head falling back to hit the wall with a crack, but he barely feels it as Charlie’s tongue caresses him, hot and wet and already more practiced in the month or so that he’s been doing this. Adam is close, fast, and Charlie’s gotten smart, his hand on Adam’s hip to press it flat against the wall. Adam is almost too far gone to feel it when Charlie’s hand moves, leaving Adam’s hip cold, and cupping his balls before tracing along his cleft. He stops with just his fingertip pressed against Adam’s ass, pulling his mouth away and opening his eyes. Adam looks down, panting and nodding, if only to get Charlie’s mouth back. Charlie nods, as if convincing himself, before leaning forward and taking Adam back into his mouth at the same time as he presses with his finger. Adam tenses, breathing deeply and willing his body to relax and, as Charlie keeps working him with his tongue, it’s not hard to forget about the finger. Forget, until Charlie bends his knuckle, stretching slowly, carefully, and a warm pleasure spreads throughout his whole body. “Charlie,” Adam moans, wanting it to last, but the ache is too much, and when Charlie hits that spot, Adam’s whole body shakes as his orgasm is ripped from him. Charlie sucks him ‘til he’s soft, pulling his finger away and catching Adam as he slides down the wall. “Thank you,” Adam whispers against Charlie’s mouth, kissing him softly, almost chastely. They sit like that, barely moving, until Charlie lets out a little moan and Adam feels bad about forgetting him. He reaches down, grasping Charlie in his palm, already hard. He knows it’s not going to take long, but he tries to draw it out, alternating between slow and fast strokes. Charlie isn’t having any of it, thrusting his hips into Adam’s fist and coming with a loud moan, long and hot between their bodies. “Fuck,” Charlie whispers, pulling Adam close and resting in the curve of Adam’s shoulder. “Yeah,” Adam whispers. He’s starting to feel cold, curled on the damp tile, and he uses the wall to pull them both shakily to their feet and back into the stream of hot water. Charlie sighs happily, and Adam squeezes some soup into his hand, taking the opportunity to really explore Charlie’s body for the first time. When Charlie is completely covered, he pushes him gently under the spray and washes him off, before pulling on his neck until he tips his head backwards and lets Adam shampoo his hair. “I like this,” Charlie whispers. Adam doesn’t know if he’s referring to the attention or their closeness, or the sex they just had, but Adam can’t argue on any account. He’s feeling high, lightheaded, by the time he pushes Charlie far enough out of the way so that he can wash himself quickly and turn off the spray. He hands Charlie a towel, unable to rip his eyes away as Charlie wraps it around his waist. Adam can’t really bring himself to pay attention to anything, not when Charlie’s upper body is still wet and shining in the low light of the showers. He almost trips on the step into the locker room, paying no attention to anything but how wonderfully loose and happy he feels, not until there’s a cough and he looks up to see Coach Orion eyeing them both. Adam swallows. “Get dressed and meet me in my office.” Coach Orion’s face is blank, giving no hints as to how much he was able to hear. Adam doesn’t bother to towel off as he grabs his jeans and pulls them on roughly. He’s still feeling sort of out-of-body, and Charlie staring at him as if he wants to say something isn’t helping. “Get dressed,” Adam throws at him, wishing for the second time in the last hour that they had had the talk, feeling like, without it, that he’s entering the lion’s den blind. “Um-” Adam turns around to say something comforting to Charlie, but he has no idea what it is, and when he looks at him, Charlie’s shoulders are straightened and determined, ever the Ducks Captain, even though he knows that Charlie must be as sated and blindsided as he is. Adam’s a little jealous that Charlie is here right now, when he himself is not. Adam follows him out, grateful that there are two chairs situated invitingly in front of the desk. He collapses into the closest one and immediately drops his eyes to his hands. He expects Orion to start yelling, and when he doesn’t, Adam glances up to see that Orion’s elbows are on his desk, his chin resting in his hands, just watching them. It’s unnerving, the way that Orion’s eyes are fixed on them, and Adam glances sideways at Charlie. Charlie sighs, as if realizing that Adam sure isn’t going to be the first to speak. “Sir-“ Orion holds up a hand. “You know that I don’t like to get involved in your personal lives.” Charlie nods and Orion sighs, dropping his hands to his desk and leaning forward. “But, in this situation, I have little choice.” “What-“ Adam’s voice sounds small to his own ears, and he coughs to clear his throat. “What are you going to do to us?” “I’m not going to do anything. What you do, and who you do it with, is none of my business.” “Even if,” Adam glances over at Charlie, who’s frowning, and he wonders if he’s about to say too much, if he’s about to make assumptions that it’s not fair of him to make. But, he needs to know, so he decides to plow ahead anyway. “Even if we’re gay?” Orion sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “A lot of boys experiment at your age. But if this is more than that, I’m not going to lie to you and say that it’s going to be easy.” “It is. More than that, sir.” Orion’s talking again, something about hard roads and rewards and being true to themselves, but Adam isn’t listening. He’s staring at Charlie, holding his breath, afraid to hope that those words mean what they have to mean. He knows he must look as dizzy as he feels when Charlie grabs him by his elbow and pulls him from the room, pushing him up against the wall. Adam swallows. “More than?” Charlie frowns. “What?” “We’re more than experimenting?” “Um, yes?” He has that confused look that Adam’s becoming really fond of, and Adam feels himself smile. “Okay.” “Yeah?” “Yes, of course.” Adam frowns. “If we weren’t just fooling around, why wouldn’t you let me talk about it?” “You never tried.” “I tried that first night.” Charlie tilts his head, as if trying to remember. “I had just had your hand on my dick. I wasn’t able to talk.” “And again that first time you gave me a blowjob.” It’s a crass turn of phrase, standing as they are in this empty hallway, but Adam’s world is turning itself upside down and he can’t bring himself to think of a nicer way to say it. Charlie blushes. “You were doing this thing with your eyes, watching me all through class. I barely contained myself until we were in that classroom.” “And-“ Adam’s speaking slowly now, as if afraid that these answers are going to stop coming. “The night we played Mario Kart?” Charlie frowns. “We didn’t do anything distracting that night.” Adam shakes his head. “No, but, when I asked you what you wanted, you said you wanted to play Mario Kart all night.” “That was you asking me what I wanted from this?” Charlie motions between their chests and Adam nods. Suddenly, Charlie laughs, as if this whole misunderstanding is the most ridiculous thing in the world, and, Adam supposes, it really is. “So, you weren’t trying to distract me all those times?” Adam asks when Charlie is able to breathe again, just wanting to make sure. “Nope.” Charlie leans forward so that he’s speaking right into Adam’s lips. “You, Adam Banks, aren’t getting rid of me that easily.” “Good,” Adam whispers, wrapping his arms around Charlie’s shoulders and pulling him into a kiss. II. I Would Buy Myself a Grey Guitar. “Fuck, it’s hot.” “Yep.” Charlie takes one hand off the steering wheel so that he can stick it out the window in hopes of catching some kind of a breeze, but even the wind in New Mexico is hot in August. He glances in the rearview mirror, biting his lip at the picture of Fulton, Guy, and Goldberg squeezed into the back of his beat-up old Jeep. When they had decided to spend the summer after graduation from Eden Hall on a trip across the country to visit the hometowns of all the Ducks, they hadn’t considered how hot the South is for those who were born and bred in Minnesota. At least it hadn’t been so bad for the first leg of the trip, the part where they drove all the way to Chicago with Dean sprayed out over laps in the back seat. Charlie glances over at Adam, who has his eyes closed, arm held out the window in an attempt to get some sun on his pale skin. “Hey.” Adam turns towards him without opening his eyes. “Hmm?” “You still have the camera, right?” Adam cracks open one eye to glare at him, before patting his pocket and rolling back towards the sun. Charlie had taken it upon himself to snap pictures every time the four of them had fallen asleep in a heap, and Fulton had been threatening to destroy the camera every since. “Seriously, man, who would decide to live in such a place?” Goldberg has a bandana tied around his wrist, that he’s using to mop at his forehead every few second, jabbing Guy in the side every time he moves. Guy glares at him. “It’s the desert.” He arches his back to stretch a bit, before falling back against the leather seats. “At least it’s less humid here.” Fulton grunts next to them noncommittally. Charlie glances back at him. Fulton’s been really quite since they left Dwayne’s ranch in Texas. Not that Fulton isn’t always quiet, but this is noticeable even for him. Charlie had cornered him about it at a rest stop yesterday, but Fulton had shrugged it off, saying something about the heat. But, as he had walked away, he had thrown a jab over his shoulder about how Adam has been sitting in the front seat the whole trip. Charlie knows that it’s not fair. He’s driving, so of course he doesn’t have to sit in the back, but Adam is certainly smaller than both Goldberg and Fulton, and he really should be taking his turn in the back. But every time he thinks about brining it up, Charlie glances over at how relaxed Adam looks, spread out in the seat and looking more at ease than he has since Charlie has known him, and Charlie just can’t convince himself to do it. The problem is, though, that if they all have reason to question it, Fulton does most of all. Fulton seems to have a sixth sense for finding Adam and Charlie in the spare moments of alone time that they’ve managed to piece together on this trip. Time after time he catches them coming out of bathrooms or turning corners, tucking in shirts and rearranging themselves and generally smelling and looking like sex. It doesn’t help that they’ve also been sharing a room. In the name of budgeting, they’ve been sticking to two rooms: Guy and Goldberg in one, Fulton, Charlie, and Adam in the other. Adam always takes the cot but, since he’s the first up in the morning, he takes the opportunity to wake Charlie with a kiss, more often than not sitting on the edge of the bed by Charlie’s hip and stealing a few minutes of private conversation. The arrangement is innocent enough, but more than once Charlie has caught Fulton watching them out of the corner of his eye, as if trying to figure out if what it is about Charlie and Adam that’s just a little bit off. Charlie isn’t about to fill him in. *** “You know what I wanna do tonight?” Charlie turns his head towards Goldberg, where’s he’s sitting on Fulton’s bed, chewing on a cup of ice cubes. He holds his hand out and Goldberg hands him a half-melted cube. “Hmm?” Charlie asks, running the ice around his wrists and falling back against the bed. “I wanna go to a strip club.” “What?” Charlie bolts upright and from the look Goldberg is giving him, he’s knows that he’s put up way too much of a protest way too quickly. “Only gays and virgins don’t wanna see women at strip clubs.” Goldberg sits up and leans towards him. “You a virgin, Captain?” Charlie tries to laugh it off, but he knows that too much of his relief comes through and Goldberg reads the laugh for how fake it is. If only for the wrong reason. Goldberg sits on the edge of the bed, grinning in only the way Goldberg grins when he has a plan. “We’ll take care of it tonight. Don’t worry, you’re in good hands.” Charlie buries his head in the pillows and Goldberg pats his knee. *** They do actually start out at a strip club. Only problem being that they’re pretty strapped for cash a few weeks into the trip and the only thing that Goldberg can buy Charlie is a five-minute lap dance that is rather unenthusiastic when she realizes that she’s making a straight $15, tip included. She is beautiful, though. Long, wavy hair barely covering her breasts, flimsy clothe doing nothing to hide her ass, tall and thin and perfectly curved. A flash of them together comes to Charlie, and they make a nice picture, but it doesn’t do a thing for him. Which, actually, surprises him a little bit. It’s almost laughable, really, how uninterested every party is in the whole thing, but Charlie feels a little bad when she finishes and glances at his lap to see that his dick isn’t the slightest bit interested. So, when the $15 is used up and they decide to bail, Charlie pulls her aside. “Look, I’m sorry about that.” She looks him up and down. “No big deal.” “No, I mean-” Charlie gestures down towards his crotch. “It’s not you. It’s me. I promise.” She laughs, then winks at him. “Is it the cute blond one?” “What?” Charlie splutters. “Your boyfriend. He was glaring at me the whole time.” “Oh.” Charlie doesn’t really know what more to say. He’s had a lot to drink and she’s figured them out in less than five minutes, when their friends are still clueless after eighteen months. He doesn’t know what to do with that. All he can come up with is, “I’m sorry,” and he doesn’t know if he’s apologizing for himself, or for Adam, or what, but he bolts before he has to do any more explaining. He meets the guys outside and Goldberg is eyeing him as if he can see her number written on Charlie’s palm or something, but Charlie just shrugs him off. “I just needed to apologize for you idiots.” “You can thank us later.” Goldberg winks at him and Charlie has to stop from rolling his eyes at the big secret Goldberg think he’s hiding for him. “I’ll take you up on that.” Charlie thinks his joke his funny and it takes him a moment to realize that it may be an inside joke when no on else is laughing with him. Also, he really did have a lot to drink, and the world is spinning under his feet. His thought is confirmed when they get back to the hotel and, less than thirty minutes after they turn off the lights, he’s racing towards the bathroom. He’s clutching the edge of the toilet seat when he feels a hand on his bare back. He finishes emptying his stomach and leans against Adam. “You okay?” Charlie nods, then rethinks moving his head so quickly. “I’m sorry.” “For what?” Charlie motions towards his lap. “For the – dance.” Adam chuckles. “It’s okay.” “It’s not,” Charlie insists. Adam frowns. “It’s okay, you know, if you were a little turned on by it. I mean, she was right in your lap and, well, we never talked about how you still feel about women and I’ve always wondered, with Linda and all.” Adam’s babbling and it’s such a rare thing for Adam to do that it takes Charlie a moment to kiss him quiet. “No, no, that’s just it. I felt nothing for her, not even a twinge. And she was beautiful.” Adam laughs and Charlie turns to take Adam’s face in his hands. “I love you.” Adam’s entire body goes still, tense in Charlie’s arms for the first time since they started this. Charlie, still feeling a little dizzy, wonders if perhaps Adam hadn’t heard him. “I love you,” Charlie repeats, a little awed by the words himself. Except, Adam starts laughing. Laughing. And Charlie frowns. “What?” “Oh, Charlie,” Adam holds his hand over his chest. “I don’t – why are you laughing?” “’Cause this is what I love so much about you. We’re on the bathroom floor, with Fulton in the next room, and this is when you decide to tell me.” “Sorry?” Charlie tries, but then his brain clicks into place. “Wait, what did you say?” Adam smiles, his shy little smile. “Yeah. I love you, too.” “Hmm.” Charlie rests his head on Adam’s shoulder. “I really wish that Fulton wasn’t out there right now.” *** “You picked a great night to stop over in Pecos.” “Why’s that?” Charlie asks absently as he signs the credit card statement for the only hotel in Pecos, New Mexico. “Well, it’s Tuesday night, of course.” The manager is a friendly man in his mid-sixties, so happy to have guests that he offered them five separate rooms for the price of one. Charlie glances around at the old wooden structure, wishing that the walls were thick enough to take advantage of the alone time. “What happens on Tuesday nights?” Adam asks, almost curiously, after Charlie had completely forgotten that he was having a conversation with the guy. “It’s karaoke at The Alamo. Best night of the week.” Adam flashes the guy his best smile and takes the keys he offers. “We’ll see you there, then?” “Oh, yes.” His eyes are sparkling. “Haven’t missed a Tuesday night in forty years.” “Are we really going to karaoke tonight?” Goldberg whines when they’re halfway up the stairs and nowhere near out of earshot yet. Adam shrugs, his eyes shining. “There’s nothing else to do. Might as well.” Which is true. Pecos is a tiny town about thirty miles outside of Santa Fe and far enough from route 25 that few tourists stop here. As they drove in the only things Charlie noted were the bar, the hotel, and a strip club. Charlie isn’t really itching to repeat that experience again. Except, that doesn’t explain why Adam is so obviously excited about the prospect. Charlie’s still trying to figure it out a few hours later, fresh off a nap curled tightly around Adam, and full on ribs and cornbread. The food was delicious, and they’re all starting to wonder if perhaps the heat is worth it for the food down here. “I wonder if Connie would go for it.” Guy muses as he leans back in his chair, sipping his beer. “We could buy a little house in Santa Fe. Have a garden all year round.” “Sounds nice.” Charlie looks wistfully at the last bits of coleslaw on Adam’s plate, wishing that it wouldn’t be weird to eat them. “I don’t know.” Adam says, catching Charlie’s eye. “There’s no hockey in Santa Fe.” “Mmm.” Charlie muses. “Maybe we could just open a bar-b-que dive in St. Paul’s? That way we get hockey and great food.” “Now that’s an idea.” Goldberg leans across the table excitedly and, under it, Adam touches Charlie’s knee. Charlie presses into his hand briefly. They’ve drawn up most of the menu for their dream restaurant by the time that the music starts, and it’s not just city karaoke with a techno-beat machine and a limited playbook. It’s the real deal, with a stool, an acoustic guitar, and a piano and Adam’s eyes light up quicker than Charlie’s seen before. “What is it about this that has you so excited?” Charlie asks, interrupting their debate about corn-on-the-cob verse creamed corn, and staring at Adam. Adam blushes, and Charlie starts getting a sick feeling. He kicks Adam under the table, but Adam shakes his head, leaning in so that he has everyone’s attention. “Remember last year, when Spazzway was out for a couple months ‘cause of his ankle?” “You mean when he stood behind the bench and yelled worse than Coach Orion?” “Or when he decided to create eating plans for each of us and document our progress?” “Or like when he woke us up at 3 am to discuss plays?” All three of which Charlie feels are completely unfair accusations, because all he was trying to do was make sure that they were prepared when he couldn’t be on the ice with them. He worried about them, and it’s nice to know that they cared so much. “Right.” Adam smiles, and Charlie throws one last, pleading look at him, which is completely ignored. “So, in his effort to be less bored, Charlie started taking guitar lessons.” They all gape at him and Charlie thinks he should really be offended by it, except that he knows where this is going to end and, really, he has many other things to worry about. Such as the fact that all their looks of skepticism are completely and utterly founded. “Ever since I found out, I’ve been trying to get him to play something. This seems like the perfect opportunity, don’t you think?” Charlie drops his head into his hands on the table, groaning loudly. He had been able to make Adam forget about the whole incident, mainly through kissing and blowjobs and some really good fucking, but he can’t very well do any of those things here. Although, he is considering it when he opens one eye to peer up at them and, no, it’s really not going to work, with all four of them looking at him like that, and he thinks that he’d even rather sing in front of them than kiss Guy and Goldberg. The waitress steps into his field of view and he waves her over, ordering shots and another round. Lucky for him, when Adam goes up to the stage to sign him up, there are already eleven people in line, giving Charlie about forty-five minutes in which he gets himself pleasantly buzzed enough that everything’s beginning to look a little fuzzed around the edges and he thinks, just maybe, he can do this. Until his name is called and it takes all four of his friends to push him to the stage, where a pretty young lady looks him up and down, obviously noting that he’s surrounded by four boys and a lack of girlfriends. She also seems to be under the false impression that he’s some sort of musician and that he’s here by choice. “Piano or guitar?” She asks, looking at him from under her eyelashes, and he looks back at Adam with wide eyes, pleading for help. He pats Charlie on the back. “Guitar. You wouldn’t wanna see him try at the piano. Two left hands.” Which, Charlie wants to add, means that he’s no better at the guitar, but when he looks down, he’s sitting on the stool in the middle of the stage, an acoustic guitar in his lap, with no idea of how he got here. His hands are shaking and he doesn’t know if he even can do this. He knows he’s really not very good. He’s always known that he’s more the jock than the troubled musician, but when he decided to try this last year, he really hadn’t been in a good place. Even then he’d known that he wouldn’t be any good, but when three kids in his history class had begged him to be in a band, he hadn’t been able to turn them down. They had practiced once a week in one of the kid’s dorm room, and they had never left the safety of closed doors for a reason. It’s ridiculous and stupid and it should be incredibly embarrassing, except when he looks up, Adam is leaning on the table and staring at him. All the playfulness, the amusement, is gone, replaced by hunger and affection and an overwhelming arousal that Charlie can see even from up here. Charlie shivers under the gaze, and forgets why he ever thought this was a bad idea. In fact, he can’t remember why he thought any of this was ever a bad idea, and he pulls the guitar closer to him, smiling out at the crowd. “I should have sung this song a long time ago, but, well, you’ll see in a moment why I was reluctant. Tone deaf,” Charlie points to his ear and he gets a little laugh from the room, before focusing entirely in on Adam. “But, anyway, here it is. This song is for my boyfriend.” Later, neither of them will ever remember what song Charlie sang. And, in retrospect, if he actually wanted Adam to hear the song, he probably should have made the announcement after, but he hadn’t expected the shear number of questions that Fulton, Goldberg, and Guy had for them, and, at the time, Charlie really couldn’t hold it in any longer. They’ve advanced far from Fulton’s “I knew it” and Goldberg’s “huh” by the time they leave the bar, the cool desert night helping to temper Charlie’s buzz. “How long?” Fulton asks, peering at them as if he can calculate the dates just by looking at their faces. “Mmm, about a year and a half.” “Really? I thought it was a couple of months or something. With the number of times I’ve caught you this trip.” Adam blushes deeply, dropping his head, and Charlie laughs. “Mmm, Adam’s just so hot. Can’t keep my hands off him.” Which makes Adam blush even deeper and Charlie grins. “What’s it like?” Guy pipes up. “What’s what like?” Guy shrugs. “Sex with a guy. Like, what kinds of things to you do? Do you-?” He motions towards his ass and Charlie rolls his eyes. Adam pinches Charlie to keep him from saying anything else utterly embarrassing. “I’m not answering that.” Fulton leans in. “Is it good? Tell us Spazzway has at least some talents?” “Oh, yeah.” Adam draws the word out slowly. “His mouth is quite talented.” It’s Charlie’s turn to blush, and he thinks that if he were to look down, even his toes would be pink in his flip-flops. “I’d like a diagram sometime.” “Goldberg,” Charlie groans. “What?” He shrugs. “I gotta get something good out of this, right?” *** “So have you guys been doing it with Fulton in the room?” Charlie glances next, to him, where Goldberg’s leaning forward to look at them both accusingly. Charlie sighs and takes a hand off the wheel to push him into the backseat. The ribbing hasn’t really stopped since last night, but, frankly, Charlie’s a little bit surprised that they’ve taken it so well. He can take a little good-natured teasing, especially when he glances next to him to see Adam is splayed out again, face towards the sun, beautiful and pale and, finally, Charlie can do this. He rests his hand palm-up on the edge of Adam’s seat. Adam looks over at him, smiling softly, and places his hand in Charlie’s. Charlie grins and turns back to the road. Totally worth it. III. Little Pink Houses “This is the last one.” Adam holds out the beer, and Dean snatches it. “Thanks.” Adam shrugs. “Least we can do.” He glances around at the boxes strewn across their new living room. Fulton groans, stretching his back. “Yeah, fifth floor?” Charlie shrugs. “Didn’t have much choice.” “It’s nice, though.” Connie pipes up, coming into the room from the bedroom. It’s sort of an overstatement. The apartment isn’t much, just a living room attached to a small kitchen, the bedroom, and the bathroom, but it’s all they could afford. But, even if there is a little mold in the corner of the bathroom, and if the handle on the refrigerator sort of comes off half the time, it’s still theirs, and Adam’s proud of it. “It’s ours,” Adam shrugs, finishing up his beer and placing it next to the door. He makes a note to ask the super about recycling. When he turns around, he catches Charlie stretching, his shirt riding up, and Adam swallows. “I think it’s time for us to go. Give these two a little alone time.” Connie winks at them and Adam blushes. “You don’t have to,” he tries to protest, but not very hard, and Dean just rolls his eyes as he finishes up his last beer and puts it next to Adam’s by the door. “No problem, man. First night in a new place. Gotta break it in.” Which, really, does nothing for Adam’s blush, but Dean is leaving and they’re all following, so it’s a small price to pay. Adam closes the door tightly behind Fulton and leans back against it. The place seems eerily quite, now that it’s just him and Charlie, no Ducks, no furniture. In essence, they’ve been living together for years, but Adam seriously doubts that a dorm room really rates on the “living together” scale. “So, um, what do we do now?” Charlie grins at him. “We do exactly what Dean told us to do.” They haven’t bought a mattress yet. Adam’s parents had given them an IOU for Christmas last year, but with graduating from Minnesota and moving and job-hunting, they just haven’t gotten around to it. They did drag the futon from their old common room in the dorms outside, though, and beat it a bit with their hockey sticks before putting it in their bedroom, so it’s not so bad as their first bed. Not that Adam would notice if they were on a dirt floor by the time Charlie has him on his back. They’re both sweaty and sticky from lugging boxes, but Charlie is still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He reaches up, wrapping his hand around the back of Charlie’s neck and pulling him down, easing his tongue into his mouth. They kiss like that, Adam’s tongue sliding against Charlie’s, until Charlie’s arm starts to shake from holding his weight and he pulls away. His drops to his elbow, caressing Adam’s hair as he pants into Adam’s neck. “I love you,” he whispers, and Adam grins, turning to kiss the top of Charlie’s head. “Love you, too.” Adam drops his hands to Charlie’s waist, slipping under his shirt and caressing the smooth skin of his back. Charlie arches into his hand, practically purring. Adam grins, flipping them over and pulling Charlie’s shirt off in one motion. He wants to explore every inch of him. He’s tried before, but it was near-impossible in the dorms. Charlie isn’t a naturally quiet guy in bed, and he’d learned to compensate with small moans and biting his lip almost raw, but they had always had to stop at a certain point when it all got to be too much. Not tonight. So Adam takes his time. Fingertips trailing up Charlie’s sides, counting every rib as his lips worry away at his favorite spot on Charlie’s collarbone. Charlie’s skin is red and flushed and Adam swipes his tongue across the hollow of his neck to taste the salt that has pooled there. He scoots down, catching Charlie’s left nipple in his teeth and pulling gently, just ‘til the nipple is red and swollen and Adam soothes it with his tongue. “Adam-” Charlie whispers, his fingers tangling in Adam’s hair and Adam doesn’t know what he’s begging for, but he likes the noise and he dips his tongue into Charlie’s bellybutton, fucking the little indentation with his tongue until Charlie is calling out and that’s all it takes, the moans and cries and whimpers coming in a long stream now. Adam pulls himself up Charlie’s body, kissing him deeply as his hands find the button on Charlie’s jeans. “Yes, babe, yes, I wanna hear you.” Charlie’s eyes are dilated and unfocused as he turns towards Adam, and Adam leans forward to nip quickly at Charlie’s bottom lip before ducking down to strip him of his jeans and boxers. The clothing falls to a heap behind him and Adam sits back on his heels, admiring his handiwork, the collection of red marks all over Charlie’s chest. “Fuck, Adam, please, I need-” But Charlie doesn’t get to say what he needs, ‘cause Adam slips his hand under Charlie’s ankle and starts to kiss at the nerves there. He moves up Charlie’s calves with long, rough licks, stopping to nibble right above the knee. He finishes at the hollow of Charlie’s hip, pressing hard with his thumbs before starting again on the other leg. Charlie’s cock is purple and leaking, a warm pool of pre-cum already cooling against his belly as he thrusts his hips sideways, searching for friction, a hand, a mouth, anything, but Adam just grins up at him, pressing Charlie’s hips tightly into the mattress. He takes his time, worrying Charlie’s balls with his mouth, before he adjusts his knees on the futon and takes Charlie into his mouth in one go. Adam’s never heard the sound before, a desperate, raw cry and Adam’s chest aches. He focuses on making this good, pulling back and kissing down the underside, pulling at the skin where his cock and balls meet, until Charlie’s hands are twined in his hair and he’s pulling franticly. Adam goes, resting his weight on his hands beside Charlie’s head, careful not to put too much pressure on his bad wrist. It’s been off a cast for a few months now, but sometimes it still twinges in the brace. He settles his balance and peers down as Charlie’s body shakes with the exertion of bringing himself back to earth. “Sorry,” Charlie pants. “I wasn’t gonna last.” Adam grins at him, starting to pull away to flip them again, when Charlie catches his elbow and holds him there. “What?” Adam frowns at him. “I want you,” Charlie whispers, spreading his knees so that there can be no mistake what he’s asking for. They don’t do it this way often. Charlie generally likes to maintain control even off the ice, and Adam is all too willing to bottom. But Charlie’s looking at him, desperate and determined, his body relaxed in Adam’s hands and, even though Adam may be a little worried about hurting him, he’s not going to pass up the opportunity. He nods, sliding off the bed and stripping. He glances around, looking for the box labeled “Bedroom – Important,” and dives for it. It contains their alarm clock, Adam’s first hat-trick puck, and the lube. Adam grabs it, and digs deeper. “Did you put the condoms in here?” Adam glances over at the bed. Charlie frowns. “I think so.” Adam digs through the box franticly, but it only contains three items and he really can’t will it to contain what they need. “I don’t-” “Come here.” Charlie holds out his hand and Adam hesitates, staring traitorously at the box, before joining Charlie on the edge of the futon. Charlie rests his hand on Adam’s thigh, rubbing comfortingly. “It’s okay.” And Adam peers down at him as if he’s lost his senses, but Charlie just squeezes his leg. “We’ll go without.” “What?” Charlie curls onto his side around Adam, leaning forward to kiss his hip. “It’s been six years, Adam. There’s been no one else but you.” And it’s not like Adam thought that there might have been, but there were those three months sophomore year and it’s a relief to know that Charlie had been as celibate during that time as he had been. And it’s not like they haven’t made a much bigger commitment to each other, what with the apartment and the choice they made a few months ago, but this is big, bigger than anything Adam can ever remember and it scares him. “Adam?” Charlie’s looking less relaxed now and, belatedly, Adam realizes what Charlie probably thinks the silence means. “No, no,” he runs a hand through Charlie’s hair. “Just you. Only you. Always.” “Well, then-” Charlie rolls over, pulling Adam with him and spreading his knees again so that Adam can fit himself between them. He pulls Adam’s head down and whispers in his ear. “I want you.” Adam’s hands are still shaking as he pops open the top of the lube and warms a good amount in his palm, taking much longer than usual to slip one finger in. He works agonizingly slowly, stretching Charlie and working him until he’s aching and hard again, dripping pre-cum on Adam’s shoulder and begging him to get on with it. Adam, himself, is finding it hard not to rub off against the mattress and he knows he can’t delay much longer. He pulls his fingers back, stretching out to steady himself above Charlie again, brushing his sweaty hair off his forehead. “You sure? I – I need to know that you’re okay.” Adam knows he sounds desperate, but there’s no hesitation when Charlie nods, tightening his thighs around Adam’s waist and pushing him forward. Adam goes, and, “Oh god,” he groans, catching himself on his hands and resting still when he’s all the way in. “Why haven’t we done this sooner?” Charlie chuckles, wrapping his arms around Adam’s waist and resting against his lower back. “You feel so close, so hot.” And Adam feels it too. Logically, he knows that this can’t be that much different, but it feels different, hot and hard and he can feel every pulse of Charlie’s body. This is going to be embarrassingly short, but from the way Charlie’s cock is dripping against his stomach he’s not going to last long, either. So, when Charlie urges him to move, he does. He can’t even tell if he’s thrusting hard or gentle, ‘cause it’s all just too much, surrounding him, enveloping in the feeling of Charlie and as Charlie reaches the edge, Adam follows him over, pumping hot and warm and long. Charlie’s hands are comforting him through the aftershocks, caressing his back and straightening his legs with a groan so that Adam can pull back and collapse beside him. Charlie presses to his side, head heavy on Adam’s shoulder and Adam reaches down to press a finger into Charlie, wet and heavy. Charlie lets him stay like that for a moment, before he shifts uncomfortably and Adam withdraws, pulling Charlie close. “That was the hottest thing we’ve ever done.” “Mmmhmm,” Adam agrees, too sated and weak to even worry about cleaning them up before he pulls Charlie even closer and drifts off. *** Charlie’s a little sore when he wakes up the next morning. Some sort of combination of the futon and the box-lifting and the lovemaking long into the night leaves him aching and grumpy, grumbling as he trips over a few boxes on the way to the bathroom. After throwing some water on his face, he’s at least awake enough to smell the coffee and follow the smell into the kitchen, where Adam thrusts a mug into his hands. Sighing happily, he takes a few large sips before he puts the mug down on the counter and looks around him. Adam has dug through a few of the boxes, pulling out the coffee maker and the set of pans that Charlie’s mom gave them as a housewarming gift, and he’s currently wearing boxers and humming The Counting Crows while cooking magnificent-smelling eggs. Charlie has to swallow, reminding himself how sore he is before he just gives up and jumps Adam right now, hot stove be damned. “What you looking at?” Adam asks with a smirk, wiggling his ass, and Charlie bites his lip. “You.” He knows the question was meant in jest, but Charlie answers anyway, coming up behind Adam and resting his head on Adam’s shoulder. “Do you ever regret it?” Adam’s voice is small, his body tense in Charlie’s arms, eyes trained on his damaged wrist encased in its brace, unable to even hold the spatula tight enough to flip eggs. Damaged beyond repair the Doctors had told them last spring. Just a couple short months before the NHL draft, Adam slotted to go in the late-second, early-third round, until the injury and the impossible recovery took him out. Forever. At the time, Adam hadn’t known what to be more afraid of: losing hockey or losing Charlie by default, when he went off to the NHL without him. They had spent six years lying awake at night, dreaming and planning and scheming a glorious life of hockey and cars and adoring fans. A life that Charlie could still have. Without him. Nah, I’ve always liked coaching more anyways, Charlie had said then. Now he just squeezes Adam tightly, as if being here, in St Paul, in their tiny apartment, is all Charlie’s ever wanted from the world. “Easiest decision I ever made.” Charlie whispers and perhaps, just perhaps, Adam is starting to believe him.

Jack collapsed back on Nathan’s bed. “So, is this a thing?” “A thing?” Nathan rolled his head slightly to look at him. “Yeah, you know, a thing.” “’Thing’ isn’t a sufficient descriptor for me to answer that question.” Nathan’s smug response made Jack want to hit him. Jack snorted. “Oh, for… Are we dating?” “Let’s examine the evidence, shall we? We’ve met for dinner twice this week—” Nathan began. “For business,” Jack felt compelled to point out, which was entirely true. They’d had business reasons for both meetings. “Which could easily have been taken care of at the office,” Nathan replied, relentless. “We’re having regular sex—” “Regular really good sex,” Jack had to insert. Nathan grinned his agreement. “So, yes, Sheriff. I think you could classify what we’re doing as dating.” “Huh.” Jack frowned. “Do you have a problem with that?” Jack gave the question some consideration. “No, I just thought it would be weird.” “Trust me. It’s weird enough.” Nathan grinned. “Come on, Jack, loosen up.” “Hey, I’m loose,” Jack replied. “I’m just wondering when we’re going to tell people that we’re dating, if that’s really what we’re doing.” Nathan sighed. “I’m happy with our arrangement the way it is.” “So am I,” Jack replied, knowing that he sounded defensive. “But sooner or later, Zoe is going to ask where I’m spending all my time, if SARAH doesn’t do it first. Allison is going to ask you why you’re suddenly too busy to have dinner with her. And someone is going to wonder why we’re having dinner together more than we absolutely have to.” Nathan let out a breath. “You may have a point.” “Of course I have a point,” Jack replied irritably. “I do know what I’m talking about a lot more than you think I do.” “So, do you want to start telling people?” Nathan asked. Jack hesitated. “Do you?” “I asked you first.” “Are you twelve?” “No, but you might be.” Jack sat up and started hunting for his clothing. “Fair enough. I just think that we’re going to have to come clean sooner or later, and things could spin out of control if we don’t manage the flow of information.” Nathan pushed himself up to lean back against the headboard. “You know, I start to get nervous when you actually make sense.” Jack shot him a dirty look. “Bite me.” “Well, since you ask so nicely…” Jack rolled his eyes. “I need to get to work.” “Who do you want to tell first?” “Zoe and Allison,” Jack replied without thinking. “If Zoe finds out from someone else, there’s going to be hell to pay.” “When do you want to do it?” Nathan asked. His serious tone had Jack turning to look at him as he tucked his uniform shirt in. “Seriously?” “Seriously. You’re right about Zoe, and the same could be said for Allison. So, we tell them.” Jack swallowed hard. “You’re—this about more than just sex.” “I think we just agreed that to be the case,” Nathan replied drily. Jack blinked. He honestly hadn’t thought that Nathan would agree so easily. Jack figured he had at least another week of coaxing to do before Nathan would even think about agreeing. “Oh.” Nathan jerked his pants up. “Is it just sex to you, Jack?” “No! I just—” Jack sighed. “I didn’t know what this was to you.” “Which is why you asked if this was a thing,” Nathan replied. “Something like that.” Jack buckled his gun belt on. “Look, I’ll talk to Zoe at dinner tonight and break the news to her and SARAH, and you can tell Allison.” Nathan winced. “And won’t that be a fun conversation?” Jack grimaced, thinking about what Zoe was likely to say. She probably had no idea that he had occasionally been interested in men. Well, there had been a couple of guys in college, but there had never been anyone like Nathan. “Does Allison know you occasionally bat for the other team?” Jack asked. Nathan nodded. “I never hid it from her.” “Then she probably won’t be as surprised as Zoe is going to be.” He took a deep breath. “Call you later?” “Let me know how it goes.” Nathan finished buttoning his dress shirt and reached for Jack, pulling him in for a quick kiss. “If you want, you can come by for a drink later tonight.” Jack put a little something extra into the kiss. “We’ll see how well Zoe takes it.” ~~~~~ Nathan had been a little surprised by Jack’s question. They’d had two weeks of arranging to have dinner or bumping into each other at the gym, and ducking down back corridors at Global Dynamics. Nathan hadn’t had to sneak around in years, but he was enjoying himself quite a bit. He’d expected to put this whole coming out thing off for at least another couple of weeks, but Nathan felt remarkably sanguine about the whole affair. Hell, Nathan liked Jack more than most of his sexual partners, aside from Allison, and he certainly didn’t care for the idea that their relationship would end just because someone found out. Nathan hadn’t expected Jack to be the one to push the issue, though. And now, Nathan had agreed to tell Allison, and Jack would tell Zoe. Nathan had no idea what Jack would do if Zoe reacted poorly. Jack wanted Zoe’s respect so much that if she decided she wasn’t in favor of their relationship… Nathan took a deep breath and reminded himself not to cross that bridge until they came to it. Right now, all he had to worry about was breaking the news to Allison. He really ought to stop stalling, Nathan thought. He’d avoided her all day, but he wanted to be able to give Jack some news when he called. They were still competing, but this time, Nathan was attempting to beat Jack to the punch, telling Allison before Jack could tell Zoe. He rapped on the doorframe of her office. “Allison?” “Nathan, come in,” she said quietly, although she was smiling. “Close the door.” He did so and took a seat across from her, wincing when she asked, “Did you find out something about Kevin?” “No, I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I’m still looking.” “I know,” Allison replied, a little of the tension leaving her shoulders. “I’m sorry, I just—” “Don’t worry about it,” he said, cutting her off. “I share your concern, Allie.” “I know you do,” she assured him. “So, what did you want to tell me?” Nathan shifted uneasily. “I’m seeing someone. I wanted to tell you before you heard it through the grapevine.” Allison’s eyes widened, and something—regret or relief, he wasn’t sure—flashed across her face. “I see. Anyone I know?” “Yes.” She arched an eyebrow. “Who?” “Ah, Jack.” Her jaw dropped for one truly satisfying moment. “Seriously? Since when?” “A couple of weeks,” he admitted. “Jack thought we should start telling people before they found out.” Allison stared at him. “Does anyone else know?” “Jack is telling Zoe tonight,” Nathan replied. “So, no. There’s no one else who knows, so far as I’m aware.” Allison smiled, her lips curving in genuine amusement. “Well, won’t that be interesting?” “That’s pretty much what I thought,” he agreed. “Is this—are you okay with it?” Nathan hadn’t really given much thought about what Allison might think—not until this moment—but he wanted her to accept their relationship. Nathan hated to think that their newfound friendship would come to an end, or that her relationship with Jack would be damaged. Nathan had burned enough bridges; he didn’t want to burn this one. “Are you happy?” Allison countered. “Yes,” he replied without thinking. “Very.” “Then that’s all I needed to know.” Allison moved around her desk to press her lips to his cheek. “It’s good that you’re both happy.” Nathan smiled, and then said, “I’d like to bring Jack up to speed on the thing with Kevin and the Artifact. I won’t be able to keep this from him for much longer, and if I do—” “If you do, you risk your relationship,” Allison replied knowingly, perching on the edge of her desk. “Let me think about it, Nathan. I’ll let you know.” Kevin was her son, and while Nathan wanted to push, he knew doing so wouldn’t help his case. “Thanks, Allie.” “I understand not wanting to lie to him,” Allison replied. “I don’t like keeping things from Jack either. I’ll give you my answer in the next couple of days.” Nathan nodded. “That’s all I can ask.” ~~~~~ Jack kept practicing what he was going to say. The words ran through his head over and over again, in a thousand variations, trying to explain to Zoe that he was dating someone, and that someone was Stark. He still hadn’t come up with the right way to break the news. They ate the minestrone that SARAH had made, mostly in silence. Zoe had talked about her day, but Jack had responded only vaguely. “Okay, what the hell is going on?” Zoe burst out as she finished her dinner. “Language,” Jack warned half-heartedly. “Seriously, Dad. What’s going on?” Zoe barreled on. “You’ve been weird for the last two weeks.” Jack sighed. “Yeah, see, there’s this thing.” “You’re dating someone,” Zoe said. “I knew it! You owe me, SARAH.” “I don’t think I do,” SARAH responded stiffly. “How was I supposed to know, given that the Sheriff was never home?” Zoe smirked. “Too bad, SARAH. You still owe me chocolate cake.” She turned to Jack. “Who is it?” “That’s just the thing,” Jack began. “You’ll probably never guess.” Zoe raised her eyebrows expectantly. “Which is why you’re going to tell me.” Jack considered his response, but there was really no way to ease Zoe into the truth. “It’s Nathan.” He watched the confusion passing across Zoe’s face, and then saw realization dawn. “Wait, you mean Dr. Stark?” Zoe finally asked incredulously. Jack shrugged. “Yeah. That’s the one.” “Seriously?” Zoe pressed, her eyes getting a little wider at his confirmation. Jack shrugged. “Seriously.” “How long?” Zoe demanded. “Two weeks,” he admitted. “We were waiting for the right moment to let everybody know.” Zoe leaned back in her chair. “Holy crap, Dad. You’re dating Stark?” Jack decided that repeating the exchange with Nathan—debating whether they were dating—was probably bad form. “Yeah, pretty much.” Zoe started laughing. “You know, I knew you were dating somebody because you’ve been a heck of a lot happier recently, but I had absolutely no clue it was Stark, of all people.” Jack blinked, taking in all the nuances of Zoe’s explanation. “You’re not surprised that I’m dating a guy?” Zoe snorted. “Not really. I mean, I had no idea you were bi, but it’s not that big of a deal, you know?” Jack chuckled. “If you say so.” “This isn’t the first guy?” Zoe asked, sounding curious but not uncomfortable. “Not the first,” Jack admitted. “There were a couple of guys in college.” “Experimentation?” “It was before I met your mom,” Jack said firmly, determined not to say more than that. Zoe shrugged. “Okay.” “Okay?” “What would you do if I said I was interested in girls?” Zoe asked shrewdly. Jack smirked. “I’d say that your mom would have a field day.” Zoe laughed. “Fair enough.” “Are you?” “No, not really,” Zoe replied. “I just—you know, wondered. I thought you were straight, is all.” “Not so much,” Jack admitted. “I fell in love with your mom, and I was in love with a couple of other women, but there were men, too.” “Good to know.” Zoe gave him a considering look. “But you’re really happy?” “Very,” Jack said emphatically. “Promise.” “Good enough for me,” Zoe announced. “I’m headed over to Pilar’s now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Jack raised his eyebrows. “That’s it?” “That’s it,” Zoe said cheerfully Jack had the sneaking suspicion that she wasn’t reacting just to throw him off-balance. “Don’t stay out too late.” Zoe grinned mischievously. “I’ll text you if I’m going to spend the night, but I promise that I won’t interrupt.” “Zoe…” “Trust me, Dad. You’re a lot happier when you’re getting laid. I’m not going to mess with that. See you later!” Zoe apparently had everything ready to go, because she grabbed her backpack and was out the door before Jack could come up with a reply. That was probably a good thing; he had no idea what he was supposed to say to that. “Are you staying in tonight, Sheriff?” SARAH asked. “Perhaps you should invite Dr. Stark over for a nightcap.” Jack winced. “Sure. I’ll ask.” He didn’t think he would. As much as he liked SARAH and appreciated everything the AI did, Jack didn’t like the idea that SARAH would play the voyeur. He could ask her not to watch, but there was no guarantee she wouldn’t. He called Nathan, unable to escape the sense that he was being watched. “Stark,” Nathan barked. “Your phone manners really leave a lot to be desired,” Jack commented. “Sheriff,” Stark drawled. “What can I do for you?” “The thing tonight went pretty well. SARAH suggested I ask you over for a nightcap.” “And you sound so thrilled with that suggestion.” “I’d like to see you,” Jack admitted. “But you don’t want any other company?” “Pretty much.” “Come on over, Jack,” Nathan replied. “I’ll open a bottle of wine.” Jack cleared his throat. “I have beer, too,” Nathan said, and Jack could hear the amusement in his voice. He’d be willing to bet that Nathan knew Jack would want beer, and that he’d bought the good stuff just for him, but wouldn’t admit it. “I’ll be there in ten.” Jack hung up, and then glanced at the ceiling. “Gotta go, SARAH.” “I understand,” SARAH replied. Jack suspected that SARAH was unhappy with him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was happier than he’d been for a long time, and he wasn’t about to risk giving it up—but Jack wasn’t willing to piss off his house more than necessary, either. “Thanks, SARAH.” ~~~~~ Nathan hadn’t dared to hope that their respective revelations would go as well as they did. He’d fully intended on working all evening; he’d even contemplated the possibility that Zoe’s reaction would be negative enough that Jack would try to call the whole thing off. The operative word there was try, of course. Nathan liked Jack far too much to let him run away. Nathan figured he’d just have to convince Zoe to give him a chance. Instead, both Allison and Zoe had reacted better than they might have expected, and Jack had actually let Nathan talk him into bed. Well, Jack hadn’t needed much convincing, but Nathan liked being the pursuer, rather than the other way around. And now, instead of spending his evening working, Nathan pushed into Jack’s body, feeling Jack press back into him. Nathan pressed his lips between Jack’s shoulder blades, moving into an easy rhythm. Jack grunted as Nathan hit his prostate. “Yeah. Just like that.” Speeding his thrusts, Nathan tightened his grip on Jack’s waist, hearing the lewd smack of skin on skin. “Almost,” Nathan warned. “Come on,” Jack chanted. “Come on, come on.” Nathan lost the rhythm as his orgasm overtook him, and he just barely managed to reach around. It didn’t take much and Jack was coming over his hand in messy spurts. They both collapsed onto the bed at the same time, Nathan’s arms still wrapped tightly around Jack. “You good?” Nathan asked. “Good,” Jack agreed. “Can you stay?” “I don’t think I can move,” Jack admitted. “SARAH will probably be pissed with me for not coming home tonight.” Nathan tightened his grip. “You going to be okay with that?” “I’ll have to leave early,” Jack warned him. “Wake me up before you go,” Nathan replied. Jack grunted an agreement, and Nathan just managed to clean them up with the cloth he’d left next to the bed before they both fell asleep. When Jack shook Nathan awake, the thin, gray light of early morning filtered through the curtains. “What time’s it?” Nathan slurred. “Early. Not quite 6. You said to wake you before I left.” “I did because I’m an idiot,” Nathan grumbled. “Lunch today?” “Give me a call when you’re free. If I can, I’ll meet you at Café Diem.” “’Kay.” Jack pressed a tender kiss to his forehead. “Go back to sleep, Nathan. I’ll see you soon.” Nathan drifted back to sleep, waking an hour later when his alarm went off. He hit the snooze button once, but three minutes into his five-minute window, his cell phone rang. Nathan groaned but answered. “Yeah.” “Uh, hey.” Nathan blinked. “Jack?” “Yeah. SARAH won’t let me into the bunker.” Nathan struggled to sit up, his sheets tangled around his legs. “What?” “SARAH is pissed off,” Jack began, “and she won’t let me in. The only other person who might be able to help is Fargo, and I wasn’t sure we were there yet.” Nathan winced. “Once Fargo knows…” “The whole town knows,” Jack supplied. “I’m aware. But if SARAH won’t listen to me, and I can’t call Fargo, you’re the next logical choice.” Nathan thought about it for a moment. “I’ll be there in 30 minutes,” he promised. Jack was standing next to the Jeep when Nathan arrived, his hands shoved in his pockets, looking rather disgruntled. “Hey. Sorry about this.” Nathan shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s see what I can do.” He led the way down the stairs to the entrance. “SARAH, it’s Nathan Stark,” he called. “I don’t want to talk to you.” Nathan exchanged a look with Jack. “SARAH, you need to let Jack inside.” “I’m not speaking to either of you. You’re ignoring me.” “We’re jealously guarding our privacy,” Nathan shot back. “Open the door.” “I don’t think you understand,” SARAH said. “I don’t need you, Sheriff, and I don’t need Dr. Stark.” Jack opened his mouth, and Nathan made an aborted gesture, cutting Jack off. “We understand that you’re upset, but we’d really like to talk to you without shouting at your intercom.” “I suppose I could allow you inside for a conversation.” Nathan hesitated when the door swung open. SARAH had capitulated too easily, and he didn’t trust her not to do something crazy. The smart house had locked them in before to pursue her own ends. Maybe she’d do it again. “Might as well,” Jack muttered. “What else are we going to do?” Nathan waved Jack in first. Jack rolled his eyes, but he walked in. After a brief pause, Nathan followed, unsurprised when the door clanged shut behind him. “SARAH!” Jack called. SARAH remained stubbornly silent. “Go get cleaned up, Jack,” Nathan said. “I’ll pull out the big guns if I have to.” Jack was climbing the stairs when SARAH asked suspiciously, “What are you planning to do, Dr. Stark?” “Nothing,” Nathan replied pleasantly “As long as you allow us to leave when the sheriff is ready to go. If you don’t, I’ll reprogram your base code.” SARAH didn’t respond, and Nathan decided to bide his time. He got comfortable on the couch, playing with his phone until Jack came downstairs in a clean uniform with his hair damp. “Okay,” Jack said. “You know, we’re already late. We could get breakfast at Café Diem.” “I could make breakfast for you, Sheriff,” SARAH offered. Nathan raised his eyebrows and shrugged, indicating his willingness to follow Jack’s lead. Jack shrugged. “Yeah, sure, SARAH. That would be great.” ~~~~~ After a leisurely breakfast with Nathan—where Jack felt he was under SARAH’s microscope—Jack almost believed he’d gotten off scot-free. Nathan was stuck at GD, so he was looking forward to an evening with Zoe, which hopefully included dinner, a beer, and whatever sports game was on. And then SARAH wouldn’t open the door. “Come on!” Jack shouted. “SARAH, let me in.” “You’re just going to ignore me again,” SARAH replied sullenly. Jack sighed. “SARAH, I’m home for the evening. I’m not going anywhere.” “You’ve been ignoring me for weeks.” “I wasn’t ignoring you!” Jack protested. “I’m dating Dr. Stark. I spend time with him. You can’t begrudge me that.” “It’s like you don’t want Dr. Stark and I to get to know each other,” SARAH said. Jack closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, it’s like we were trying to keep it a secret from everyone.” It hit Jack then. “Okay, SARAH, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I was dating Nathan. It was wrong to keep a secret from you.” “Dad?” Zoe walked up behind him. “Why are you standing out here?” “I don’t know,” Jack said, trying not to let too much of his frustration bleed through. “Ask SARAH.” “SARAH?” Zoe queried. “What’s going on?” “Nothing,” SARAH said. “Everything is fine.” The door swung open, and Jack’s eyes narrowed. He still didn’t think that this was over. “Want to hang out tonight?” Jack asked Zoe as she preceded him inside. “Where’s Dr. Stark?” Zoe asked. Jack shrugged. “He’s working late. I thought I’d hang out with my favorite kid—and my favorite house,” he added for good measure. Zoe gave him a skeptical look. “Uh huh. Nice try, Dad.” “I’m serious,” Jack protested. “On both counts. I haven’t been able to spend much time with you lately.” Zoe shrugged. “It’s cool, Dad, but I expect the same amount of understanding when I have a boyfriend.” Jack snorted. “We’ll see how much I like him.” At Zoe’s glare, Jack amended, “But I’ll try.” Zoe laughed. “I guess that’s as much as I can hope for.” Dinner went off without a hitch, although Jack suspected that SARAH was more interested in feeding Zoe than him. His suspicion was proven correct when he tried to go to bed. The operative word there—tried. Jack had no idea what SARAH was doing, but there was a constant high-pitched hum in his room that he couldn’t ignore no matter how much he wanted to. “SARAH, what is that noise?” Jack finally demanded. “I have no idea what you mean, Sheriff.” Jack scowled at the ceiling. “That noise. What the hell, SARAH?” “Cursing at me won’t help matters,” SARAH replied repressively. “Cut it out,” Jack said. “I don’t—” “If you don’t cut it out, I’m going to spend the night with Nathan,” Jack threatened. “And I’ll bring him back here tomorrow to change your programming.” “That threat will only work so often, Sheriff,” SARAH replied ominously. “As long as it works tonight,” Jack shot back. The noise abruptly stopped, and SARAH said, “Sleep well.” “Yeah,” Jack muttered. “I know. This isn’t over.” ~~~~~ Nathan sipped his wine as Jack leaned a little closer. “I think we need to spend more time at my place,” Jack said a little desperately. “Let me guess, SARAH is giving you problems,” Nathan replied, taking a bite of steak. “You have no idea,” Jack replied. “Do you know how much trouble your house can cause when she’s pissed off at you?” “And spending time there will help?” Nathan asked. “I thought you were worried about her voyeuristic tendencies.” “I am,” Jack replied. “But I’m more concerned about my inability to get any sleep, not to mention the fact that SARAH has figured out how to make sure that everything I eat is either burned or undercooked.” “You could just come to Café Diem.” “Which exacerbates the problem!” Jack exclaimed. “Dammit, Nathan. I’ve started syncing my schedule with Zoe’s, just so I can get in and out without any problem.” Nathan couldn’t help it. He snickered. “Jack, you’re talking about your house.” “My point exactly,” Jack said darkly. “Seriously, Nathan. When your house turns against you…” “I’ll grab an overnight bag, and we’ll spend the night at your place,” Nathan promised. Nathan prided himself on his timing, but he was off tonight. Vincent had been approaching from behind as he spoke, and Nathan saw Jack’s eyes widen just as Vincent said, “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Sheriff Carter?” Jack let out an audible sigh. “We’re trying to keep it quiet a little longer, Vince.” “Of course,” Vincent assured them. “Absolutely. My lips are sealed. Would you two like anything else?” “I think we’re good,” Nathan replied. As soon as Vincent had bustled away, Nathan asked, “How long do you think it’s going to take?” “Twenty-four hours, give or take,” Jack replied. “It won’t take long.” Nathan knew it probably wouldn’t even take that much time for the news to make the rounds. “You ready for this?” Jack grinned, although there was a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. “Hey, I’m not the one who’s slumming it.” “I think you might be surprised by who thinks who’s slumming,” Nathan shot back. “Ready?” Jack swallowed the rest of his beer. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.” Nathan was fairly certain that he heard whispers as they left, although he did his best to ignore the murmurs and looks. “My car?” Jack asked. Nathan sighed. “Might as well.” Fargo would have heard the news by the time he made it into the office the next morning, Nathan thought. Nathan would have to put up with the stares and the whispers and the rumors. And the hell of it was that most people would think that Jack had made a bad choice. “I didn’t realize you were coming home tonight,” SARAH said snidely as Jack entered. “You said I wasn’t spending enough time at home,” Jack replied peevishly. “So, we’re here. Is Zoe back yet?” SARAH didn’t respond immediately. Jack sighed and asked, “Are there any messages for me, SARAH?” Nathan got the feeling that this was an established routine. “Zoe said to tell you that she’d be home late because she has a study session with Pilar, and Allison called. She wants to see you at GD tomorrow.” “Great,” Jack replied. “Let her know I’ll be there.” “Of course, Sheriff.” “Was it just me, or was that a little chilly?” Nathan murmured against Jack’s ear. “Not just you,” Jack assured him. “If you’re okay with it, I think I’ll wait up for Zoe.” “Of course.” Nathan had been waiting for this moment. He’d known that he could have Jack to himself for only so long, and then Nathan would have to share Jack with Zoe, with SARAH, with the rest of the town. Nathan could hide out from the rest of the world, especially now that he was no longer head of GD, but Jack couldn’t. Jack would never have that option. Nathan didn’t know whether to be envious or irritated. He didn’t complain when Jack found a baseball game; Nathan pulled on his laptop and began working on a set of missile schematics that one of the scientists from level 4 had sent to him. Jack slumped back against the couch, half-leaning against Nathan’s side. The comfortable silence that fell between them actually made Nathan a little twitchy. The silence suggested an easiness in their relationship that Nathan didn’t feel ready to accept. And yet, the idea of losing what he had with Jack made Nathan panic a little, so he was just going to have to get past his issues. Zoe strolled in around 10 o’clock, and if she was surprised to see Nathan, she hid it well. “Hey, Dad,” she said. “Dr. Stark.” “Did you have a good time?” Jack asked. “We were studying for calculus,” Zoe replied. “So, not really.” Jack raised his eyebrows. “And did you get a lot done?” “That I can agree with.” Zoe gave Jack a look that Nathan couldn’t quite read. “I didn’t think I’d see you again tonight.” “We thought we’d hang out here tonight,” Jack replied. “If that’s okay.” “As long as I don’t hear anything, I think we’re good,” Zoe agreed. “’Night, Dad. ‘Night, Dr. Stark.” “Good night, Zoe,” they both said in unison. Zoe laughed. “Okay, that was creepy.” She took off before either of them could reply. “Does she really think we’re creepy?” Nathan asked. Jack chuckled. “Hard to say. You want to go to bed?” “I thought you’d never ask.” ~~~~~ Even though the alarm didn’t go off the next morning—making both of them incredibly late for work before they even woke up—Jack felt vindicated. He’d told Nathan that SARAH was out to get him, but he’d sensed that Nathan didn’t believe him. And since they had stayed up a little later than they probably should have been, Jack wasn’t terribly surprised when he awoke and the clock read 9:15. “Fuck,” Jack sighed, reaching over to shake Nathan awake. “We’re late, Nathan.” “Huh?” Nathan woke more slowly than Jack expected, suggesting that he hadn’t been getting enough sleep lately. “What time is it?” “It’s after nine,” Jack replied. “We’re late.” “Shit.” Nathan rubbed his face briskly. “I need to call Allison.” “And I need to call Jo,” Jack replied. “Also, I set my alarm for 7.” “Let’s get cleaned up and make our phone calls, then we’ll deal with it together,” Nathan replied. Jack wasn’t looking forward to explaining to Jo why he was late. As far as he knew, she had no idea that he was seeing anyone, let alone Nathan Stark. “Hey, Jo,” he said when she picked up. “Where are you?” Jo demanded. “I’ve been calling, but I couldn’t get through, and all SARAH would say is that you were sleeping in.” “Yeah, SARAH is a little upset with me,” Jack admitted. “My alarm didn’t go off this morning.” “Rough night? You don’t normally sleep in this late.” There was something in Jo’s voice that clued Jack into the fact that she knew something. He spoke in a rush, hoping to cut off his deputy’s anger. “I’m seeing Stark, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before you found out through the grapevine. We just told Zoe and Allison in the last couple of days, and you were next on the list, but the news leaked out before we could.” There was a long pause, and Jack braced himself for whatever Jo might say next. “Well,” Jo began, with a hint of mischief in her voice, “I always wondered when you two were finally going to whip them out and measure.” “Jo!” “It’s true,” Jo replied. “I’ve seen the two of you together.” Jack sighed. “I have to deal with SARAH, and I need to give Nathan a ride up to GD. Meet me for lunch?” “Sure thing, Carter,” Jo replied cheerfully. “Enjoy the morning off.” Jack snorted. “We’re going to try to convince SARAH to lay off. I’ll let you know how it goes.” When he hung up the phone, he found Nathan staring at him. “What?” “What did Jo say?” “You don’t want to know,” Jack insisted. “Oh, I really think I do.” “Would you like to get out a ruler?” Jack shot back. Nathan flushed, which pretty much never happened. “You’re joking.” “I only wish I were,” Jack said glumly. “I’m pretty sure that Jo is never going to let that go.” Nathan chucked. “I knew I liked your deputy.” “As long as she doesn’t ask you what the results were,” Jack replied. “Can you stay long enough to get this sorted out?” “Allison told me to take the morning, and whatever time I needed besides.” Nathan lounged on Jack’s bed in only a pair of boxers, the long, lean lines of his body getting Jack a little horny. “And she wants to see you ASAP.” Jack sat down on the edge of the bed next to Nathan. “Right. SARAH! You want to explain why you didn’t wake us up at 7?” “Did I forget to give you your wakeup call?” SARAH asked sweetly. Nathan covered his mouth to hide his smirk. Jack shot him a dirty look. “Don’t give me that act, SARAH. Did Zoe get off to school okay?” “Of course, Sheriff,” SARAH replied. “I would never do anything to hinder Zoe’s academic achievement.” Jack let out a sound of pure frustration. “SARAH, I swear I’m going to—” Nathan put a hand over Jack’s mouth. “What do you want, SARAH?” “I don’t know what you mean,” SARAH said stiffly. Jack pulled Nathan’s hand away. “He means, what is it going to take to make it up to you?” There was a long pause, and Jack wondered if he was going to regret going the diplomatic route. He supposed he could always have Nathan reprogram her, but it would feel just a little bit like murder. “I think we could work something out,” SARAH admitted. Jack had negotiated hostage releases a couple of times during his career with the marshals, and he’d gone through mediation with Abby during the divorce; he’d bargained with Zoe for nights out, among other things. Negotiating with SARAH was a whole different ballgame, although they eventually reached an accord. SARAH promised that she’d stop conveniently forgetting wakeup calls, emitting strange noises, and burning Jack’s supper, as long as Jack spent a minimum of four nights at home every week. SARAH also promised that she would not monitor or otherwise record activities that took place inside Jack’s bedroom. Jack could live with the arrangement, assuming that Nathan didn’t mind spending more time with Zoe and SARAH. “Will you be eating here tonight, Sheriff?” SARAH asked, while Jack and Nathan prepared to leave. “I’ll call you and let you know,” Jack promised. He waited until they were out the door and in his car before asking, “You don’t mind, do you?” “Mind what?” Nathan asked absently, focusing on his cell phone. “Spending more time with Zoe and SARAH.” “Zoe’s your daughter, Jack. As much as I enjoyed having you to myself, I knew I’d eventually have to share.” “Which is why you weren’t keen on the idea of telling people about us.” “That would be why,” Nathan replied evenly, but then he smiled at Jack. “But yeah, I’m okay with it.” Jack took a deep breath. “Good. Do you have any idea why Allison asked to see me?” Nathan’s fingers paused as he texted. “You do,” Jack insisted. Nathan shifted in his seat. “I do, but I think it would be better if you heard it from her.” Jack frowned, not liking Nathan’s tone of voice. “What’s going on?” Nathan’s expression was inscrutable. “Just remember that this was about more than just me, and what I wanted, Jack.” ~~~~~ All activity stopped when Nathan walked into GD. He caught the stares and whispers as he and Jack crossed the lobby. “Well, won’t this be fun,” Jack muttered from behind him. “We could give them a show,” Nathan suggested. Jack snorted. “It would be fun,” Nathan insisted. “Not saying it wouldn’t,” Jack replied. “But maybe we can wait until after this meeting with Allison.” Nathan wasn’t entirely certain that Jack would want to put on any kind of show after they were done with Allison. Fargo sat at his desk outside of Allison’s office, and as they approached, he fumbled his pen and dropped a sheaf of papers on the floor. “Something wrong, Fargo?” Nathan asked. Fargo blushed and dove under his desk for the pen and the papers. “I take it the news has already reached him,” Jack said, the grin on his face suggesting that he enjoyed torturing Fargo as much as Nathan did. “You got something to say, Fargo?” “No, I’m fine!” Fargo said from under the desk. “You sure?” Jack asked. “Because we’d be happy to help you out.” Jack sent a grin Nathan’s way. “We could give you a personal demonstration.” Fargo yelped as he hit his head against the desk when he tried to stand too quickly. “A personal demonstration in how to hold a pen,” Jack amended. As much as Nathan was enjoying this whole thing, he wanted to get this meeting over with so he could deal with the potential fallout. He kept telling himself that Jack wouldn’t ditch him just because Nathan had continued working with Allison on the project with Kevin and the Artifact. What they had was too important to just discard, no matter how angry Jack might be that they’d gone behind Jack’s back. Allison stuck her head out of her office, interrupting Nathan’s train of thought and Jack’s teasing. “You guys want to come in and stop torturing Fargo?” Jack grinned crookedly. “Not really, but sure.” Nathan slouched in one of the chairs in front of Allison’s desk, unable to stifle the sense of dread. Allison cleared her throat. “We needed to fill you in on some recent developments, Carter.” As Allison began talking about Kevin and his connection to the Artifact—and their ongoing efforts to understand that connection—Nathan watched the play of emotions across Jack’s face, watched Jack’s blue eyes darken with anger, the way Jack’s fists clenched against his thighs. Nathan knew that he’d likely lost Jack when he rose and crossed the office to the window, turning his back to them. Allison’s voice faltered, and she gave Nathan a pleading look. Nathan had no idea what to say, though. He had no idea how to make things right. ~~~~~ Jack remembered what Nathan had said as Allison explained that she and Nathan had continued their research. This situation was about more than just Nathan, and his tendency to keep secrets, Jack thought. This was also about Kevin, and the danger he might be in due to his connection with the Artifact. But as Allison spoke, Jack’s anger rose. He’d already known that Nathan and Allison had placed the entire town in jeopardy in order to discover what was wrong with Kevin, but this was different. This was Allison and Nathan not telling him that they had continued that research, that they had ignored his concerns. They had shut him out, and that was the worst part. Jack rose from his seat and walked over to the window, turning his back to them. Allison trailed off. “Carter…” “Don’t,” he said sharply. “I understand why you didn’t tell me that you continued your research, but you put a lot of lives in jeopardy, and you said you’d stopped.” “That wasn’t our intention, Carter,” Allison said. “We’re being careful.” “I know your intentions are good,” Jack snapped. “You think I don’t care about Kevin? You think I won’t do whatever it takes to protect him? But you kept going with this research even after… “ He trailed off, too angry to complete the thought. “Dammit.” Nathan crossed the room to stand next to him. “Jack—” “Not right now.” Jack moved away from him. “You hid this from me, Nathan. You and Allison. I need some time to get my head around that. I’ve got to meet Jo for lunch anyway.” “Jack.” The desperation in Nathan’s voice had him turning in the doorway. “I am sorry.” “Yeah, okay,” Jack replied, unable to say anything else. Café Diem was bustling when he walked in, and he spotted Jo at the bar talking to Vincent. Jack slid onto the empty seat next to her. “Can I get a cup of coffee, Vince?” “Of course, Sheriff,” Vincent replied. “Anything for lunch?” “I’ll have my usual,” Jack replied. Jo leaned towards him when Vincent bustled off. “Something wrong? Did things with SARAH not go well?” “No, that went fine. We came to a mutual understanding.” “But?” Jo prompted. “But nothing,” Jack said sourly. “I’m just getting sick and tired of the secrets around here.” “Did you have a fight with Stark?” Jo asked, sounding almost sympathetic. Jack shrugged. “Something like that.” “Carter—” “Can we talk about something else?” Jo patted him on the arm. “Sure. We got a call from the Baker twins this morning.” Jack focused on work, trying to ignore his hurt feelings. He did understand why Allison and Nathan had continued their research into Kevin’s connection with the Artifact, and he probably wouldn’t have been so hurt if his relationship with Nathan had been just sex. But it hadn’t been just sex, and he and Nathan had delved deep into their private lives. Jack had thought they were beyond keeping secrets of this nature from one another. Jack threw himself into his work and insisted that Jo go home around five. Once Jo was gone, Jack called SARAH as promised. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to make it home for dinner.” “Will you be spending the evening with Dr. Stark?” SARAH asked. “No, I’m going to be at work to make up for missing time this morning,” Jack replied. “I’ll be home late, but I’ll be there.” “Is everything all right, Sheriff?” “Sure,” Jack replied, hoping that the cheer in his voice didn’t sound too false. “Just fine.” As much as Jack hated paperwork, he was just as happy to lose himself in mundane forms. He’d cleared half the backlog by the time the station door opened; Jack wasn’t all that surprised to see Nathan enter. “Hey.” Nathan sounded uncharacteristically hesitant, but Jack didn’t look up. “Hi.” Nathan slid into the seat across from the desk. “So, you’re still angry.” “Wouldn’t you be?” Jack asked, finally meeting Nathan’s eyes. Nathan looked away. “Yes, I would be. Secrets are a way of life for me, Jack, and I was trying to protect Kevin. I may not be with Allison any longer, but I still feel as though he’s my son.” “And I get that, I do,” Jack insisted. “I just—I don’t like being left out of the loop, especially after what happened with the dream sharing.” Nathan moved around the desk, kneeling on the floor next to Jack’s chair. “What can I do to make it up to you?” “Just don’t do it again,” Jack sighed. “No more secrets, Nathan.” “I can’t make that promise,” Nathan replied, his hands gripping Jack’s thighs. “There will be times when I have no choice but to keep a secret.” There was a part of Jack that wanted to end things right there. He didn’t like being lied to, and he didn’t like being left out of the loop, especially when it was Allison and Nathan leaving him out. It just reminded Jack that he’d been a third wheel, and that Nathan could decide at any time that he didn’t want Jack, that he wanted Allison instead. But Jack couldn’t give Nathan up. He couldn’t let this go. “Don’t keep something like this from me again,” Jack ordered. “I’ll do my best,” Nathan promised. “Jack, this thing we’ve got between us—it’s not what I expected, but I don’t want to give it up. I want to make this work.” Jack took a deep breath. “Me, too.” “So, are we good?” Nathan asked, and Jack caught the underlying anxiety in his voice. Jack put his hands over Nathan’s. “Yeah, I guess we are. I’ve still got some paperwork to finish up. I should finish it.” “Mind if I stick around?” he asked. Jack smiled. “No, I guess not. SARAH’s expecting me at home later.” “Then I guess I’ll just spend the night at your place, if that’s all right,” Nathan said. “I’ve got an overnight bag in my trunk.” “That’s a little presumptuous, don’t you think?” Jack teased, feeling a little tentative. “I had a few ideas for how to convince you to forgive me,” Nathan admitted. “I’d be happy to give you a sneak preview.” “Not while I’m on the clock,” Jack replied. “But I’d be happy to hear all your ideas later.” “It works better if I show you.” Nathan squeezed Jack’s legs and then rose. “I’m going to grab my laptop.” Jack got to his feet and pulled Nathan in for a gentle kiss. “Sounds like a plan.” “I always have a plan, Sheriff,” Nathan murmured, his thumb ghosting over Jack’s cheekbone. “So, if I’d said no?” Jack asked. “Then I guess I would have had to convince you otherwise.” Nathan’s lips brushed against his. “Thanks.” Jack nodded and sat back down, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He really did have paperwork to finish, and he had hours to make up, although he was looking forward to seeing what Nathan had up his sleeve. This was, he supposed, part of being in an actual relationship, instead of just sneaking around. The rest of the world intruded far too often. Good thing he was dating the smartest man in Eureka; Nathan had a plan for everything. ~~~~~ Nathan hadn’t liked the rising panic he’d felt all afternoon, while he waited for some sign from Jack that it wasn’t all over. By the time the clock turned to 6 pm, Nathan was tired of waiting. He was ready to make his own move, to beard the lion in its den, so to speak. He packed an overnight bag, just in case Jack let this whole thing go—or Jack needed more convincing, which was also possible. In fact, when Nathan knelt in front of Jack, he was ready to offer a blowjob right there, in the hope of making this right. He was a little disappointed when Jack insisted that he couldn’t do anything while on duty, although he wasn’t surprised. Instead, Nathan spent his time going over the data from one of his current experiments, allowing Jack to get his paperwork done. Nathan didn’t miss the frequent glances that Jack sent his way, even though he didn’t let on that he knew about Jack’s distraction. When Jack tossed the last file in his out box, Nathan straightened in his chair. “You ready to go?” “I don’t think I’m going to be up for much more than sleeping,” Jack said. “I’m pretty beat.” “Then we’ll sleep,” Nathan said. “I’d like to wake up with you tomorrow.” Jack gave him a hard look. “Seriously?” “Seriously.” Nathan suspected that Jack was testing his resolve, but Jack didn’t have the first idea of how far Nathan would go in the pursuit of something he wanted. Nathan hadn’t known how much he wanted Jack until the moment he walked out of Allison’s office that morning with a “Yeah, sure.” He followed Jack to his Jeep, tossing his overnight bag and laptop case into the backseat before climbing into the passenger seat. Jack glanced at Nathan with a look he couldn’t read, but he started up the car and began driving to the bunker without further comment. “Zoe should be home tonight,” Jack offered. “That’s fine,” Nathan replied evenly. Jack raised an eyebrow. “Okay.” Zoe was still working on her homework at the table when they entered, and Jack greeted her immediately. “Hey, you doing okay?” “I’m stuck on my advanced physics,” Zoe admitted. “I don’t think I’m ever going to understand this.” Nathan could take a cue like that. “Let’s see what you’re working on.” Zoe’s physics homework—while advanced—was still child’s play for Nathan. While he helped Zoe, Nathan kept one ear open for Jack. Jack moved around the kitchen, asking Nathan at one point whether he’d eaten dinner. “Not yet,” Nathan admitted. Jack shook his head, but he made two sandwiches and set one down in front of Nathan, who tucked with relish. By the time Nathan finished his meal, he also had Zoe sorted out, and she was dashing through the problems. “Thanks, Dr. Stark!” she said as she put her books away. “I think I’ve got it now.” She wandered upstairs, leaving Jack and Nathan alone in the living room. “So, you still want to just sleep?” Jack asked. “That’s entirely up to you,” Nathan replied. Jack gave him a considering look. “Come on upstairs. We’ll figure it out when we get there.” Nathan followed Jack to his bedroom, dropping his overnight bag on the floor next to the bed. He waited for the all clear, for Jack’s signal that he was open to more than just sleeping. Jack stared at him for a long moment before saying, “Okay, then. Convince me.” Nathan didn’t need another invitation. He fell to his knees in front of Jack and unbuckled him. Jack was already half-hard by the time Nathan pulled his pants and underwear down, and Nathan grabbed Jack’s ass to keep him upright. They’d done a lot, but Nathan had never given Jack a blowjob. It felt more intimate than most sex acts, and Nathan didn’t have a lot of experience, but he was good at extrapolating data. Nathan knew that felt good on the receiving end; he used every bit of that knowledge to drive Jack wild now. Nathan had never realized it before, but there was a certain amount of restrained power about being on this end of oral sex. He could drive Jack crazy with his mouth alone, but he could put an end to Jack’s pleasure, too. One injudicious nip would curb Jack’s arousal easily—but Nathan didn’t want that. He wanted drive Jack to distraction, to make him come, to make Jack lose all inhibitions. “Nathan,” Jack managed to say in quiet warning. “Nathan.” Nathan sucked harder in response, feeling Jack’s hips jerk as he sucked Jack off. He managed to swallow without gagging or otherwise showing his discomfort, and Jack ran both hands through Nathan’s hair. “Shit,” Jack managed. Nathan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sit down before you fall down,” he advised. Jack did as he was told, stumbling to the bed on legs that were clearly shaky. “Yeah. Give me a minute.” “No,” Nathan insisted. “I owed you.” Jack just managed to raise his head enough to peer at Nathan. “You don’t owe me anything. I’d have done the same thing if it had been Zoe.” “So, if it’s ever Zoe, I’ll take it out in kind,” Nathan returned. “Give me this one, Jack.” Jack stared at him for a very long minute before collapsing back onto the bed. “Fine. I’ll give you this one, at least until tomorrow.” Nathan smiled and manhandled Jack under the covers. “Good. I’ll look forward to it.” Jack shook his head, but he grinned. “Yeah, okay.” Nathan climbed into bed behind Jack, throwing an arm over Jack’s waist. “Go to sleep.” “Think I might be able to,” Jack mumbled. Nathan had to strain to hear since Jack’s words were indistinct. Nathan pressed a kiss to the back of Jack’s neck and breathed in Jack’s scent. For now, Nathan had Jack, and that was all he needed.

Multiplicity. Previously published in Chevron One Encoded with minor changes. Another day at the office. This particular day, the office was P3F872, one of the lovely unknown gates he's somehow managed to input while under the influence of the Ancients. Maybe, if they got real lucky, there'd be something on this one the Goa'uld hadn't met yet, something they could make friends with, something that could kick some royal snakehead butt. He could hope. Colonel Jack O'Neill stared up at the event horizon, AKA the whooshie, and swallowed the nerves nobody else on Cheyenne Mountain knew he felt. Well, maybe one body. The only other body who really knew him. He smiled, slipped on his sunglasses, and stepped through the gate, the mental image of the one he loved held safe in the back of his mind, warming him for the cold journey through the wormhole. We'll be back, babe, and the post-mission sex will blow us both away, he grinned to himself. Aloud, he merely growled, "Move it out!" Disorientation. Disintegration. Suffocation. Cessation of reality. All the usual stuff. A spike of pain ripping through his head, his skull trying to escape his skin, his spine threatening to snap and curl up into a little ball under the tension. Not the usual stuff. He stumbled and rolled as he came through the other side, also not usual. Tumbling down the steps, he stared up at the gate for a bare moment through eyes blurry with pain-tears. It had the weirdest glow. Before Jack had the chance to do more than mutter a single "cool," the ground less than a meter from his head exploded, impacted by a bolt of orange fire. He rolled in the opposite direction and screamed at his team to scatter, as death gliders swooped down on them from the sky the MALP had only moments before declared threat-free. Scrabbling for cover, he tasted dirt, blood from a bitten lip, and sweat. He didn't see a fucking thing but incoming fire. NO! The mental scream shook him to the core. His eyes scanned the trees. The rocks. The bush. For his team. For Sam. For Daniel. Ignoring the brutal headache tying his brain stem into a knot, the commander of SG-1 began to move. Jack fell back into the bush, keeping his head down and his ass covered as concussions from the surface-to-air blasts scorched the ground not far from him. He rolled over and felt his heart jump clear past his throat and up into his ears before he recognized the warm body he'd fetched up against. "God, Jackson, give a guy a little warning, why don't you-" He couldn't finish the minor bitch session, because Daniel Jackson, team dweeb and resident pain in the ass, did the unthinkable. A thoroughly relieved look on his face, he reached over, grabbed Jack by the face, pulled him forward, and stuffed his tongue halfway down Jack's throat. Jack's stomach turned, and for an instant he was so shocked he sat there and let Jackson french him. Then anger, hot and mindless, welled up in him. He peeled one hand away from his M16, grabbed Daniel by the back of the head and pulled the crazy bastard off him. "Jack?" Complete incomprehension written across Jackson's face. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Jack spat in disgust. Not giving Jackson the chance to explain, if such a perverted attack could have any kind of explanation, Jack used his handhold on Jackson's hair to toss the other man as far away from him as he could manage. Wiping his mouth, he watched Jackson roll deeper into the bush, coming to a landing in a pool of sludge at the base of the rise. Served him fucking right. Assaulting a man like that. Crazy bastard. The crackle of automatic fire brought his attention back to the Goa'uld attack. Jackson he'd sort out later. Although if he did that again, Jack was going to give the son of a bitch to the snakeheads. Jack rolled from the steps of the Gate, firing from the hip as he scrambled behind some nearby rocks for cover. From where he was pinned, he couldn't see much. Moving carefully, darting from rock to rock, he found himself overlooking a deep ravine. He was about to climb down when he saw motion. Flinging himself silently to the side, he peered around his covering rock. What he saw froze him in place. Daniel. And Teal'c. They were lying scrunched together behind a stand of rocks, out of sight from the squad of guards tromping along on the way to a big mother of a ship on the plain beyond. It wasn't the guards that rooted Jack's feet to the ground and made him feel like his belly had turned to lead. Teal'c was lying half over Daniel, shielding him. Covering him. Kissing him. Daniel was holding on to the Jaffa for dear life. Kissing him back. How? Why? How long had this been going on? How long had he been sharing Daniel with Teal'c? Why hadn't he been enough? Melting back into the rocks, Jack slid down in the shadows, arms curled around his middle, rifle angled up in case he'd need it. He hoped he wouldn't need it any time soon. Shock really fucked up his aim. Jack made a sharp left and headed for the tree-line. Maybe he'd get lucky, and they'd find some Tok'ra tunnels. Hey, it had happened before. Just because lightning seldom struck twice didn't mean tunnel-burrowing crystals couldn't be more common than one might think. Somewhat comforted by yet another mangled metaphor, he clamped down on his wayward sense of humor and threw himself into the dense growth of trees. Peeking over a handy tree limb, he inched along the stand of trees, eyes searching restlessly for any signs of his team. Coming around a particularly large tree, his rifle swung up instinctively as a body came into view. Relief swept over him, and he lowered the rifle immediately. "Sam!" he half-cried, half-hissed, mindful of the danger but so relieved he couldn't stay completely quiet. Reaching out with his free hand, he gathered his wife to him and kissed her thoroughly, celebrating her safety the best way he knew how. The world exploded in sparkles behind his eyes, and after the remains of the world stopped spinning he pried his eyes open to see a white-faced, wild-eyed Samantha staring down at him, her rifle aimed at his belly button. "I don't know what the hell you're trying to pull, Colonel, but do that one more time and I won't bother to report you to the General. I'll shoot you where you lay." Before he could get his jaw back into working order enough to ask her how bad the blow to her head had been, the trees around them splintered from death glider weapon fire. Jack rolled one way. Sam dove the other. They could figure out where the pods were later. Right now there was a war on. It took awhile for the shakes to calm down, but Jack had been thrown curves before, and knew how to ignore all the extraneous shit until after the firing stop. Extraneous shit like, oh, his lover and his best friend making out in the rocks when there was a battle on. Or any other time, for that matter. Gritting his teeth and yelling at himself to get over it and get on with it, Jack slid out of the shadows and down into the ravine. Teal'c swung his staff over to cover him, then immediately drew it back when he saw who it was. "Colonel O'Neill," he whispered. Jack just nodded. Daniel smiled at him, that half-nervous tic the kid got when all hell was breaking loose. One of the things Jack loved the most about Daniel was his balls. Literally and figuratively speaking. "Shit," Jack ground out, then nodded curtly at both team members. "Any sign of Captain Carter?" he managed to ask, pushing it past the raw spot in his throat that was threatening to make it impossible to speak. "Right here, Colonel, and what's this Carter stuff? Early Alzheimer's setting in?" Sam's voice was breathless with effort, but determinedly cheerful. Jack turned to see her scrabbling down from a different clump of rocks, close at hand. He opened his mouth to ask her what on earth she was talking about, when she reached up and kissed him. His first instinct was to put her behind him so Daniel wouldn't punch her. Or him. His second instinct was to throw up his hands and plead ignorance. Which was more than Daniel could claim, the way he'd been slurping all over Teal'c. Happily, he followed his third instinct, the one that was foremost when Sam unsealed her mouth from his and let him get a word out. He kept his mouth shut. Sam grinned over at him and waved her hand under his nose. The hand with a bright, shiny, wide gold band on it. A gold band that hadn't been there when they'd left Earth not twenty minutes ago. A wedding band that, judging by Sam's actions, had his name all over it. Very happily, the Goa'uld starting firing again before he had to try to figure out how the hell he'd managed to lose a lover and gain a wife all in the same half hour, in the middle of running for his life from a bunch of snakeheads. It was going to be one hell of a day. It didn't get any better. Jack avoided close proximity with Sam for the rest of the afternoon, a task made much easier by the cat and mouse hunt the SG-1 team was playing with the Goa'uld Jaffa. None of his people was seriously injured, several Goa'uld guard were taken out of the picture, and nobody had time to kiss anybody. Under the circumstances, this was a good thing. Nightfall found them about eight klicks from the Gate, at a stalemate with the Goa'uld, back in a really dark cave with a very small fire. Jack settled down, staring at the flames, wondering what rabbit hole he'd fallen down and who had the bottle with the note in it to get him back to Kansas. Sam settled down next to him, and put her hand on his thigh. He couldn't help himself. He looked over at Daniel. Who was looking at Teal'c. An invisible knife, and a dull fucker at that, gutted him. He couldn't move, even to shake off Sam's intrusive hand, much less grab Daniel by the shoulders and shake some sense back into him. He swallowed, trying to get enough spit worked up to say something, even though he didn't have a clue what it was he should be saying. While he was trying to figure it out, Teal'c got up. Not looking directly at anyone else, he announced, "I will reconnoiter the surrounding caves." Jack nodded, still not able to think of anything to say. Sam didn't move. Daniel stared at the fire. Jack concentrated on breathing. The theme from the Twilight Zone played in his head. A few minutes, or several years, later, Daniel hoisted himself up. "Think I'll go get some air." Jack opened his mouth, and Daniel hurried on, grinning down at him. "I won't leave the caves, and I'll be careful." He loped off. Jack stared after him. Sam's finger came up under his chin and shut his mouth for him. "What say we get a little shut-eye?" she asked. A reasonable enough suggestion, he figured, except that her tone of voice and body language made it real clear what she actually was saying was 'drop trou, flyboy, I'm gonna screw you silly.' Jack panicked. "Perimeter check," he blurted out, then fled from the cave to the relative safety of the darkness outside. What the hell was going on with Sam? And Teal'c? With Daniel, for crying out loud? Decades of ingrained military experience kicked in, and he faded back into the maze of caves, seeking cover even as his brain cranked into overdrive on the tangled knot his personal life had somehow become. He wandered the caves for nearly an hour, automatically checking for hostiles, escape routes, weak spots, natural hazards. It would truly suck to escape the snakeheads only to get eaten by this world's equivalent of a bear. A soft moaning sound caught his attention, and he flattened himself against the wall of the rock corridor. Listening as hard as he could, he identified other sounds, strange sounds under the circumstances. Harsh breathing, groaning, shifting sand, skin and wet and light pounding. It sounded a hell of a lot like somebody was jacking off. Slinking around the corner, staying well into the shadows, his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open again. Somebody was jacking off. And doing one damned fine job of it. Daniel. His Daniel, naked as a jaybird, sweat glistening off him. There was a small fire lit beyond him in the cave, throwing the creamy skin into relief, showing off the muscles of his chest, his arm, his thighs. He was sprawled on his back, leaning against a smooth boulder, his head thrown back. His right arm was moving rhythmically, his hand sliding over the wet skin of his cock, pinkish purple in the grip of those long fingers. His left hand roamed his chest, plucking at his nipples, standing out at attention, just a few shades lighter than his leaking cock. Jack nearly groaned himself. He licked his lips, tasting in memory the wetness glistening off Daniel's knuckles, the salt of the sweat trickling over Daniel's balls down between his thighs, the trail of moisture running from the straining muscles of his throat down the center of his chest to the sweat-slick hair at the base of his cock. Jack's hands twitched, feeling soft skin and firm muscle, fine bones and thick hair. Daniel's mouth was open, the tip of his tongue wetting his lips, easing the parching his panting was causing. Jack wanted to suck that tongue into his own mouth. Pet the long muscles of Daniel's back and butt, hold him close and rock against him. Bite the side of his throat. Lick it better. Kiss him until neither one of them could breathe. Come all over him and rub it into that fine-grained skin. Climax caught Jack by surprise, and from the glazed look in those wide blue eyes, Daniel wasn't much better prepared for his own. The long pale body convulsed, strong shoulders shuddering, his head thrashing against the rock behind him. At least he had sense enough to come quietly, given that he was doing all this in the middle of a combat zone. With no clear plan in mind, driven by the need to touch Daniel, Jack started forward. Then stopped as if he'd hit a brick wall. A brick wall called Teal'c. A large, dark hand had reached out from the shadowed side of the cave, hidden from Jack's sight. A broad palm curved over Daniel's where it rested now, gently petting his cock, calming himself. Then Teal'c leaned forward, coming completely into Jack's field of vision, and he nuzzled Daniel's crotch, tongue flicking out to clean Daniel's semen from where it had splattered. After the skin along Daniel's thighs and stomach was thoroughly licked, Teal'c brought Daniel's hand up to his mouth, cleaning the fingers Daniel had used to bring himself off. One finger at a time. Jack thought, for just an instant, that he would gladly shoot both of them. Ending his clean-up job with a kiss to the center of Daniel's palm, Teal'c pulled him close, murmuring something too softly for Jack to hear. Not that he needed to. It was pretty damned plain. These were not his people. That was not his Daniel. He sure as hell wasn't married to Sam. And as for Teal'c ... nope. Not the Jaffa he knew. Somehow, some way, he'd managed to land in an alternate reality. Now he just had to figure out how the hell to get home. Without his 'wife.' Back to his love. Tuck. Roll. Fire. Duck. Back into the shadows. The bush didn't offer a hell of a lot of cover, but as night fell and the illumination from the Goa'uld version of mortars got spottier, Jack was able to keep both himself and Jackson alive. The fires sparked by the missiles drove the men deeper into the bush, not allowing them rest, and Jack couldn't find it in himself to mind. Exhaustion and battle fatigue he could deal with. Having Doctor Jackson morph from a deeply grieving widower to somebody who enthusiastically kissed guys was a little too twisted to think about. Wasn't just that he didn't like guys touching him like that. Wasn't even the shock -- far as he knew, Jackson was straight, and was very much attached to his missing wife Sha'uri. He'd seen strange things happen to men in wartime. Strange things had even happened to him. Aim. Fire. Scuttle. Point. Fire. When he was dodging and shooting, he wasn't remembering. And that was just fucking fine with him. Too busy staying alive to remember the way Jackson had touched him. Too busy diving and weaving to remember that his body hadn't shied away. The way it was supposed to. When Jackson had touched him. Too busy ducking and running to remember the way other men had touched him. Dark men with dark eyes, in a hot sandy place, suffocating darkness. Hard hands. Hard laughter. You didn't want to be seen as weak in prison. Especially in an Iraqi prison. Where the guards had a taste for white meat. He shook the memories off, all of them, and rolled. Fired. Ran. Daybreak brought a lull in the fighting, and he found himself deep in the bush. Jackson was nowhere to be found, and his aversion to recent events warred with his need, as a commanding officer, to take care of his men. All of his men. A sound further into the bush drew his attention and he melted into the undergrowth. Shortly into deeper cover, he stopped. There was a break in the brush. Trained eyes mapped out the terrain, searching for threat, egress and ingress, Goa'uld, Jaffa. What he actually saw was Jackson. The man was hopeless in a military situation. He'd stripped down to his skin and was splashing in a small pool, washing filth from himself. Muck Jack had been responsible for, pushing the bastard off him. Past slammed into present with the force of an out-of-control freight train. The sun shifted in his mind's eye, and he wasn't on an alien world under an alien sky. He was in an alien world right there on Earth. The sun burned him, and the scrub gave him no shelter. His mind rebelled when his body couldn't, and this time he had a weapon. This time when he said no they would goddamned well listen. His rifle was raised and he was squinting through the sight before he thought about it. The target shifted, blurred, settled into recognizable lines. Too recognizable. Too pale. Too big. Too ... too ... Daniel. His finger froze on the trigger. His thoughts turned in on themselves, present stomping on the past, caught up in the differences and finally getting past the similarities. Jackson hadn't raped him. Jackson had simply lost his marbles for a little bit and smooched him. Not usually a transgression punishable by death. Just really, really stupid. He began to lower the rifle when a flash of light, almost imperceptible, caught his attention. He swung the barrel to the side, sighting the new threat, and shivered. Captain Carter was staring at him from the far side of the clearing, her own rifle trained on him, as his had been trained on Jackson. Horror and rage made a death's mask of her face. All of it directed at him. But no disbelief. Did she really think he would kill one of his own men? Even one who did that to him? Jack lost sight of her face as she brought her weapon up. Holy Hannah. She meant it. He tucked and rolled, just in time, as it turned out. Not from Carter. From the Goa'uld. Cease-fire over. Must have had their coffee, or whatever the hell it was snakeheads used to crank up in the morning. Back to war they went. Oddly enough, Jack only felt relieved. Jack took a breather for a bare moment, ducking behind a huge old tree and trying to stay as small as possible so the damned death gliders would give him a break. At least long enough to figure out what the hell was going on. He stared down at his wedding ring, wondering what had happened to Sam, why she was acting so damned weird. Grateful for a few minutes of quiet to try to think, he wondered where Daniel and Teal'c had gotten to, and spared a prayer to a God he'd stopped believing in somewhere between Charlie and Iraq that the two men were safe. If they had to die in this shithole of an alien world, at least one couple would die together. Shaking off the morbid thoughts, his natural pragmatism reasserted itself. He stopped thinking about love and went back to concentrating on war. Dawn was breaking through the trees, and with the light the air attack intensified. He was feeling his way around the huge tree and infiltrating further into the forest when a flash of light caught his eye. Sam's hair, glinting in a stripe of sunlight between the trees. She looked like she was following someone. Jack checked his clip, crammed his hat further onto his head, and followed her. The rocks had given way to a relatively thick forest, and Jack allowed himself the first sigh of relief he'd managed since Sam tossed herself at him and kissed him. He was taking point, with Teal'c and Daniel, odd couple that they were, in the cradle, and Sam as far away as Jack could get her, bringing up the rear. Even thought they weren't his team, they were a team, and as their CO he was responsible for them. He had to concentrate on that right now. It was all he could concentrate on. Everything else confused him too much, and hurt, although he was trying real hard not to think about that. Pushing his way through a barrier of tree limbs, he was startled to come face to face with Sam. He dropped his rifle, brought up automatically, and started to ask her how the hell she'd gotten in front of him. She pointed her .38 at him and fired. He was so shocked he couldn't move. Thankfully, someone else could. Daniel flew out of nowhere and knocked Jack on his ass, grunting with pain from more than the impact. Jack reached out instinctively, his hand catching in wet hair, his other arm wrapping around Daniel and pulling him as far away from Crazy Sam as possible. When had Daniel gotten wet? The slickness of warm blood on his hand at Daniel's waist stopped him cold. "Daniel!" Sam's voice. Her hands, scrabbling at Daniel, trying to pull the wounded man away from Jack. Jack didn't know if the crazy bitch was doing it so she could get a better shot at him, or so she could kill both of them, but he wasn't about to let her have Daniel now that he finally had the man back in his arms where he belonged. "Back off, Carter!" he barked, twenty years of command behind it. "He's wounded! BACK OFF!" She didn't. He took a breath and prepared to kick her away before she did even more damage to Daniel. "Colonel?!" "Jack?!" "Ouch." "Colonel O'Neill!" "D-d-daniel??" "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god ..." It took Jack a few seconds to realize the obvious. The doppelgangers making up his team had caught up with them. There were two Sams. And there were two Daniels. One of whom was bleeding all over him. The thought galvanized him into action, and he barked more orders. "Everybody shut up! Teal'c! Daniel!" The man in his arms stirred. "Not you, the other Daniel! Grab her and hold her!" The two lovers from his makeshift team reacted immediately, stepping forward on either side of the Sam who'd shot Daniel. She didn't struggle, merely stood there, staring wildly from Daniel to Jack to the Daniel holding on to her to her double staring back at her from the side of the melee. Jack would sympathize, if he hadn't been ready to strangle her for hurting Daniel. Supporting the man in his arms, Jack rolled them to a sitting position and concentrated on the basics. Knife to the sleeve, pressure to the shallow furrow the bullet had made, no entry or exit, just a nice bloody gash to bind up. He did, working through the slight shake in his hands. When he was done, he patted the field bandage gently and forced himself to look over into bright blue eyes staring back at him. Full of love. His own eyes shut, and something cold that had been eating at his gut since he'd seen Teal'c and Daniel kissing yesterday cracked open. This was his Daniel. Finally. "You okay, Jack?" Daniel asked. The question was loud in the unnatural silence of the trees. The only other noise was the distant thud of ordinance striking the ground far from where they were. Whatever had drawn the Goa'uld's attention, Jack could only be thankful. This whole situation was totally fucked up, and they couldn't figure it out if they were fighting for their lives in the middle of it. "Time to make camp, happy campers. We'll figure out ..." he looked around. Sam and Sam were staring at each other. Daniel and Teal'c were standing very close together, holding the one Sam, staring at him and Daniel. "Whatever the hell is going on here." Daniel didn't seem to need help walking, but Jack was grateful to be leaned on anyway. The one constant in a royally screwed up universe, and he was happy to have it. They settled in a small clearing hidden by dense growth. The other Daniel and Teal'c sat the murderous Sam between them and for an instant they all stared at each other. "I do not understand." "Did you feel anything weird when we came through the gate?" "It must be another alternate universe! I wonder if it was sun flares, no, that would have done something different. We actually made it through to P3F872, so we couldn't-" "Are you okay, Jack?" "Who's been messing with the magic mirror again?" Voices were overlapping as five people began talking at once. Jack stared around the circle. "Why did you shoot me, Sam?" "What on Earth is going on here?" "Everybody just SHUT UP." Jack roared softly. They were still in a battle zone, after all, even if the battle seemed to be going off in a corner without them. "Now, Sam." Both women looked up. "Not you," he told the one who'd tried to kill him. "You," he pointed at the one with the wedding ring. "Got any idea what the hell's going on?" She looked at him seriously, then stared down at his ringless left hand. "You're not my husband." Daniel jolted against his side, and he patted the tensed thigh next to his absently. "No. So where'd you come from? Or me for that matter? Got any ideas on it, Captain?" She launched into a torrent of technobabble, and he winced. "Small words?" "Alternate universes. Serendipity. Multiple originating gates, by chance, all dialed into the same destination gate. Wormholes coexisting, funneling into one opening, spitting everyone out fractions of a phase apart from one another. We would have noticed immediately, but we were under fire from the moment we came through." "So we all scattered, and no one noticed that there were too many of us," the Daniel sitting next to Teal'c filled in. The Daniel beside him was muttering "wife?" under his breath. Jack tried to concentrate on the situation. It was giving him a headache. "There's another complication," the second Sam chimed in. "You gonna shoot at me again?" Jack cut in. She shook her head. "You're not who I thought you were." He grimaced at her, then nodded at the men holding her arms. "Let her go. If you promise not to try to kill any of us." She actually looked around the group before she nodded. "I promise." Jack wondered what the hell had happened in her universe to make her want to kill his counterpart. Shaking off that thought, too, he asked her, "What other complication?" "We're under a time limit here. We have forty eight hours to resolve this and return to our own universes." "Or what, we turn into pumpkins?" He couldn't quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "We die," his Daniel joined in. Jack stared at him. "Huh?" "Of course," married Sam said. "Entropic cascade failure. The longer we all stay sharing this same universe, the further out of phase we'll get, until we literally break apart." "Except me and Teal'c, right?" Jack asked. "It would be reasonable to assume that our own doubles exist in this world as well, O'Neill," Teal'c answered him. "Great," Jack sighed. "Think this could happen again?" Both Sams shook their heads. "No, the odds are astronomical on it happening even once," one of them said. "There's no way this could have been predicted to happen at all," the other one piped up. "Happening twice is so far beyond the probabilities that it's statistically impossible." "Which means doing it once was a miracle and doing it twice ain't gonna happen. So, any ideas on how the hell we get back where we belong?" Sam looked at Sam. Daniel looked at Daniel. Teal'c stared impassively at nothing in particular. Jack looked around at everyone. Nobody said a word. "Sweet. Well, until then, let's try to get back to the Stargate. On the way ..." He glanced over at the Sams. "Think of something." The battle was intensifying. Jack had lost sight of Sam, which was just as well, given that he wasn't sure at this point whether she'd shoot the Jaffa or him. He lost his footing and slid over the side of a scattering of boulders, rolling down to land painfully against a very large rock. He wasn't alone. Pinned by Jaffa crossfire, Teal'c was discharging his staff almost continuously. Jack ducked and wove over to throw himself down as close to Teal'c as possible. The only acknowledgment he got was a curt, "O'Neill." Soon after, neither had time for anything but shooting back. Jack had his modified M16 braced against a broken rock and a zat gun in the other hand, firing like some sort of nutsy Doc Holliday in a spaghetti western. With real bullets. It wasn't getting them anywhere. "Fall back!" he commanded, preparing to do so. Teal'c didn't move. Didn't even seem to have heard him. Jack stared at him for a heartbeat before resuming firing. What the holy hell was going on with his people? First Daniel tried to fuck him, then Sam tried to kill him, now Teal'c ignored his orders. He'd always prided himself on the extreme professionalism of SG-1, and now they were all acting like other people, strangers he'd never met. He didn't like it. "Fall back NOW!" he yelled. Teal'c barely glanced at him. "If I am to die," he growled back between bursts from his staff, "I shall take as many of Apophis' soldiers with me as I can." Teal'c turned back fully to the battle, firing continuously now. The staff gave an ominous whine, and Jack was irresistibly reminded of a phaser on overload. "Son of a bitch," he whispered to himself. They might just die there after all. As the thought occurred to him, sudden unexpected support came from the trees behind them. Automatic weapon fire, zats, and a staff weapon were all firing over their heads, laying down quite an effective cover. Jack didn't stop to think. He grabbed Teal'c's staff, pulling Teal'c off balance, and screamed directly into Teal'c's face, "WE ARE NOT GOING TO DIE HERE AND NOW. MOVE YOUR ASS, MISTER!" This time, Teal'c moved. They practically stumbled over one another falling back into the cover of the trees. Helping hands grabbed them and hauled them further in, and Jack found himself running in the middle of a pack of SG personnel. They were moving too fast for him to identify anything but the patches on their sleeves. After at least two klicks, they piled into a small clearing and collapsed, weapons at the ready in case the Goa'uld Jaffa had tracked them. Jack got a good look at their rescuers. Just about peed himself. Looked like there was a good reason he hadn't recognized his team. The Teal'c he'd joined in the crossfire was clasping hands with Jackson and a guy who looked one hell of a lot like Jack himself. There was something about the way that Jack and Jackson were standing ... before he could figure out what was bothering him, Sam Carter grabbed hold of him and kissed him. Sheer shock kept him immobile. First she's trying to kill him, then she's kissing him like he's the last man on earth. She drew back, smiling at him, and he saw another Sam over her shoulder. This Sam looked like she'd happily gut him with a dull butter knife and watch him bleed out. Okay. Jack kept his mouth shut, smiled at the Sam who was beaming at him, and tried to figure out what the hell was going on. He also made damned sure the Sam who was glad to see him was between himself and the Sam who wanted to kill him. At least that way if she tried to kill him again, she'd have to kill herself first. He didn't see her doing that any time soon. Keeping his protective Sam at his side, he went forward to face his double. "Colonel O'Neill, I presume?" His own grin greeted him. "Any idea how to get out of this mess?" "Not at the moment," the other Jack responded. "But they" he pointed at both women, "are thinking about it." "And until then?" "We head for the gate." Jack followed the beacon that was his wife's hair deeper into the trees. She moved with direct purpose and he didn't catch up with her until she finally stopped, staring intently ahead at something he couldn't see. Moving cautiously, angling in to the side so he didn't startle her into accidentally shooting him, he stopped about six feet from her and whistled. "Captain Carter," he said very softly. She looked at him briefly, acknowledging but not welcoming his presence. He moved forward carefully. She didn't shoot him, so he kept coming until he stopped at her side. She pointed to her eyes then to the minimal path ahead of them. Jack followed her direction, and searched the area. He didn't have far to look. Teal'c was inching up behind Daniel Jackson, who was completely unaware of his approach. Before anyone knew to cry warning, much less do it, Teal'c hit Daniel with the butt end of his staff and pressed a button on a cuff hidden under his sleeve. Rings dropped over the Jaffa and the Human sprawled at his feet. Light flared, the rings lifted, and both men were gone. "Shit," Jack breathed. In the distance they could hear a phalanx of Jaffa guard tromping away from them. Jack gestured to Sam to watch his six, and the two began to track the Jaffa. Jack would deal with whatever was making his wife act so bizarre later. First they had Daniel to rescue and Teal'c to question. Very soon, they were out of the deeper forest and into the sparse trees where the plains began. In the distance, Jack saw a Goa'uld scout ship. His gut clenched as he recognized Apophis' marking on the side. A hiss beside him alerted him to Sam's presence. She wasn't looking at him. She signaled him to look directly to the southeast of their position. What he saw stopped him in his tracks. Himself. And Sam. He stared at the Sam crouching next to him, who was staring back at him. They looked at their doubles. "Cool." Only it wasn't. This could explain why his wife was threatening to report him for sexual harassment. It also made things a tad more complicated. He could do without more complications at the moment, thank you very much. He signaled for her to follow him down to join the other pair, when more figures began to filter from the trees. He stopped her with a light hand on her elbow, and pointed. Then he counted. Two other Jacks. Two other Sams. Two Teal'cs. Two Daniels. With themselves and the Teal'c who'd taken Daniel prisoner for the Goa'uld, that made three SG1 teams all on the same planet at the same time. SG1 cubed. No damned wonder his head hurt. Jack reached down, patted Sam's shoulder, and said quietly, "Let's go join the party, Captain." It had been weird enough when everybody else had a double, but when his own joined the party, Jack had been ready to scream. Run away. Shoot something. Of course, he did none of those things. He just cussed under his breath, stayed as close to his Daniel as he could get, and led the way back to the Stargate. The fighting had tapered off. Apparently the Goa'uld Jaffa were still looking for them back at the trees. As his odd combined team reached the end of the tree line and crept up to stare down at the plain before them, Jack upped the fluidity of his internal cussing. Apophis. Of course. The worst mission of his life, up to and including the ones where he'd had snakes put in him and been turned into a robot, and who had to show up to make things interesting? Apophis, snakebutt extraordinaire. This just wasn't Jack's day. It quickly got more interesting. Both Teal'cs turned in place and pointed their staffs at incoming hostiles behind the group. Except they weren't hostiles. They were yet another Sam. And yet another Jack. Jack felt his head begin to pound. Maybe having more than one version of somebody in the same universe made the entropic phase whatchamacallit go to hell faster than usual. He'd have to ask Sam, any Sam, all the Sams, when they got the chance to debrief after all this was over. If it would ever be over. If they got the chance to debrief. And if he could figure out what the hell she was talking about when she did explain it. Whichever 'she' did the explaining. No wonder his brain hurt. "Colonel O'Neill," he said to the newest Jack, not sure if he was introducing himself, asking for ID, or making a joke. From the look on the new guy's face, he wasn't sure either. "Three of us?" the new guy asked. "Three of all of us," the newest Sam answered. "Not quite," answered the Daniel who was paired up with Teal'c. "There are only two of us," chimed in his Daniel. "And two of Teal'c." "Actually, that's not quite right," the new Sam said, obviously trying not to stare at the other two Sams, and not managing very well. "We had a Jackson and a Teal'c as well," the new Jack said quietly. He was obviously pissed about something. "What became of them?" the Teal'c standing next to the other Daniel asked. "Our Teal'c whacked our Daniel over the noggin, dumped him into a set of rings, and took him off as a present to Apophis," the newly arrived Jack said bluntly. "Impossible," both remaining Teal'cs said in unison. "We're not carbon copies of each other, you know," the Jack standing next to Sam said. "There are real differences between all of us." "You've got that right," the Sam who'd tried to kill him growled. "Jack?" the first Sam said, very softly. She was staring at the left hand of the Jack who'd just joined them. On the third finger was a wide gold band, the match to the one on her own hand. She pushed away from the Jack she'd been standing beside, shooting him a wild look, and came forward to stand directly in front of the newest Jack. "Jack?" she asked again, almost a whisper. "Hey, babe," he whispered back. This time when she kissed a Jack, he kissed her back, and their left hands twined together. The newest Sam took a step away from the husband and wife and stared around the group. "This is all well and good, but it's not getting Daniel back." Two Daniels stared at her. "The one who was kidnapped. By the Teal'c who's working for Apophis." One of the Teal'cs looked disturbed at this statement, but the other actually roared and powered up his weapon. Jack started forward, but the other Teal'c and both Daniels surrounded the enraged Jaffa. Jack could barely make out the words the angry Teal'c was grinding out through clenched teeth. "Never. Apophis must die. He is the enslaver of souls, the plague of worlds, the false god, the bringer of death. I would never willingly enter his service again. He killed my family, killed my world, killed my teacher, killed my hopes for freedom. He must die!" The other three managed to get him calm enough to actually power down his weapon. The second Jack, who'd been standing to the side, stepped forward. "We'll split into two teams. One will strike the ship, neutralize the rogue Teal'c and rescue the Daniel there if they can. The second will take the gate. We'll hold it open for as long as possible, then go through--" "Like hell we will," Jack broke in. "That may be the way it works in your universe, buster, but not in mine." "Mine either," the third Jack added. He'd finally stopped kissing his Sam and looked ready to return to what passed for reality. "Half of us won't be enough to take on a whole ship of Goa'uld, and we're not leaving any of our people behind." "All of us come home, or none of us does," Jack affirmed. The second Jack started to say something, then stopped, with an odd look on his face. One of the Sams was standing very closely behind him, whispering in his ear. He folded his arms over his chest and said quietly, "Okay. Whatever." "We've got to get the Daniel who's a prisoner back, stop the Teal'c who's helping Apophis, stop whatever shit Apophis has planned, and try to find a way home. In that order." Jack looked around. This time, nobody backtalked him. "Let's make some plans, people." He and his married counterpart hunkered down, drawing the rest of the teams around them, tossing ideas around for the assault. The wormhole craziness they'd leave up to Sam, or all the Sams, and fate. First things first. "Don't get in the way. We're going to rescue Daniel. If you try to screw it up, I'll kill you." Jack felt the snub barrel of the .38 in the small of his back and knew that Carter would do exactly what she said she'd do. Closing his mouth against further arguments, he folded his arms across his chest and addressed his two doubles. "Okay. Whatever." Behind him, Sam relaxed, but not by much. When the rest of them started to brainstorm, he moved forward, and Sam moved with him. The other four scientists in the group started tossing around ideas he couldn't begin to follow, so he listened in on the other two O'Neills' plans for the assault. They weren't going to make it. An unusual calm settled over Jack, as he came to terms with the fact that he was going to die. He'd always been a maverick, in his own by-the-book way. It wasn't the first time he'd volunteered for a suicide run. This time, he wasn't going to make it. He wasn't going to go home. It didn't bother him. Home hadn't been much of one, since his wife had left, his kid was dead. Since Cromwell had left him to die in the desert. There were times when he wondered if something inside him had died back in Iraq. His subordinates were the only responsibility left in his life, and he took it very seriously. His honor wouldn't allow him to have a traitor in his ranks, no matter if the traitor had been on his team or not. And past experience made it impossible for him to leave a loyal man in the hands of the enemy. The plan wouldn't work, the traitor would survive, and the loyal man would die. It wasn't acceptable. A word drifted up from the battle conference, and he smiled. They needed a diversion. He could do that. The teams were too busy laying plans for their respective tasks to notice when Jack slipped into the shadows. He trailed along the perimeter of the ship, waiting for his chance, and when a small squad of Jaffa entered, he took his opportunity. Slipping in behind them, he ducked behind an engraved gold partition until the echo of footsteps had died away. He was in. Now to find the men. It was easy, actually. For all the worst reasons. The closer he got to the center of the maze that was the Goa'uld ship, the louder the screams became. High, wavering, breaking. Familiar. Plastering his back against the wall, he took out his scope and very carefully extended it. He could hear what was going on in the torture chamber, but he had to see it, too. Had to get the lay of the land and see what his chances were. His heart dropped into his stomach at what he saw through the scope. Apophis lay back against a couch, eyes glowing, an inhuman smile on his face. He was laughing, saying something in Goa'uld, joking with his servant. Teal'c. Who was taking what looked one hell of a lot like red hot pokers, and laying them up against Daniel Jackson's bare skin. The smell was godawful. The screams were weakening. Jack could hear the flesh bubbling under the glowing metal. From the looks of Jackson's body, they'd been at it awhile. There were whip marks cut into him, all over his back, legs, the soles of his feet where he hung clear of the ground by his wrists. His hair was soaked in sweat and blood, and Jack could smell burnt flesh, fresh blood, shit and urine. It brought back too many memories. Something deep inside him snapped, and all the hatred he'd been fighting for years surged out. Apophis waved one hand. Teal'c impaled Jackson with the red-black metal, and Jackson screamed one last time. Jack howled in response and threw himself into the room. All hell broke loose with the sound of gunfire and screaming. Thunder. Death. Deep in discussion of ways to storm the ship, Jack was interrupted by Sam tapping his shoulder. Looking up at her, he smiled. She wasn't his Sam, but any Sam would make him smile. She didn't return it. "Sir, I believe the Daniel taken aboard the Goa'uld ship is ... the one from my team. There's bad blood between ... him and my commander. And sir," she paused and took a deep breath, "my commander has 'left the building.' I think he's done something really stupid, and gone in on his own." "Sweet," Jack spat, not meaning it in the least. "Thanks, Captain." Turning back to his counterpart, he said, "We've got a problem." Everyone looked at him. "Seems the other O'Neill's gone in solo." "Shit!" his co-commander hissed. Before anyone else could respond, one of the Teal'cs pointed to the ship. "Something is happening!" "Full force recall. There must be an attack on Apophis in progress," the second Teal'c added. From the half-smile on his face, the thought of someone attacking Apophis was the best thing he'd heard all day. Jack didn't have time to worry about it. "Move out!" he ordered, and the others fell into formation. Fanning out and flying low, they came in hard and fast. Energy weapons and bullets began to fly and controlled chaos took them over too soon. Forcing their way into the great hall of the ship, Jack saw Sam throw herself in the way of weapon-fire that would have cut Daniel in half. Acting on instinct, neither knowing nor caring which Sam it was, Jack threw himself after her. He took the full force of the staff weapon blast directly to his chest. The world was fire. His muscles twitched uncontrollably. He felt his bowels go, could literally feel the blood boiling in his veins. Barely aware, he saw the woman he had saved lurch further into the hall, following Daniel, unaware of his sacrifice. His hand tried to reach out to her. His fingertips brushed leather. A woman's body was straddling his, booted feet planted to either side of his waist. Her entire body shook with the force of the assault rifle she was firing at the guards. It took him a minute to realize that she was screaming, too. There was a gold band on the third finger of her left hand. He tried to tell her to run, to save herself. He was dead and he knew it, but there was no reason for her to die as well. No call for that waste. Jaffa fell, bullets cutting into the metal of their armor, but there were too many of them. Her firepower was not enough, and the rest of the SG teams had already pressed on. He wanted to tell her to go with them. Save herself. Too late. He heard the click as her magazine emptied. Felt her fall across him. The weight of her body, the flow of her blood, burned across the electricity still coursing through the holes in his chest. Crushed his lungs. He didn't feel it. All he felt was the softness of her hair across his face. All he saw was the endless depths of blue in her eyes. All he heard was her voice, her breath against his cheek. "Jack." The light faded from her eyes. The world went white. It was all going to hell in a handbasket, pretty typical when Apophis was involved. Jack yelled orders, direction, tried to keep them moving, keep the press on. He didn't know how it worked, but it did. They dodged and shot guards out of the way until they managed to blast their way into the central chamber. Somehow, one of the Daniels fell through the doorway first, and Jack screamed as a blast of energy slammed his body against the far wall. He slid down to land on the floor in a heap, and didn't move again. "You are dead!" bellowed Teal'c, standing in the center of the room. Hanging beside him, covered in blood and other things Jack really didn't want to think about, was another Daniel. That one didn't move, either. Jack was caught between throwing up and killing everybody in the place. Then two large bodies pushed past him, with two smaller ones pushing him through the narrow door. A hand at his back centered him. "Hang on, babe." Daniel. Returning fire from the other guards in the room, trying to fight his way further in, Jack saw one of the Sams literally throw herself at the Daniel hanging from the rack in the center of the room. The Teal'c who had killed him raised his weapon, but before he could discharge it, a wild yell in Chulak caused him to turn toward the door. His last move, as one of the Teal'cs gutted him through the pouch with the end of his staff weapon, then discharged it directly into the impaled body. Even Jack could understand the "This is how traitors die!" that Teal'c screamed. "Behind you!" yelled Jack, as Apophis raised a glowing palm and directed a burst of energy at the Teal'c currently killing his loyal servant. The look on the Goa'uld's face was priceless. Jack wished he had the time to enjoy it. As it was, he couldn't get away from the crossfire of the fucking Jaffa guards to help his people. The third Teal'c threw himself at Apophis, getting tossed against the side wall for his efforts. The second Teal'c turned toward Apophis, using the dead body of the traitor Teal'c as a shield, and advanced on the Goa'uld. The electric charge from the ribbon device skittered around both of them, but Teal'c kept coming. Not for long. Guards from another corridor were joining the fray, and the deluge of charges caught the two Teal'cs. The avenger joined the traitor in death. Apophis laughed. Gurgled. From behind him, one of the Sams, a maniacal look on her face, finished severing Apophis' head from his neck with her Bowie knife. She was screaming something in Chulak, but the only word Jack recognized was Teal'c's name. As the serrated blade sank through the Goa'uld twisted around the spinal column, a huge discharge of energy shot from the dying larva into the Human. Jack shuddered. For a moment, he could see Sam's skull, the skin blasted away, soft tissue boiled away in an instant. Sam screamed, and kept cutting even as she died. Her body fell away from the remains of Apophis' host. One hand still held the knife. The other held the severed head. The abrupt death of their god disoriented the remainder of the royal guard. Jack looked at the ruins of the rescue operation and did the only thing he could do. "Fall back!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. They had to get to the gate while there was still somebody alive to go through it. Jack lifted himself painfully from the heap he'd fallen into when Apophis had attacked him. He could feel broken bones deep inside, knew from the curious numbness spreading through his body that his back was broken, and he was nearly dead from blood loss and shock. His skin was burnt completely off in places, and the raw, abraded flesh should have hurt. It didn't. Made it real clear he wasn't coming back from this one. He heard his own voice coming from somebody else, calling for retreat, and knew that one way or another it was over. As the ragtag remains of their combined teams fell back through the door, he made an extreme effort and lifted his rifle. Cradling it in the crook of his still-functioning arm, he sighted directly behind the fleeing SG1 personnel and took out a guard. His double stopped and stared at him for the space of a heartbeat. He nodded, or thought he did, then deliberately looked back to the open doorway, squeezing the trigger. Laying down covering fire. Get the hint, Jack. Get 'em the fuck out of here. Bring 'em home. Whatever was left of 'em, anyway. He didn't see them leave, but knew they'd accepted his sacrifice. It made him smile, as the edges of the world slowly grayed into black. The scramble for the Stargate was almost anticlimactic. Jack knew himself well enough to know it was a combination of adrenaline, shock and exhaustion, plus god knew what kind of weird shit the multiple universe crap was doing to his brain, that made time slow down. Still, it took too damned long. Daniel skidded to a stop at the DHD and slapped in the coordinates. Sam and Teal'c, holding each other up, swayed by the steps. Jack punched in the signal so they wouldn't all end up bug dust on the wrong side of the iris, and they dove into the swirling eye of the gate. He didn't know whose team he'd brought home. He didn't know which home they were going to end up in. But goddamnit, he was bringing his people home. The gate flared. The signal was accepted. The iris opened. Anxious eyes watched, wondering why the mission was cut short, wondering what the debriefing would bring. Hoping everybody was all right. The ramp remained empty. The stillness echoed. The Stargate closed. The ramp remained empty. The stillness echoed. The Stargate closed. "Get a medical team to the Gateroom, stat!" Jack couldn't remember the last time he'd been so grateful for General Hammond's bark. He drew himself up to as close an approximation of attention as possible. "What the devil happened, Colonel?" Hammond, right in his face. Concern, buried under gruffness, but not buried very deep. "It's ... a long story, General." And he'd have to get Sam to figure out how to tell it. Right now, he just wanted to find Daniel, find a hole, climb into it, and pull Daniel and the hole in after him. Hammond seemed to sense it. "Debriefing at oh seven hundred, Colonel." In a softer voice, he added, "Get some rest, Jack. You look like you could use it." The general glanced around at the shell-shocked remainder of SG1. "You all do." "You could say that, General," Jack managed to get out, then staggered off toward the locker room. For once, Sam didn't let the guys get the showers. She followed them in. Jack noticed, but was too tired to care. About much of anything. Ignoring everyone, he drew Daniel into a strong hug. "I love you," he whispered, hoping. Hoping with everything he had. "I love you too," he heard whispered back, and all was okay in the world. His Daniel had made it back with him. Finally lifting his head from its resting place on Daniel's shoulder, he looked over at Teal'c and Sam, slumped on the bench behind them. "You guys okay?" Sam looked at Teal'c. At Jack. Stared, for a very long time, at Daniel. Then she smiled, an odd little smile, that said something of acceptance and resignation. "Yeah, colonel. I'm good." Teal'c also stared at Daniel, even longer than Sam had. "This is home, Colonel O'Neill." He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, Jack could see the same decision there. "All will be well." Somehow, Jack knew that this Sam, and this Teal'c, weren't the team members who'd left with him that morning. Part of him ached with the thought, grieving not only the fact that he'd lost two friends, but that he'd never be able to tell anyone. If he did, then these two would end up under the not-very-tender care of that piss-ant Maybourne, and the implied sacrifice they'd just agreed to would be for nothing. He couldn't let it all be for nothing. "I'll see you here at oh six hundred, then." They nodded. Get the story straight, keep the team together. Work through it, and figure out what the hell to do next. All agreed, without a word being spoken. SG1 against the world. As usual. Jack led Daniel out the door to the infirmary to get his bullet graze treated. As they left he heard Sam say, "I love him." "As do I," Teal'c answered. "He will be safe now." Somehow, Jack knew they weren't talking about him. Daniel didn't say anything, but he slung his free arm around Jack's waist. He didn't remove it until they got to the infirmary. Fraiser fussed a little, but Jack had known what he was doing with the field dressing, and a little salve and gauze later she let them leave the base. Finally. The drive home was a quiet one. Too much had happened. They'd both watched versions of themselves die. They'd both lost friends. Jack was dealing with it the way he usually dealt with it -- lock it in a little room in the back of his head and only take it out to look at it after enough whisky had soaked his brain to allow him to handle it. Denial and avoidance. Whatever worked. He didn't know how Daniel was dealing with it, and he wasn't sure how to ask, or even if he should. They parked, wandered up to their apartment, and he locked the door behind them. Trying to figure out what to say, not easy, since Daniel was the talker, not him, Jack turned and opened his mouth. Got a mouthful of Daniel's tongue. An armful of Daniel. Daniel's hands tearing at his uniform. Daniel's leg between his thighs, Daniel's weight pinning him to the door. Daniel's scent in his head, muscles firm under his hands. Mouth sweet, greedy, covering his own. He pulled back just enough to get his hands between their bodies, and did his best to get them both naked as fast as possible. Eventually they had to break their kiss, partly to breathe, but mostly to get their shirts over their heads. "Love you," Daniel muttered over and over, hands trailing and pressing all over as much of Jack as he could reach. Not that Jack was complaining. He was doing the same thing himself, using one tiny part of his mind to navigate them into the bedroom. All the rest of what was left of his mind was concentrating completely on Daniel. He'd lost him today. Three times. Once to Teal'c, and another reality's love. Once to Apophis, and quick death. Once to a different Teal'c, and to unimaginably painful death. Too many losses. Too horrible to accept. Jack lowered Daniel to the bed, doing his best to suck his heart out through his throat, and lay down on top of him. He would have absorbed Daniel into his own body, or somehow melted into Daniel, if he could. He felt the heat of Daniel's thighs curving around his waist, long fingers wrapping around his cock, pulling him down and forward. There was some resistance, and he tried to pull back, but Daniel wouldn't let him. Muscled legs clamped down, strong arms wrapped around his back, and he found himself pushed forward into tight clenching heat. Life. His body fell into well-known rhythm, his breath panting in time with Daniel's, his heart pounding in time with Daniel's, his body moving in time with Daniel's. Everything, but everything, was Daniel, and him in Daniel, and Daniel somehow being in him, all the way to his soul. The little analytical voice that never really stopped, even in the middle of mind-blowing life-affirming lovemaking, remarked that it was Daniel who would make it all work. Teal'c, the one who'd survived, and Sam, the one who'd made it back, loved Daniel. Would fit themselves into a new universe, for Daniel. Would do what they had to do to keep the team together. For Daniel. His friends were gone, and he would deal with that. In private. On his own. They all would. The survivors would do just that. Survive. Jack had the fleeting thought that God had to exist, someplace, because his arms weren't empty. Then his body convulsed, the body beneath his convulsed, and that little voice finally shut up. His mind emptied of everything in the universe. Except Daniel. finis

After the first night, Major West drew up a schedule for Selena and Hannah's time. During the day they had the run of the house. The men were not to speak to them or interact with them unless strictly necessary. One hour of her time 30 minutes after dinner. Weekends off. Condoms. No procreation until a later date. Hit her hard enough to bruise and lose your privileges for a month. The whole thing was a perfect example of the mixture of the calculated brutality and ruthless efficiency that Jim had come to think of as characteristic for Major West. Within a week Hannah drew completely into a shell. Said nothing. Not even to Selena. Flinched when Jim tried to smooth down a stray wisp of her hair. It's a good thing her father died, Jim thinks. Frank would have tried something brave that first night, and Major West would have shot him and pitched him over the wall, or he would have had Frank kept chained down in the basement next to poor mad Sergeant Farrell, but Jim put that as an outside chance at best. Selena coped. Iron woman. Plague. Death of everybody who ever meant anything to her. The first days of survival. Killing Mark. This. Jim could see the strain in her big dark eyes. He asked if he could do anything. She gave a caustic laugh. Jim took her hand in his, stroking, and eventually folded her into his arms. "Clifton's nicer than you'd think," she said after awhile. "Seems strange, don't it, having a favorite rapist? Clifton always remembers it's a person he's fucking. Tries to be gentle. Tries to be nice ... in a way." "But he does it all the same." "Yeah, but ... " Selena gave a laugh on the edge of tears. "Everybody else just slams away like a machine on automatic, and Corporal Mitchell likes it too much. So here I am, looking at the schedule, thinking, 'Oh good, Clifton tonight', and I can't fucking believe I'm thinking that." Jim had no idea what to say to that, so he made what he hoped was a soothing sound and he stroked her dark, curly hair. The shadows in the parlor had lengthened into dusk before she spoke again, breaking the stillness, "How's the major treat you?" The question startled Jim. After a moment spent trying to frame a reply, he answered, "I don't know. Drinks three fingers of scotch — neat. Talks about his plans. Talks about various survival issues. Paces for most of the hour." Jim declined to add that he spent most of the hour, or any time he had to spend more than five minutes in the major's presence, half-hard. Selena probably didn't need to know that bit of information — that in spite of everything, his dick looked at the major and thought "yum". Pause. "Why do you ask?" He felt Selena shrug. "Just curious. He never came down. His name's not on the schedule. It's not like I'd like to have him fuck me, but when the time comes, I just want to know what --" Her body stiffened in realization and she sat up, jerking around, her mouth forming a perfect O of surprise. "Are you saying he hasn't ...?" "No." Jim said hastily. "Never even --" he made a jerking gesture with his hand. "He just sips his scotch, and paces, and drones on." And looks at me. And I can't stop looking back, no matter how much I want to. "Because he so wants to!" Selena guffawed. "Some of the men figure ... oh." She said no more after that. The shadows lengthened. Private Jones would serve dinner soon, and Major West would take him upstairs and drink scotch and talk. And look down that pointy nose at him the way a hungry tiger looks at a steak. And Jim would sit there, half-hard, silently willing himself not to mirror that look right back at the major. ~oo(0)oo~ Arms crossed, Jim slouched against the doorjamb instead of taking his customary seat in front of the desk. He had spent all morning practicing this pose after some ideas (swirling all night his head) finally coalesced during breakfast when somebody (he couldn't tell who) made a vague sort of mutter about giving food to "useless mouths". Major West had his back to Jim at the moment, in the process of pouring out his usual ration of scotch, droning on about the need for a kitchen garden and the state of the water supply. The slight widening of those blue eyes, the sharp flare of hunger in his gaze and his sudden silence all showed that Jim's hips-thrust slouch had the desired effect. Boldly sauntering across the floor to meet the major half way, Jim said, "How much to buy Hannah a month off?" Major West blinked in confusion. "I-I don't " "How. Much. For. Hannah. To. Have. A. Month. Off?" Jim bit off every word. When the major gave no reply, he continued, "I'm not stupid. Night after night in your office. The way you haven't visited Hannah or Selena. The way you look at me. The way you're looking at me right now. You want me, but haven't done a damn thing about it. So I'm wondering, Major, too repressed to ask, or too chicken shit to take?" Something brittle snapped in Major West at that moment. Carefully placing his scotch on the desk, softly, his voice little more than a murmur, he said, "Neither, actually. Just realism. Just a vestige of civilization that still abides." He gave a gusty sigh. "Because what I really want, won't happen, not now, so I take your time and maintain the polite fictions of friendship, of civility, if nothing else." "Yeah?" Jim said bitterly. "I don't have much use for polite fictions and broken dreams, especially not now. You want me. I'm offering." He shrugged, arms spread wide. "It's never going to get any better than this." "What will my men think?" Whispered. Stricken. "They already think it!" Jim snapped. "They just figure that it means more for them." He gestured yet again. "This is your chance, Major. You want it, I'm willing. How much for Hannah to have a month off?" Major West closed his eyes and a sour smile creased his lips. After a moment he replied, "A month off is out of the question. Two weeks. Like for like." "Business days. Her weekends shouldn't count against her." Pushing it, but it couldn't hurt to try, Jim thought. The major worked his jaw for a few moments. "Okay. Fourteen business days." "Done. I pay half upfront, the other when you've made good on your word. You can do what you want, but I won't do anything involving piss, shit, or getting tied up and beaten. Oh, and no extra shifts for Selena, either. Agreed?" The major nodded. "But there is one condition. When we're in this room, you'll use my Christian name, Henry." Jim nodded. "Any suggestion on what to say to the men to let them know their ration of bird is being cut in half?" Major West extended his hand to seal the deal. Jim pointedly crossed his arms. "I'm sure you'll think of something." ~oo(0)oo~ As Jim ate dinner (Private Jones made a passable French Onion Soup) a strange calm washed over him. Tonight after dinner, he would go upstairs and blow the major, hopefully forestalling a fuck, but if not, well, he could handle that, too. (He took a deep breath as a jolt of blood surged into his cock at the thought of either or both.) It wasn't like he was entirely a stranger to doings between men. He was going to go upstairs and blow and/or get fucked by the major. He would do this for the next seven business days. And after, Hannah would get two weeks holiday. And ... and when Selena found out? Jim would deal. Besides, he had a feeling that she would have told him to pick Hannah if he had made her the offer. He was doing this strictly for Hannah. (But no matter how often he repeated that to himself, he couldn't quite make it feel true.) ~oo(0)oo~ (Just like heaven.) ~oo(0)oo~ Oh fuck. Fucky fuck fuck. And the worst thing about it all? The look in his eyes. That knowing, self-satisfied "I knew it" look. ~oo(0)oo~ Jim gazed up at the ceiling, watching the patterns made by the mixture of light shifting in through the drapes. He wished there were trees dancing in the breeze, casting shadows, giving him something to focus on, but the nearest trees were tens of meters out. He half wished for a zombie attack. Something to avoid being trapped here in this room, trapped here in his mind with the very thing he wanted to avoid just waiting to pounce. ~oo(0)oo~ Based on his assessment of the major, the plan had called for him to kneel and pay homage or to drop trou, bend over the desk, and think of England. The plan was to suck and get fucked. The plan had no contingencies. Nowhere in the plan was there anything about walking into the room, walking over to the desk, only to be unceremoniously sat back down in his usual chair, have his fly unzipped without preamble, and have his instantly hard prick gobbled down by Major West who did such amazing things with his tongue that within seconds Jim became a mindless hip bucking mess with a vocabulary consisting of "ohplease" "ohgod" and "more". Nowhere in the plan was there anything about what to do when you came so hard the world grayed out and went to tunnel vision and stayed that way for several moments after. And then the major licked a sticky finger, swallowed, smiled, and dismissed him. Now knowing all too well the depths of Jim's lust. Woodenly Jim had walked back to his room wondering if he ... but there could be no two ways about this, no comforting lie he could delude himself with. He had walked into that room thinking that he had what the major wanted. He staggered out of it knowing that the major had what he wanted. ~oo(0)oo~ Jim stood before the door, torn between dread -- no, it's not dread when your dick's full hard and leaking at the thought of what's about to happen, is it? Not having the slightest idea what to call the emotion that gripped him, Jim rapped on the door, and then walked into the study. The major smiled at him, and ohgod, that smile, it was ... it was the golden boy smile, the dream smile, an utterly artless expression of delight. "Have a seat, Jim." The major indicated Jim's usual chair. Silently, Jim sat. Numb. Frozen. Until the major stood before him, and, reaching for Jim's fly, made to kneel. "Major West, don't you want --" The whip-snap backhand stung Jim's pride more than it actually hurt. "In this room, Jim," said the major in a calm voice, "I am Henry." Hand raised to flaming cheek, Jim nodded dutifully. The major knelt, and in the same, utterly calm, matter-of-fact voice, continued, "The terms of this deal, Jim, were that I could do what I want so long as it didn't involve BDSM, pissing, or shitting. That means, Jim, that if I want to blow you, I will, that if I want to fuck you, I will, if I want you to suck my cock, you will, and" he leaned in close, his voice low and breathy, "and if I want you to fuck me, you will. This isn't about what you think or what you want, or what you think I want, Jim." He reached up and pulled Jim's head down, his voice a whisper of heat against Jim's ear, "It's all about me, and what I want, and what I plan to do." As soon as the major had leaned in, Jim started trembling. Not from fear. And when he felt lips and a hint of teeth gentle on the pulse point where jaw met neck, he couldn't stop his breathy gasp. The Gates of Hell Swung Open -- "I rather doubt you know how incredible you look right now." The major shifted so that he whispered in Jim's other ear. "Milk-white skin, dark hair, bluest eyes, and the look in them right now, it's so very, very," the major trailed a string of tiny kisses along his jaw "very" until he stopped at Jim's lips, "wanton." And then he kissed him. -- and Jim Raced In ~oo(0)oo~ He simply had no shame, no, check that, he had plenty of shame -- he spent most of the hour blushing furiously, his mind screaming at him to stop -- it just wasn't enough to stop anything where Henry was concerned. Blow jobs, finger fucks, being slowly stripped and worshiped with hand and lip and tongue (prior to meeting Henry, Jim had no idea that his nipples had a live-wire hotline straight to his dick), being asked to beat off for Henry's pleasure? Jim did it all. In fact, Jim wanted to do it all so badly, he burned from the shame of it. But he came all the same. Once even three times in the hour. And Henry? He never even loosened his tie. And no matter how feverishly Jim ran his hands through that caramel colored hair of his, it never seemed to look mussed. And here it was, day seven (no weekends off) and Jim, jacking himself hard and fast, had begged Henry to please just fuck him already, but Henry simply drove in with a third finger, hard, and Jim couldn't hold back any longer, shot his load all over the blotter on the desk, and would have slumped to the floor, but for the fact that Henry caught him. "Are you ever?" Jim asked, taking the tissue Henry proffered. "When the time is right." Henry smiled. Jim groaned, frustrated. "How is it not right?" Looking utterly composed as he mopped up the mess on his desk, Henry replied, "Right now it's enough for me to watch. It's more fulfilling than you think, you know. Nice little Catholic boy like you squirming and twisting, begging me for more, begging me to fuck him. I wonder what the brothers and nuns would think if they could see you now." It was like a bucket of ice water to the face. "So," said Jim, "tomorrow you make the big announcement." The major studied him, eyes unreadable and said almost off handedly, "Yes. Why do you ask?" "Know what you plan to say?" "I'm going to tell them that it's a measure to reduce complacency and increase their attention to detail. It incentivizes it, don't you think?" Jim had no idea what to say to a statement like that so he changed the subject. "Poor bastard out in the yard's not looking so well." "No he's not," the major agreed. "So, if he finally dies, or rots, or something ... to the point where he's not a threat? What then?" The major shrugged. "Haven't thought about it." An obvious lie. "You're never going to let us out, are you?" Jim said sullenly. "Must be nice to have a kingdom. Even as one as miserable and tiny as this one." To his surprise the major rolled his eyes and let out a long suffering sigh, as if Jim were a particularly obtuse child. "If he finally gets to the point where he's no longer a threat, we wait a month to be certain, and then go looking for other survivors. "I made myself a goal when this all started. Whatever it took, I would get as many possible out of here alive. I made a promise to myself, and I keep my promises." Jim snorted in contempt. The major gave him a wintry look and said, "What do you think would've happened if I had gone back on my word to the men? I might have held out a day or two, but very likely I would've been fragged by Corporal Mitchell, and Sergeant Farrell would die next. How long do you think the men would have lasted? How long do you think Mitchell could keep order and proper defenses? I say 72, 96 hours, tops. In the end, nobody here would have survived. "Whatever it takes, I'm keeping us alive, Jim. And that's what the two women are -- they're what it takes right now. That's my plan, and I don't give a rat's ass about how dirty and ugly you and Farrell think it is. I'm a survivor, and by hook or by crook, I mean for all of us to be." Jim shuddered. Selena had nothing on this man when it came to doing what it took. ~oo(0)oo~ The next morning, at breakfast, Major West made his announcement that Hannah had a 14 business day holiday. Discipline, he explained, had grown a bit more slack than he liked, they weren't out of the woods yet. At the end of the period, he would evaluate the performance of the men, and if he liked what he saw, he would return full privileges. Corporal Mitchell grumbled loudly. Major West asked if he had any grievances he cared to air publicly. After receiving permission to speak, Mitchell said that the Major had promised them women. The major reminded everyone that Selena was still on the schedule and that the matter was now closed. Mitchell sat back down, but Jim had the feeling that this would not be the last of it. With a great deal of effort, he forced himself to spoon down the rest of the lumpy oatmeal Private Jones had cooked. He bolted from the table as soon as he got the chance. Selena found him on a terrace overlooking the rose garden. "This is your doing, isn't it?" Jim sighed heavily. "Yes. Look, I --" Selena cut him off. "How?" Quietly. "What do you think?" "Oh." Sympathy. "Yeah." To Jim's immense relief, she didn't ask him how it was, because she'd catch the lie, and no way in hell would she want the truth. Nobody would. Nobody (except the major) did. "It's a good thing you're doing," she said quietly after a few moments. "Next time I'll try and get --" "Don't bother. My period should start in a few days. That's a four day vacation right there." Jim snorted. "No blowjobs?" "Major said so. He seems to think it's more taxing than it actually is." Pause. She leaned in close and whispered, "I'll tell Hannah." "You don't have to." "I think she should know." ~oo(0)oo~ Dinner (green beans and an attempt at savory crepes) was a tense, strained affair. Afterwards, out of habit, really, Jim went to the major's study, knocked, and entered. "What are you doing here?" "I - I thought ...." Steepling his hands, the major said, "Half now, half on the other end, I believe that was our arrangement." "Aren't -- Can't we just talk?" A quirky smile flitted across Major West's handsome features. "It was never just talk, Jim. Besides," he gave a sigh "how will it look if you keep visiting me and I've just reduced the amount of tail for the rest of the men? I've enough problems with discipline as it is." He picked up his pen and began adding to whatever useless report he was working on. "I don't want to see you in here for another 14 business days, Jim. And make sure some of the men can see that you're not in here." he said without looking up. Oh. Jim wandered down the back stairs, deliberately avoiding the men, and after aimlessly trolling the halls, finally found himself in Hannah and Selena's rooms. Hannah, her light brown hair carefully combed into pigtails, couldn't quite meet his eyes but murmured softly, "Thank you, Jim." He shrugged. She drew in a deep breath, slowly released it, and said, "Want to watch a video?" "Sure." He figured that if she was going to make the effort, he should at least oblige. She popped in Gone With The Wind without asking. Jim found the choice oddly appropriate. Selena joined them about a third of the way in. Nobody said anything. When the movie ended, Jim wandered back to his room. He thought of masturbating, but then decided to save it. Hunger was the best sauce, right? ~oo(0)oo~ Over the next week, tensions mounted in the house. Corporal Mitchell seemed to take a perverse delight in seeing how close he could come to open insubordination and yet not quite step over the line. Deprived of his daily ration of Major West, Jim tried to visit him at other times, only to be dismissed or hustled out of the room at the earliest opportunity. Jim took to trying to shadow the major on his rounds through the halls and galleries, only the major went to some pretty extreme lengths to avoid him, even sicced Mitchell on him once. At dinner, he seemed to find a way to look at everybody except Jim. Selena commented on that one afternoon, giving Jim the seeds of an idea. He spent the rest of his days in his room, reading. Evenings were spent with Hannah. Late nights were spent with poor Sergeant Farrell. Major West had given him the job of bringing Farrell his one meal a day and emptying out his slop jar, something the men were only too happy to hand over to him. Farrell wasn't quite as cracked as Major West seemed to think, on the contrary, he was too sane. And that -- sanity -- had a limited place in the new world, Jim was beginning to realize. Farrell didn't say much, but seemed to find the notion of Major West dealing with the rank and file soldiers a bit amusing, West wasn't trained for it, you see. Officers used their NCOs so they wouldn't have to get their hands dirty dealing with the men, which was why men obeyed their officers, but feared their NCOs. Jim personally hadn't seen a thing that made him think of Sergeant Farrell as fearsome in the least, unlike Major West, who still scared Jim spitless on some levels. Farrell's views, his objections, were simply inconvenient for what West needed to do to keep the men in line. He wondered why the major hadn't killed Farrell. Part of his vow? Or was there some truth to what Farrell was saying about NCOs, and West kept him alive because he planned to make use of him at a later date? ~oo(0)oo~ It all came to a head Sunday night. Selena's monthly had started that morning, which meant that nobody was getting any tail for the next three days. As Private Jones began clearing the plates at dinner's end, Corporal Mitchell grabbed Hannah and tried to take her from the room. Major West shot to his feet and roared, "Corporal Mitchell! What is the meaning of this outrage?!" "Yeah, it's like this. Why should we have to go without? This bird's had a week off, and it's not like we get to go on holiday, now is it?" Utterly cold and patrician in his delivery, the major said, "Unhand her now, Corporal." "No, I don't think so," Mitchell replied with a sort of false laziness. "You've been getting some every night and we've got none, so unless you plan to farm out your little boy whore, Major Poofter, things --" He never got to finish. Without preamble, and in a single, fluid motion, Major West drew his pistol and shot him. Mitchell's body dropped, the red ruin of his head smacking the table on the way down, splashing what was left of Jones's lobster bisque out of the tureen. The major then ordered Selena to take Hannah from the room, put her in the shower, and give her something for nerves. He then told two of the men to take Mitchell's body out of the room and pitch it over the wall at first light. Sitting down, he carefully retucked his napkin and called for Jones to bring in dessert. There were no further challenges to his authority. ~oo(0)oo~ Jim woke, gasping and sweaty from a dream where he had flowed through the house, blade in hand, Death on two legs. When the surge of adrenaline wore off, he found he had to laugh about it, because the sheer idea of him taking down a bunch of heavily armed, combat-ready soldiers? Bloody rich, it was. ~oo(0)oo~ Midway through Hannah's second week of holiday, the poor bastard out in the side yard collapsed. By Friday he lacked he strength to do anymore than glare or longingly champ his teeth at any who came to look. Saturday afternoon he died and was doused in kerosene and burnt to make sure he really wouldn't rally before his corpse was pitched over the wall with the rest of them. The men reported that they saw several bands of zombies collapsed on the road beyond the perimeter wall. The major was right, no future indeed. ~oo(0)oo~ Jim's duties on Hannah's first night back on shift didn't take place in Major West's study. Instead, the major figured that since all the men knew he was fucking Jim, it might as well be in a bed. His bed. He clamped a hand on Jim's shoulder and steered him down the hallway. Not surprisingly, he had claimed the master suite. A massive, old fashioned four-poster bed with a crimson brocade, gold-fringed canopy dominated the room. "Major --" Jim began. "In this room, Jim, I am also Henry." Oh. Right, then. The major kissed him, open mouth, wet, devouring. While the little voice of conscience tried to get a word in from the ivory tower, the rest of Jim found himself returning want with want, tangling his hands in the maj- Henry's hair, holding his head right there so there would be no break in the kissing as they stumbled crab-wise towards the bed. But even the little nagging voice shut up (at last!) when Jim finally caught sight of what he had wanted since — since he had first laid eyes on Henry, really. Henry's lean, rangy, body gloriously naked and hard for him. And then (ohgod) Henry's large warm hand closed around Jim's hard cock, stroking, caressing ever so slightly, causing Jim's knees to go jelly for a moment while his dick gave a huge spurt of pre-cum, almost like it was drooling. "That's what I like about you, Jim, so wanton when we're together, so eager, yet so prim and proper the rest of the time," Henry whispered in his ear, the warm breathiness of it making Jim quiver ever so slightly. His hand reached around, ghosting across the top of Jim's cleft. "I'm of half a mind to add your name to the schedule, give my boys a taste of what they've been missing." To Jim's shame, his dick gave a fresh surge of wetness. "Give them somebody who's such a hot little slut for it," Henry growled as Jim felt his face flame. He pulled back and studied Jim, who only blushed all the harder. "And how glorious your blush is -- the good little Catholic schoolboy is so ashamed that Jim the tart can't get enough of it, needs it so badly -- so aluring." He claimed Jim's mouth in another kiss and Jim tried to repress the urge to rock his hips, to chafe himself against Henry's fist. When they broke again for air, Henry murmured, "No. I think I'll keep you all for myself. Rank has its privileges, and I'll admit to being a greedy bastard where you are concerned." The major gently pushed him to indicate that Jim should sit down on the bed. As soon as Jim's ass touched the coverlet, he swiftly dropped to his knees and took Jim's weeping cock into his mouth, tongue rasping, head bobbing, slurping, making little moans of eager pleasure, as if this were as good for him as it was for Jim. And Jim, for his part, did what he always did, closed his eyes, sank his fingers into Henry's hair, and held on for dear life as pleasure surged through his body. In fact, so dazed was he by the incredible evil-good things Henry did with his tongue that his hazed brain didn't wrap around the meaning of Henry's sticking a finger into his mouth at first. Jim just liked the way the cool air tickled and the way the finger resting alongside his prick made for a sort of lopsided flow of sensation. Different, not bad. Just different. And then the finger left and Jim felt a little jolt in his groin as his prick got equal sensation again. And then, with warning, no hinting, no nothing, Henry pushed that cool wet finger in, and the rudeness of the sudden intrusion hurt, and Jim's hips bucked in surprise, but at the same time, the tension it created, the smoothness, the purpose behind it sent a different set of white hot flares running up Jim's spine and he could not contain the shout as his hips snapped forward and he came and came and came. Flopping bonelessly back on the bed, he gasped for air, and, and after a few tries, said shakily, "I feel like the top of my head just lifted off." After drawing another breath and forcing himself to focus, Jim continued, "Don't expect me to say anything too intelligent for the next several minutes, right?" Henry stood and smirked down at him. The sight of his hard and very red cock caused a twinge in Jim's loins -- he had little over two weeks of forced abstinence to thank for that. "That's not what I'm looking for in you, Jim. Willing compliance is. Now move up towards the head of the bed." With arms and legs seemingly made from noodles, Jim scrambled to obey, goaded on by his own eagerness and the heat in the major's blue-steel gaze. He didn't have to wait long. Henry crawled towards him like a panther, pausing only to get a good squirt of lotion from the bottle on the nightstand. He told Jim to roll on his side, facing him, and hooked Jim's leg over his hip while he slowly worked two lotion slicked fingers in, causing Jim to groan into Henry's shoulder. They kissed for several moments, Henry pumping his fingers slowly in and out; Jim tried to rock his hips a bit, chafe his rock hard cock against Henry's, but the angle wasn't quite right and Jim couldn't get any real, driving, sensation going. He groaned again, this time in frustration. As Henry abruptly withdrew his fingers and rolled on his back, Jim heard himself make a bereft little noise, but before he could speak, Henry said, "I want you to climb on." His lips quirked. "I want the best seat in the house, you see." And Jim, for his part, felt his eyes glaze over, felt that delicious little surge through his loins at the thought of straddling Henry, sinking down slowly, and taking all of that into him. The libertine in Jim giggled in glee at the idea of climbing aboard and riding Henry hard. The part of his brain still capable of prudent thought said, "Condom?" Henry frowned. "James, it is only you and I. If you've got anything, well, I've certainly got it by now. Besides, as we both well know, there are diseases worse than AIDS." Pause. "Get on with it," he growled, looking at Jim through slitted eyes. Jim didn't need to be told twice. He couldn't -- didn't even try to -- contain his hiss of pleasure at desire at long last sated that flowed out in a long breathy exhale as soon as Henry's cockhead breached him and continued as Jim sank all the way down. He closed his eyes and savored the feeling of fullness -- fullness up to his eyebrows it seemed -- wriggling his hips slightly, smiling at the groan that got out of Henry. Jim opened his eyes and gasped at what he saw. For, if Henry had sent heated glances his way before? Well, now, he burnt. A bonfire. All the urging Jim needed to see if he could turn it into an inferno. ~oo(0)oo~ It continued much the same way for the next three nights in Henry's bedroom, exploring every inch of Henry's long, lean body, learning the contours of those sinewy muscles, even sucking his cock to diamond hardness, but not enough to make him come, Henry making Jim come either by sucking or jacking him off, and then Henry would fuck Jim. Tonight, Jim had dared suggest that Henry try taking him from behind and the results were ... Jim had no idea Henry could deliver such a good, hard fuck. He would certainly be walking funny tomorrow, and Henry had also sucked one hell of a lover's mark onto him at the juncture of neck and shoulder. Jim would have to make sure he wore a shirt with a high enough collar tomorrow — no need to flaunt it, that could cause problems. With a sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh, Henry slowly pulled out of him, and Jim hustled to the bathroom to clean himself up. Henry had made on thing clear the first night -- he didn't want a wet spot in his bed. (Jim's pointing out that a condom would solve that problem still didn't change Henry's mind about wearing one.) "What's next?" Jim asked as he pulled his shorts on. "Eh?" "There haven't been any attacks in nearly a week. Do we just stay holed up here forever? Or are we going to go out to re-supply and look for survivors?" Henry favored him with a sated, sleepy smile. "I think tomorrow, I'll send the men out on a few short excursions to check for activity. And if the bastards really are dead? Well, we'll make plans from there." "Oh, come off it. You never improvise. Well, you do, but you've been planning your egress the day you holed up in here. Can't fool me on that one." Jim stepped into his jeans. Henry let out a long sigh. "Very well." He sat up and stretched before reaching for his pants. "Yes. We will be leaving. And then, after three days, we will be leaving. I said I was going to get as many out alive as I could, but I think I've earned the right to not stick around afterwards. So, on day three, provided all seems to be going reasonably well, we'll slip away in the middle of the night. My parents had a cottage in the highlands of Scotland. We'll stay there." Jim was in the act of pulling his sweater back over his head. He felt as if he'd been ducked into an icy pond at that statement. He stood for some moments, face smothered in wool, arms over his head, knowing he had to compose himself before he dared show his face. "Something wrong, Jim?" Right. "It's — that's ... Henry, do you mean it?" He forced a note of eager hope into his voice, put on what he hoped was a believable smiling face, and pulled the sweater the rest of the way on. Henry raised an eyebrow at that. "Yes, why wouldn't I?" Jim sat on the bed, and keeping his gaze carefully focused on his shoes and socks, said, "It almost sounds romantic." Pause. "Tell me more about this cottage. What part of the highlands?" ~oo(0)oo~ Gasping and drenched in sweat, Jim woke from the dream. Third time he'd had it since things had started back up with the major. Only this time, he couldn't ignore it. He understood what it meant. He knew what he had to do. Silently he opened the door, stole a quick look at the clock on the end of the landing, and judged the whereabouts of the soldier on patrol. Since the threat had lessened over the past week, discipline had also grown more slack amongst the soldiers. Jim counted on this. He wasn't counting on finding Jones snoring away in a chair overlooking the terrace. Jim slipped past him, gliding down the hall and into the kitchen. He felt a strange sort of calm giddiness as he studied the knives in the butcher block for a moment, giggling almost manically as several lines from Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels -- a movie from what seemed like a lifetime ago -- flitted through his mind. "Guns for show, knives for a pro," he murmured as he selected what Soap would've called "a big, fuck-off shiny one", and ghosted out of the kitchen, down the hall, and back to Jones. He studied the man for a moment. He wasn't snoring anymore. His head had flopped forward, almost on to his chest, and a fine string of particularly slimy looking drool stretched from his sleep-slack mouth onto the front of his fatigues. His hair was still military short, though, and his collar crisp as ever, giving Jim an excellent view of the nape of his neck. Jim didn't hesitate as he drove the blade deep into the slight cleft at the back of Jones's skull, that tiny gap of soft flesh between cranium and the first vertebrae. Jones's body instantly went boneless. Dead even before Jim eased him to the floor and relieved him of walkie-talkie, rifle, pistol, and knife. On little cat-feet he flowed down the stairs into the basement. A nudge to the ribs woke Farrell. "We're getting the girls and we're getting out of here tonight. The major's completely gone-off." Not entirely true, but Farrell didn't need to know the whole truth at the moment. Jim knelt and unlocked Farrell and helped him climb somewhat slowly and stiffly to his feet. "Oh, that feels good," Farrell said, stretching, working the blood back into his muscles. "So, what's the plan?" "We slip back upstairs and get Selena and Hannah and fucking kill anybody who gets in our way. We've got about 40 minutes to get it done." A long shadow fell over Farrell's eyes as he worked through the implications of what that would mean. He scratched idly at the scruffy beard along his jaw before saying, "Alright. 'S not much of a plan, though." "Do you have a better idea?" Farrell flashed him a sardonic grin. "No, not off the top of my head." ~oo(0)oo~ To say that things did not go as planned? Understatement. Slipping into Selena and Hannah's rooms proved easy enough, but rousing the rather medicated Hannah? Jim wanted to kill Selena when they hit the top of the stairs. It was taking both of them to support the girl, who weaved unsteadily at best, and now they had to negotiate stairs. Armed with the rifle, Sergeant Farrell started down first. The four of them had made it halfway down when a cry went up. Jones's relief had discovered his corpse. All hell broke loose. He wasn't Death from his dream, sliding coolly from room to room and dealing in mayhem. He was Jim, trying to run across the foyer half-crouched, half dragging, half carrying Hannah, as bullets ricocheted around him and glass shattered. And he, like a stupid asshat, hadn't thought to slip on a pair of shoes before he embarked on this grand scheme. One of the men, the Paki, nearly killed him when he stepped on a piece of glass and shrieked in pain. At the last second, too late, really, Jim tried to whip his not quite so bright and shiny now knife up and slash at him, but Selena -- whom he had lost when everything started going to hell -- came up out of nowhere and blew the soldier's brains out with Jones's pistol. Pell mell, both of them with a death grip on Hannah (who had roused enough to stumble clumsily on her own) they careened down the galleries, weaving, ducking soldiers, killing two more of them, trying to find a way out, a way away from the sounds of gunfire and screaming men. Except in all the confusion they ended up turned around, heading right back where they didn't want to be. The grand foyer was a lake of blood. And in the middle of it, panting, grinning savagely, stood Sergeant Farrell, who had managed to gun down the rest of the men. He looked at them, and took aim with his rifle before he recognized them,and lowered it. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. Silent as death, a tall figure slipped out from behind the staircase. Jim tried to scream a warning, tried to tell him to turn around, but found his tongue rooted with shock and atavistic terror. The beginnings of the smile on Farrell's face crumpled as Major Henry West's bayonet drove through his back. Farrell's legs buckled. "My boys!" the major screamed, "You've killed my boys!" It was Selena who did it -- charging blindly forward in that split second before the major could free his bayonet from Farrell's body, firing her pistol wildly, a banshee's shriek upon her lips. Jim didn't know if she actually hit him with any of her shots before she crashed into him, bowling them both to the floor, and somehow the major's knife ended up her hand a split second before she sheathed it in his throat, just above the adam's apple. Jim hung there, panting, frozen, until Selena very calmly rose, took him by the hand, and lead him and Hannah out of the house. When she got both of them in the car, she turned to Jim and asked, "What now?" Jim blinked for several moments before he said, "I ... I know a place." ~oo(0)oo~ The past few months have passed with days spent in an almost idyll. Jim's foot -- thanks to Selena's care -- healed well and without infection. Their cottage has chickens now and a little garden. The view is breathtaking. Hannah has started to bloom again. The pastiness and horrible gauntness has gone from her face, and she almost never has nightmares. She smiles, even laughs. She hugged Jim the other day. She's shown some amazing creativity and initiative in gathering sheets, blankets, and even some large towels for the banners they're working on. Selena's levelheaded calm has kept them all going. She never talks about what happened, but she's dealing with it in her own way, internally sorting through it, and Jim knows to give her a wide berth when she's got that look on her face. The banners were her idea. She took Jim into her bed about a month ago. She's a firecracker, a fantastic partner, the kind of woman Jim wishes his last girlfriend was. But on some sleepless nights as she lies sated next to him in bed, Jim finds himself thinking about life and the state of things as he looks up at the rafters overhead. Sometimes he wonders if he made the right choice.

"And these are the oncology wards," Nurse Brenda said, leading the troupe of new nurses through a door. "One of you is an oncology nurse, right?" "Me," Brad piped up and waved his hand. "Then you'll be seeing a lot more of this department." Brenda looked around the ward. "And there's your glorious leader." She pointed to where a man in a white coat was standing at a station halfway down the room. He was facing away from them, writing on a clipboard. Brenda headed towards him, and the nurses followed. "Dr. Wilson?" she called as they approached. The doctor turned, his hair flopping slightly over his forehead, and he smiled at them. At the sight of the smile and large brown eyes, Brad felt his heart race and blood pump in his groin. "Hi Brenda, what's up?" the doctor said, and Brad relished hearing his voice, smooth, mellifluous, not too deep, not too high. "New nurses. First day. Grand tour." Brenda waved a hand to encompass the group. "Including one for you." She nodded at Brad. Brad stepped forward, suddenly desperate to make a good first impression on his handsome new boss. "Hi, I'm Brad. It's great to meet you, Dr. Wilson." He held out a hand. Dr. Wilson shook his hand solemnly. Brad adored his handshake—firm and cool. He hung onto Dr. Wilson's hand a second longer than necessary and immediately regretted it, hoping he hadn't embarrassed himself. "Good to meet you too, Brad," Dr. Wilson said, and Brad glowed a little. "I'm sure I'll see you around." "Moving swiftly on," said Brenda, and she ushered them all onwards. Brad hung back slightly, giving Dr. Wilson his most beaming smile. Dr. Wilson smiled back politely, then turned away back to the clipboard. Brenda dropped into step next to Brad as they walked down the ward and muttered in his ear, "That way madness lies." "I don't know what you're talking about," Brad said primly. "The hell you don't," said Brenda, smiling evilly. She lengthened her stride and walked on. *** Over the next few weeks, Brad was too busy getting to grips with his new job to think much about Dr. Wilson. But he sometimes saw him walking down the corridor, sitting in the cafeteria, or working his way through the wards on his rounds, and the sight never failed to make Brad's heart skip a beat. Often, Dr. Wilson was with someone—in fact, the first time Brad saw him, walking down the hallway with Dr. Wilson, Brad assumed he was a patient. After all, he walked with a limp and a cane, and wore casual clothes and sneakers. Brad sighed happily at the thought of how caring Dr. Wilson must be, taking the time to walk around with this frankly rather grumpy-looking patient, who presumably needed a bit of exercise with the bum leg. Brad was quite shocked to find out that the other man was none other than the legendary Dr. House, who was apparently so legendary that he didn't even need to wear a white coat. The next time Brad saw them together, they were in the cafeteria and Dr. House was systematically eating all Dr. Wilson's fries as well as his own. Dr. Wilson didn't seem to mind, barely even seemed to notice, but Brad felt indignant on Dr. Wilson's behalf, and decided he wasn't disposed to like Dr. House very much. *** Naturally friendly and gregarious, Brad soon got to know everyone in oncology, and many other staff in other departments. Knowing he was terribly bad at concealing his feelings, he chose instead to ask people, wide-eyed, about Dr. Wilson at every chance he got. He found people were amused by him, and generally indulged him. One day not long after he had started work, he found the oncology department buzzing with gossip. Dr. Wilson's ex-wife had shown up. Or one of them, anyway. "Why, how many are there?" Brad asked. "Three. That we know of," he was told. The visitor turned out to be wife number two, Bonnie. Brad wasn't the slightest bit surprised to hear Dr. Wilson had been married and divorced three times; it fit in rather well with Brad's perceptions. Brad had had a boyfriend in the past, an older man, a successful businessman, who'd never gone anywhere in public without a woman on his arm. That had ended a while ago. The double life had gotten too much; Brad had been the one sacrificed. Brad still felt a little sad and hollow when he thought about this. He consoled himself now by thinking about Dr. Wilson instead. A few days later Brad was delighted to come across Dr. Wilson walking down the corridor outside his office with a small white dog on a leash. "Who are you? Aren't you the cutest!" Brad squealed on sight and dropped to his knees to pet the adorable little dog. The dog panted happily and offered him a paw; Brad took it gravely and shook it. "This is Hector," Dr. Wilson said from the other end of the leash. "He's your dog?" Brad asked, cooing and petting. He was still clasping Hector's paw in his hand. It felt like he was holding a hotline to Dr. Wilson himself. "He lives with Bonnie; I have visiting rights," Wilson said, his tone droll. "He's been staying with House for a bit." Brad glanced up and saw House standing up the corridor, outside his own office. House was lounging against the corridor wall and crunching on something. He looked at Brad with piercing blue eyes. Suddenly Brad noticed Hector's paw was bruised and swollen. No wonder the little dog didn't want to put it on the floor. Brad frowned and said, "Hey, little fella, you're hurt." "Just House screwing around," Wilson said, with a sigh. "He's been trying to kill Hector for the last week." Wilson nudged Hector with his foot. Brad's gaze tracked Wilson's leg up towards his body. "Come on, boy," Wilson coaxed the dog. Wilson and Hector headed off down the corridor. Brad watched them go, his eyes following Wilson's ass beneath his white coat. Brad frowned. Was Dr. Wilson serious? Had House been trying to kill Hector? Surely not. And yet... Brad had heard a lot about House. You couldn't work at Princeton-Plainsboro and not. It could be true. Dr. Wilson hadn't sounded as if he was joking. Looking at the cute little dog with the limp, Brad felt himself burn with a righteous anger that anyone would deliberately hurt an animal like that. He turned to glare at House, but House had gone. *** A couple of days after the Hector incident, Brad was walking along the corridor when the door of a patient exam room opened, Dr. Wilson rushed out and crashed straight into Brad. "Dr. Wilson!" Brad said, alarmed, though not without a small thrill of pleasure at having Dr. Wilson bump against his chest. "Sorry. Sorry. B-B-Brad? Is that right?" Wilson stepped backwards, rubbing his head. Then, speaking faster than Brad could recall hearing anyone speak before, "I'm not myself I-I-I'm going to kiss - to kill him I'm absolutely going to kill him." "Kill who?" Brad asked, thinking this really wasn't a good thing for a doctor to be saying in a hospital corridor. He looked more closely at Wilson, who was agitated, stepping from one foot to the other. "House," Wilson said, and strode off down the corridor towards his office. Brad hesitated for a few seconds, then followed, asking, "Dr. Wilson, are you OK?" Wilson, apparently becoming aware that people were watching him curiously, didn't reply until he was back in his office. Brad hovered uncomfortably at the door. "No, no I'm not OK." Wilson moved around the room jerkily, grabbing his coat and his keys. "House dosed me w-w-with-with fucking amphetamines! I should have known better, I should have known, he never buys me coffee, he never buys me coffee! The fucking bastard knew I wouldn't take the first cup so he dosed the second!" Wilson stuck an arm into his coat and found it was the wrong arm. He stood there looking confused. Unable to bear watching, Brad stepped forward nervously and pulled the coat off, then helped Wilson put it on. He couldn't help but linger a little as he touched Wilson's arm and felt muscles moving under fabric. He hoped Wilson would interpret it just as sliding the sleeve up his arm. "Thanks. Thanks Brad." "Where are you going?" Brad dared to enquire. "To kill House. He could have killed me, I'm going to kill him." Wilson picked up his car keys. "You're not driving while you're in this state." Brad automatically adopted his scolding manner for dealing with patients who seemed bent on taking unnecessary risks. Wilson chewed on his lip, then said, "You drive me then." He thrust his car keys into Brad's hand. Brad didn't know what to do. However, it seemed that disobeying a direct order from his department head would not be the right thing to do, especially if it meant avoiding a possible accident. The thought of Dr. Wilson in a car accident sent a cold chill down Brad's spine. He pictured Dr. Wilson injured, maybe critically ill, in a hospital bed, or worse, on a table in the morgue... Brad's hand closed on the keys; he let his fingertips brush Wilson's palm. He followed Wilson out to the car park. The idea of sitting in Wilson's car, let alone driving it, was very exciting and Brad had to fight to concentrate on following Wilson's directions, which were not very lucid. He was very aware of Wilson sitting next to him in the passenger seat, shifting restlessly. He hadn't been so close to Wilson for more than a minute before. Now here he was, enclosed in the same small metal box. Brad looked at Wilson's knee, bouncing furiously up and down, in his peripheral vision. The drive was all too short; House didn't live far away. Brad parked outside. Wilson said, "Thanks," got out of the car, and strode into the house. Brad waited for the front door to close, then sprang out of the car and rushed over to the window. He could see House and Wilson talking, arguing, Wilson full of expressive hand gestures, House trying to make some sort of point, Wilson exasperated. Soon Wilson sat down. The conversation seemed to calm down. Suddenly Brad tensed; he saw Wilson gesture towards the window, without looking at it. Brad dashed back to the car and just got back behind the driver's seat before the door of the house opened and House came out. He limped down the steps. Brad rolled the car window down as House stepped up to the driver's side. "You can leave now, chauffeur boy," House said. "You can walk back. It's not far, 'cept for cripples." Brad looked at House, a little defiantly. "Is Dr. Wilson alright?" "He'll be fine. He's just high. I'll make sure he doesn't drive until he's better. Honest, dad." House held out a hand for the car keys. "Gimme." Brad's concern for Wilson overcame his fear of House. "How can I trust you? You dosed him in the first place!" House looked incredulous, then angry. He leaned hard on his cane and pushed himself up to his full height. Brad hadn't noticed how tall House was before; the limp tended to disguise it, but standing there glowering down at Brad, he looked ten feet tall. His blue eyes were fairly dazzling with indignation. "Well, the lap dog has teeth after all," House said coldly. Brad tried not to tremble. "I was just—" "You shut the fuck up and get out of here," House's voice was chilling. "And stop interfering with what you don't understand. You don't know the first thing about Wilson. You just want to get into his pants." Brad's cheeks burned. "I don't—" "Oh please." House rolled his eyes. "I've seen you drooling over him like a lovesick puppy. Get a life. There're plenty of hot young men in that hospital for you to hit on. You shouldn't be lusting after your middle-aged boss who barely even knows your name. He's got enough to worry about without having some randy nurse mooning after him everywhere he goes." Brad got out of the car, dropping the keys on the seat, and walked away in the direction of the hospital. He didn't look back, but he could feel House's eyes burning a hole in the back of his head. *** The next day the whole hospital had heard that Dr. Wilson had been on speed, as the patient he had abandoned had been discovered by a blabbermouth doctor who wasted no time telling the tale. Fortunately the patient didn't want to complain, and the hospital collectively accepted it as just one of those things House did. Brad adored gossip and would have normally been the first to brag about his driving role in the story, but the dressing down by House had left him embarrassed and humiliated, and he kept his mouth shut. There was an unexpected silver lining, though. Brad was alone, getting some supplies from a stockroom later that day when, to his surprise, Dr. Wilson came in behind him. Dr. Wilson had never come and sought him out for anything before. "Brad," said Wilson. "I just came by to say thanks for driving me yesterday. It was very thoughtful of you. I would have crashed that car for sure." Suddenly Brad was happy and all was right with the world. It was worth every second of that encounter with House to have Dr. Wilson standing here a few inches away, right now, having come looking for him, to say thank you. "No problem," Brad said sincerely. He dropped his eyelashes and pouted a little. "I was worried about you. Dr. House—Dr. House was very rude to me." "House is an ass," Wilson said easily. "Ignore him." Brad thought maybe he shouldn't press the point, but somehow he had to. "But he's just so outrageous! What sort of person doses someone's coffee without them knowing it? Especially their supposed best friend's coffee?' Brad wasn't sure what sort of reaction to expect from Wilson, but not this; Wilson looked abashed, then embarrassed, then guilty. "We all do stupid things, Brad. Including me," Wilson said. He patted Brad lightly on the arm and walked away. Brad watched him go, the delight at the tingling in his arm tempered by the memory of House's words; stop interfering with what you don't understand. *** After that episode, Brad sought out information about House and Wilson, and found Nurse Brenda Previn an unexpected source of information. Brenda didn't have a lot of time for anyone, but seemed to find Brad amusing, teased him about his crush, and humored him to an extent in his questioning. It was from Brenda that Brad learned the story of how Wilson had been the subject of a police investigation earlier that year because of House. He'd heard bits and pieces about this before, but not the whole thing. How Dr. Wilson had had his bank accounts frozen, his DEA license suspended, his car towed, and how he had eventually referred his patients elsewhere. Brad listened with increasing horror, and said, "Basically he lost everything. Except his job." "Yeah," Brenda agreed. "And he'd lost that once before, a couple of years back." And she told him the story of how Wilson had resigned rather than vote to keep House in the face of a chairman who'd wanted to fire him. After that Brad had only one more question. "Why are they still friends already?" "That's the multi-million dollar question," said Brenda. "Personally I'd bet that they're fucking each other." She laughed at the outrage on Brad's face. "Oh come on Brad, don't tell me you haven't thought of that before." Brad had indeed thought of that as a possibility, but had always dismissed it from his mind with a shudder. "It's just that... Dr. Wilson is so nice, and Dr. House is so horrible!" "I'm with you all the way on House." Brenda paused to consider. "As for Wilson... he's no saint. You need to stop idolizing him, Brad. It's not healthy." *** Brad hadn't intended to go to Dr. Foreman's goodbye party; he didn't know Foreman very well, but he was coming off shift with two other nurses who were going when it happened, so he ended up going along. Most of the oncology staff knew House's three fellows well; in addition to helping with occasional cancer cases, they were always visiting the oncology wards looking for their boss. Dr. House was conspicuous in his absence. "Well, you know it didn't end very well," one of the other nurses told him. "Foreman didn't even ask House for a reference in the end." Brad couldn't help but compare House unfavorably to Wilson. Dr. Wilson ran a huge department, was excellent at remembering names and faces (he had remembered Brad's name, whatever House said), always put in an appearance at people's goodbye and birthday parties and the like, signed cards, put money in for collections, and his staff were loyal and supportive of him. House only had three staff members and couldn't even be bothered to come to the send-off of one of them. Later, he saw Dr. Wilson arrive and was surprised when, instead of joining the party he went to the other side of the room to sit with a man in a baseball cap. It was House; Brad hadn't spotted him before. Skulking around watching Foreman's party from a distance? How weird was that? It all only made Brad despise House all the more. *** A couple of days later, Brad had finished work and was heading towards the staff lounge when he passed Dr. Foreman; Foreman was wearing a suit and carrying two bags, clearly on his way out for the last time. As Brad approached the lounge, House came out, stomping with his cane and looking angry. Brad wondered if he had just had an argument with Foreman. In the staff room, Brad found Dr. Wilson sitting on a table. He looked sad and dejected. "Hi Dr. Wilson," Brad ventured. "Hi Brad," Wilson answered, looking at him without seeing him. Wilson got up and left the room. Brad went through to the locker room, got his stuff, and headed home. He had some dinner, then went out. He had intended to go to a club, but found his feet taking him in another direction. Brad had found out where Dr. Wilson lived a while back, and had been only mildly surprised to find it was a hotel. He supposed there were advantages, like having room service and laundry done all the time. He had taken to wandering past it when in the area. He was walking past it now when he saw Dr. Wilson come out of the front entrance and head towards the bar on the corner. Brad lingered for a few moments, then went into the bar himself. He found Dr. Wilson sitting on a bar stool with a glass of whisky in front of him. He looked glum. His eyebrows were furrowed and his hands loosely clenched into fists. Brad liked the moody look; it reminded him of his ex, who had had a brusque manner and a permanent scowl. Brad sidled up and took the stool next to Wilson. Wilson looked at him in surprise. "Brad, hi. What are you doing here?" Fortunately Wilson didn't seem to expect an answer. "Are you OK, Dr. Wilson?" Brad asked tentatively. "No. No I'm not OK, Brad." Wilson took a gulp of whisky. Unexpectedly, he seemed to be in a mood to share. "I'm depressed. My meds have been changed and the new ones haven't kicked in yet. I feel like shit." "Is there anything I can do?" Brad knew it sounded lame. Wilson turned his head and looked at Brad speculatively. "I see you around a lot, Brad. What is it you want from me?" Brad stared into Wilson's deep brown eyes. There was a blank sadness he hadn't seen before, a void, a loneliness. Brad supposed it was usually masked by the antidepressants. Or perhaps simply by force of will, but if so, Wilson wasn't hiding it at the moment. There were a lot of things Brad could have said in response to Wilson's question, but he chose to respond to a raw need that wasn't hard to perceive. Brad was sorry Wilson felt like this, but at the same time he knew this was the chance he'd longed for. "I want to fuck you." Wilson didn't look as if this surprised him in the slightest. "And that's all you want? There's nothing else?" "That's it," Brad said, sensing he had a better chance if he kept it simple. "OK then." Wilson drained his glass. "Really?" Brad was dumbfounded. "Brad, before you came in here I was seriously considering trying to pick up a complete stranger to fuck instead. As fate seems to have sent along someone who actually wants to do it with me, who am I to resist?" Wilson stood up. "Shall we go? I live just around the corner. I guess you probably know that, as you're here. House calls you my little stalker, you know." Brad's cheeks burned at Wilson's last remark. Fortunately Wilson seemed amused rather than angry. Brad felt he'd suddenly been introduced to a whole new side of Dr. Wilson he hadn't seen before, except maybe in very brief glimpses. House's words resonated uncomfortably in his head: stop interfering with what you don't understand. Brad pushed these thoughts aside. He'd been fantasizing about this moment practically since he'd first seen Dr. Wilson in the ward. He wasn't going to screw this up now. Back in Wilson's hotel room, Brad looked around, trying to take it all in, trying to see how Dr. Wilson lived. It was less like a hotel and more like an apartment than he'd expected. It had some items such as a TiVo box which looked like they belonged to Wilson, although the place as a whole was still deeply impersonal. Wilson moved easily through the living area, turning on lights, discarding his jacket and keys, then turned towards the bed. Brad took a deep breath and followed. *** The sex was better than Brad had ever dared hope. He had played out this encounter again and again in his mind, and never without some level of anguish, doubt, hesitation, or denial on Wilson's part. Brad had seen himself as having to convince, urge, persuade. But the real Dr. Wilson turned out to be much surer of himself and what he wanted than Brad expected. They kissed first, and Brad thought he must have died and gone to heaven; not only was Dr. Wilson kissing him properly on the mouth, pushing in with his tongue; but also feeling him, touching him, running his hands across Brad's chest, his biceps, his shoulders. Brad sought to reciprocate, kissing back with a passion, undoing Wilson's shirt buttons, pulling the shirt off his shoulders. Then Wilson slid his hand deftly over Brad's groin and Brad nearly exploded on the spot. Quickly, desperate for this to happen before he woke up and found it was all a dream, Brad stripped, and Wilson followed him. Wilson wrapped a hand around Brad's cock and tugged expertly; Brad felt his jaw go slack and his eyes close, and had to pull himself back—this couldn't end this quickly. He reached for Wilson's cock and was immediately gratified to see Wilson's face contort and some life return to those blank brown eyes. "You wanted to fuck me, right?" Wilson gasped, and Brad nodded breathlessly. He really hadn't imagined it like this. Wilson so ready, willing, and able; with a condom to hand, and lube too; Brad was rapidly understanding that Dr. Wilson's three wives must have had more to live with than he'd thought. Brad slicked up, and after an initial hesitant exploration with his fingers, arranged Wilson on all fours on the bed, himself thrusting inside and Wilson taking him easily. Oh God he was fucking Dr. Wilson. He was actually fucking Dr. Wilson. Brad was so full of emotion he was almost choking, as he thrust again and again, and felt Wilson gasping and groaning beneath him. Brad came rapidly, the world bursting into brilliant colors and shapes around him. Even as he collapsed panting on the bed, he reached out for Wilson's cock; he knew what he wanted to do and he might never get another chance. He took Wilson's cock in his mouth, stroking his balls with his hand; Wilson let out a cry and started to pump. Brad nibbled and sucked; he knew he gave good head, and Wilson came, jerking off in Brad's fist within a minute. They both slumped back on the bed, exhausted, not touching. "D'you want me to go?" Brad whispered after a few minutes. "Stay a bit if you want," Wilson mumbled, and fell asleep. *** Brad had been on both sides of uncomfortable morning-afters enough times to know how he was going to play this one so as to maximize the chance of this happening again. He wasn't going to creep off in the middle of the night, leaving a note which was bound to look embarrassing and insincere. Still less was he going to hang around long after Wilson woke up, because however much he liked the idea of breakfasting & showering together (it seemed deliciously domesticated), he knew in practice it would be just be highly awkward. So he got up early, dressed, put on some coffee, and when Wilson stirred, Brad was there by the bedside putting a steaming cup of coffee on the bedside table. "Morning, Dr. Wilson," he said softly. "Brad?" Wilson sat up, rubbing his eyes. His chest was bare. His hair was disheveled and sticking up in tufts. Brad thought he had never seen anything so sexy in his life. "I'm going now, just made you some coffee first. No speed in this one." Brad couldn't resist a dig at House. "I'll see you around at the hospital, OK?" "Sure. Thanks." Wilson blinked. Brad could see Wilson's eyes were clearer and brighter than they had looked the night before. Pleased, Brad beamed an enormous smile at Wilson and left. *** Brenda was at the nurse's station in the clinic when Brad walked through that morning, and Brad had to exercise all his self-control to stop himself going up to her and shouting "I DID IT! I FUCKED HIM!" at the top of his voice. He knew if there was even the remotest chance of seeing Dr. Wilson again, he had to play it cool, not be clingy (difficult, this one) and keep his mouth shut (also difficult). Three days went by—three long days—and nothing happened. House, having lost his staff (Brad wasn't surprised; he had no idea how they all put up with House so long in the first place), had retreated into a little cocoon in his office, spending all his time playing the guitar and doing virtually no work. Brad didn't dare to walk past House and Wilson's offices too often, but he kept a close ear to the hospital grapevine, and as far as he could make out from that, House was blocking Wilson out as much as anyone else. If this was the impetus that drove Wilson back to him, Brad didn't care. Because on the third day, he was making a bed in a ward, when Wilson appeared next to him. Wilson was carrying a patient chart and glanced at it as if about to ask Brad a question, but instead asked something completely different. "I was wondering if you wanted to come over tonight." Wilson's voice was completely neutral. "I'd love to." Brad tried not to sound too delighted. Or desperate. "Ten OK? See you then." Wilson tapped the chart with his pen, then walked away. The sex that evening was even better; neither of them were quite so frantic. Wilson topped this time, and the feeling of Dr. Wilson's cock easing deep in and out of his ass sent Brad into an ecstatic trance. *** Of course it couldn't go on. It was going to end, and somewhere deep down Brad knew it was going to end soon, and messily. Brad had managed to steer well clear of Wilson and House together at work, but that day he had to go to Wilson's office with a pile of forms to sign. He came into Wilson's office, to find not only Wilson working at his desk but also House sitting lounging on the couch in the corner, reading a magazine. "For you to sign, Dr. Wilson," Brad said. Thinking about it later, Brad had to admit, Wilson played it perfectly. "Thanks. Just leave them on my desk," Wilson said, hardly looking up. If only he'd just turned and walked out, Brad rued later, it would have been fine. As it was, he just couldn't resist a tiny glance at House on his way out—only to find House looking directly at him. And Brad really couldn't resist the tiniest of triumphant grins... It was a mistake. As Brad walked down the corridor he suddenly became aware that House was right behind him—House must have directly followed him out. Before he had time to react, Brad found himself levered sideways through a door and into House's office. House shut the door behind them, stood, and glowered at Brad. "You fucked him, didn't you?" "Why don't you ask him?" Brad said, crossing his arms. "Because he's a lying liar and he'd lie to me through his lying teeth. You, on the other hand, hate me enough to want to crow about it." House was absolutely right. Brad said, defiant, "Yes, I have. So what?" House hissed through his teeth and didn't immediately answer. Brad didn't know House well enough to read his expression, though he thought he could see rage and disappointment. "You don't deserve him anyway," Brad added. "You treat him like shit." "You don't know anything about me and you know even less about Wilson, if that's possible," House said witheringly. He turned on his heel and stalked out of his office and back towards Wilson's office. Brad didn't hesitate, but raced over to the window of House's office, and out of the balcony door. He edged along the balcony, hopping over the dividing wall, towards Wilson's window. He was in luck; it was a warm day and Wilson had left his own balcony door open a crack. Brad didn't dare peek in for fear of being seen, but he could hear perfectly. "—don't fucking believe it." House, furious. "House." Wilson, exasperated. "Why do you even care? You've barely even spoken to me for the last week. Locked in your office with that fucking guitar all day." "This is not about me! This is about you!" House shouted. There was a slamming sound, like a cane being brought down hard on a wooden surface. "All right!" Wilson shouted back. "I was depressed! I was lonely, and he was there!" "You were depressed? That's your excuse?" House demanded. "What the hell are those antidepressants for, anyway?" "Doctor changed my meds." Wilson was speaking quietly now. "New ones are taking some time to kick in." House snorted. "Your meds stop working, so you have to cheer yourself up by having sex with the first pathetic schoolboy with a crush who offered himself to you on a plate. Who is not even particularly attractive, by the way." "It's not a question of cheering up." Wilson sounded frustrated now. "It's feeling... empty, utterly empty, worthless, useless, pointless. I just needed—" "You just needed someone to fill that sad empty void with his dick." "I'm not talking about this anymore, House." "Fine." A door slammed. Brad waited for a minute, and then to his dismay, he heard the sound of Van Halen chords starting up from House's office. House was in his office. Wilson was in his office. And Brad was stuck out on the balcony. Shit! Somehow he'd ended up stuck in the middle of House and Wilson. And not just in the sense he was trapped on their balcony. It was not a good place to be in any sense. Brad peered over the edge of the balcony. Too high to jump or climb down. He considered staying out on the balcony, perhaps forever, drinking rainwater and catching stray pigeons to eat. Unfortunately either House or Wilson might find him there any minute, and the longer he was out there, the worse that would be. Also, he felt rather conspicuous on the balcony in his scrubs; he didn't want anyone outside to spot him. He really couldn't think of an excuse for being out there. So, who would it be best to face, House or Wilson? Brad walked towards Wilson's door and went inside. Wilson was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands. He looked up as Brad came in with a sharp look on his face, obviously expecting to see House, only to goggle at the sight of Brad. "Brad, what the hell—" "I'm sorry," Brad said immediately, and carried on speaking before Wilson could ask where he'd come from. "I'm really sorry, Dr. Wilson. I didn't mean to give the game away to Dr. House." "Oh, don't worry about it." Wilson rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "House'll sulk for a few days and he'll get over it." Brad was unsure what to make of this. "Brad," Wilson said—and suddenly Brad knew from the tone exactly what Wilson was going to say and felt his heart break—"I think it would be best if we don't see each other any more, okay?" "What?" Brad's lips had gone dry. He licked them nervously. "Don't say that. Please." "Brad—" Wilson's eyes closed. "I'm in love with you," Brad blurted out. Wilson opened his eyes and glared at Brad. "That's not funny. Don't joke about it." Now he'd started, Brad couldn't stop. "I'm not joking. I am in love with you." "No. Oh Christ. You're serious." Wilson passed a hand over his face. "This was supposed to just be about sex! I asked you!" The conversation had become almost comically farcical. "Whatever you want from me, Brad, I can't give it to you," Wilson said firmly. "Please go away. I can't cope with this right now." "You were using me." Brad was wounded. "You knew that," Wilson retorted. "You're as bad as House!" Brad knew he was hysterical now. He fled from Wilson's office, and went and cried in the bathroom. Eventually he emerged, red-eyed, and went back to work. Fortunately he had a reputation as something of a drama queen, and his colleagues didn't ask questions, just took his demeanor in their stride. *** That evening Brad went out clubbing, picked up a skinny teen with floppy hair and brown eyes, and went back to his place. The sex was quite possibly the least satisfying he had ever had. The next day he went into work and passed House while walking out of the staff lounge. House gave him the most smug, self-satisfied, and triumphal look that Brad had ever seen. Brad instantly understood that House and Wilson had had sorry-and-make-up sex and that it had been good. The following week Brad signed up for the night shift, so as to avoid seeing Dr. Wilson as far as possible. The new hours suited him, and after the first couple of nights he started to feel better. And then he was standing at the nurse's station one night, when who should he see but Dr. Wilson, yawning, walking towards the station in a crumpled old grey hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants. His hair was tousled and he looked for all the world as if he'd just stumbled out of bed. In fact, he looked exactly the same as the morning after the first night Brad had spent with him. Brad felt his heart rip right in two, just as Wilson reached the station. Wilson looked at him but didn't react. "I got a page." "No you didn't." Brad spoke unnecessarily sharply. "Yes I did." Wilson dug out his pager and held it up. Brad was indignant that Wilson should think he, Brad, would be obstructing in this way. "Yes you did, but not from us," Brad said snippily, and walked away to the other end of the nurse's station. From the corner of his eye, he saw Wilson breathe out in annoyance, visibly think, then grab the phone on the counter. Of course it would be a prank, House being a bastard again. Brad stood as far away as he could, but couldn't help but overhear Wilson's end of a bizarre conversation about terrorists and TiVos which made no sense whatsoever. He was starting to understand that House and Wilson had a relationship that was far more complex and dysfunctional than he'd previously realized. Despite this, Brad still couldn't help but yearn to be near Dr. Wilson. The following night, he arrived at work to find his fellow nurses shaking their heads at House's latest way of screwing with Wilson; he'd stolen a patient. Wilson was due to check on the patient soon and they weren't sure what was going to happen. Brad couldn't resist a situation where he knew he would be close to Wilson, could provoke some sort of reaction—something, anything, being better than nothing—and he sneaked into the patient's room and got into the empty bed. He pulled the covers over his head and waited. Wilson came in shortly, talking to what he thought was the patient. Brad didn't dare reply. There was a short pause, then Wilson reached out and pulled the covers down an inch or two; then whisked them down. "What are you doing here?" Wilson was a splendid mix of anger, outrage, and disbelief, partly directed at the situation, partly at finding Brad. "I was taking a nap," Brad said rudely. "Where's my patient?" Wilson demanded, and then his face changed as he realized who was responsible for this. He turned and walked out without another word. Brad knew he shouldn't have been so impertinent to his boss. If he carried on with this sort of thing he'd be in trouble. *** Brad arrived home the following morning, and who was sitting on his couch, but House. Brad could think of nobody he wanted to see less. "What are you doing here?" Brad asked, incensed at the intrusion. "I've come to tell you to start looking for another job," House said bluntly. "Shouldn't be hard; oncology nurses are in demand. Especially with the sterling reference you'll get from your head of department." Brad had been thinking about this himself, but resented having House turn up to tell him what to do. "What if I don't want to?" House shrugged. "You'll condemn yourself to a life of misery working near someone who won't return your feelings. Who's your boss to boot. Big mistake; never sleep with your boss. Unless they're Cuddy." House spread out his hands. "Wilson could get rid of you right now if he wanted to, and if you keep hanging around he'll get fed up with you and do just that. Why wait? Jump before you get pushed. End up somewhere you might actually want to be." "Why do you care?" Brad demanded. "I don't care about you," House said contemptuously. "Suffer and get fired in the end, fine by me. I'm here because I'm a selfish bastard and I want you as far away from Wilson as possible." Brad was silent, miserable. He sat down on a chair. House looked at him, and said unexpectedly, "It sucks being in love with James Wilson." Brad was frozen. "The man is pathologically incapable of keeping it in his pants," House carried on. "He's the best liar I've ever met, except myself. He could manipulate for his country. He thinks he knows what's best for people and lectures the hell out them. And he will never get over his conviction that the right woman is out there, if he can just marry her already. No number of divorces seem able to convince him otherwise." "So why d'you put up with him then?" Brad said sullenly. "Interesting you ask, as up until a few days ago I think you'd have asked, why does he put up with me," House said shrewdly. "And surely that is the more interesting question. You said I treat him like shit, right? Well." House put a finger to his chin and mused. "Over the last twenty years I've junked his car a couple of times, and borrowed several really quite large sums of money which somehow I've never got around to paying back. Not to mention taking the roof over his head, the clothes off his back, and the food off his plate, frequently. I've cost him his job, his patients, and his professional career, though he's bounced back OK from those. I didn't wreck his marriages, though he likes to think I did. I have wrecked some other relationships of his. I've endangered his health, I've pushed his ethics to their limit, and I've stolen his identity. And worst of all, I make him keep prescribing for me." House reached into his pocket for his Vicodin bottle, opened it, and dry-swallowed a pill. "I make him keep on and on prescribing these little sweeties, and he does it even though they're destroying my liver and will eventually kill me. It must kill him to have to do it." House paused, then concluded, "Basically, it sucks being in love with James Wilson. But it must be hell on earth being in love with me." "You deserve each other." Brad reached the logical conclusion. "I'm glad you see my point." House picked up his cane and stood up to leave. *** That night Brad dreamed he was stuck on a balcony with House blocking one exit and Wilson the other. In the end he jumped off to safety. House was right; Brad found it easy to get another job, indeed a better job. Wilson gave him an excellent reference without saying a word, and Brad persuaded Brenda to give him a peer review, exploiting the soft spot he knew she had for him (though she concealed it well). In return, he told her a little of what had happened between himself and Dr. Wilson, having first sworn her to secrecy. He didn't go into much detail, or mention House. He didn't need to; Brenda was thrilled. On his last day, Brad had a goodbye party at the hospital, in the cafeteria, just as Foreman had had. Wilson was there, being the good boss, making a little speech, presenting the goodbye card and gift, his voice and words and body language never giving away anything untoward in the slightest. Brad accepted it all happily and did his best to ignore Brenda standing in the corner smirking knowingly. Later Brad noticed Wilson slipping away from the party. Brad peered to see where he'd gone, and saw him sitting with a man in a baseball cap. Wilson had brought his glass of wine out with him. Brad watched as House reached out, grabbed the glass, and took a gulp. Brad smiled and went back to the party. END

Billy wakes up to the sun on his face and the smell of coffee. It's early yet, to judge from the snap in the air, but a touch later than is his custom, and he blinks against the brightness as he works his way out of his sleeping roll. Campsite looks unmolested, with the horses grazing placidly off to one side. Lando's not in sight, but Billy can hear him on the other side of the rise, and there's a pot of oatmeal and a kettle of coffee warming next to the fire. He straps his gunbelts into place, flipping each revolver open to check the chambers (fully loaded, as he left them) before settling them in the holsters. Hat and boots come next, after a quick check proves them free of invaders, and he retrieves his coat from where it was pressed into service as a pillow. His roll comes together easily enough, and he straps it down tight and tosses it over next to his pack. Morning ritual at its end, he climbs to his feet and stretches, one hand braced against his head to a cascade of pops down his spine. The coffee is Lando's usual rivermud, but he's done a fair job on the oatmeal, and Billy works his way through both at an easy pace before heading down to the water to wash the dishes and his face. This spot is a favorite of his: a decent-sized clearing on the south side of the Purgatoire, where the big rocks catch the sun all day and the cottonwood trees hide the camp from the road. He found it by accident on his first trip to Denver, and in the years since there's been no sign that anybody uses it but him. He usually makes at least a day's stop, if he can afford to; the fish will bite a line left tied and drifting, and one of the eddies makes for fine bathing after a few hours of sun. For now, though, he contents himself with scrubbing a cupped-handful of chilly water over his face and neck and taking a few minutes to appreciate the view before he heads off to find Lando. He's in the first place Billy checks, an open stretch of rocky ground not a hundred yards over from their campsite. There's a heap of small boulders at one end, and Lando's circling around them with his arms full of a truly bizarre assortment of objects: smaller rocks, a couple branches, a bird's nest, what could be a badger skull, and something that looks like an old boot the river tossed up. With great deliberation, he places a rock down on a boulder, squints up at the far end of the clearing, adjusts it, circles the whole formation, squints again, and selects the next object. Billy smothers a grin and leans up on the far side of a cottonwood to watch him work. It takes a while, Lando fussing with each piece of detritus and muttering to himself or humming snatches of melody. After he's got the last piece settled (the badger skull, balanced precariously on one end of a branch wedged upright) and has stepped back to admire his handiwork, Billy pushes off his tree and saunters out into the sunlight. "You taken up a hobby I should know about, Lando?" he calls. Lando turns and grins broadly; he's not usually this chipper in the mornings (Billy's gotten used to having to yank the bedroll out from under him to get him moving), but today he's practically beaming with good humor. "Look, Bills!" he hollers, gesturing back at his pile of boulders. Mentally calculating how much coffee had been drunk when he'd woken, Billy raises an eyebrow. Lando glares a little and steps to one side, throwing both arms out to frame the sculpture with a flourish. "It's a shooting range!" Billy's one eyebrow -- the eyebrow of skepticism, Lando thinks of it privately -- arches further upward, but on the usual scale of these things it's not too doubtful (which is to say it's only about an inch higher than his other eyebrow, rather than winging up like it's trying to retreat into his hairline), so Lando chooses to take it as a good sign. He grins, and Billy's eyebrow lowers very slightly. "I'll need to practice, Bills; you said I'd need to practice," he reminds Billy, and watches the eyebrow lower itself so that it's even with its partner again. "I did say that," Billy says, which would be agreement coming from anyone else, but which Lando has figured out by now is merely a statement of fact when Billy says it. Lando's hand drops to the butt of the revolver hanging low on his right side; the weight of it is still new enough to be distracting and unfamiliar, but he feels that little spark of excitement at the feel of the smooth bone under his fingertips. It isn't new, of course; guns are expensive, and though he and Bills are holding plenty comfortably, they're nowhere near comfortable enough to just buy a new revolver on a whim. And besides that, Bills had said it was a good idea to find out if Lando had a feel for a pistol before they sprang for something fancy. So it's not new -- and there's just the one, no reason for two until Lando proves capable, also according to Billy, no matter how desperately Lando wants to wear the double gunbelts -- but it is nice, a good gun. Billy had spent quite some time looking over what had been available, had hefted them, spun the cylinders on a few, and eventually, had broken this one and another down to be sure everything was clean and in good order before telling Lando to take his pick of them. Every time Lando touches it, he still feels the echo of his delight. Mixed with the delight is a healthy dose of nerves, however. He's got no real idea how well he'll do with a gun. It's not like poker, he figures, because a lot of learning poker for Lando has been a process of slow absorption. There are the rules, yeah, and Billy has made sure he knows them backwards and forwards, but much of what he understands about the game he's learned from watching Billy play it. He thinks this will be different, and not just because he hasn't had much chance to watch Billy use his guns. This is going to take a hell of a lot more practice before he's good at it, he thinks; it's unlikely that the knack that he has for poker is going to apply. None of that stops him from being wildly excited, however, and he shifts anxiously from foot to foot, watching Billy as he considers each of the objects Lando has scattered about the scrubby expanse of earth nearby. He's made no attempt to make it easy for himself -- has done just the opposite, in fact, as it seems to him that being good at something when the doing of it is made easy is no real skill at all -- and he wants to ask Billy if he approves, but can't quite bring himself to do it. There've been times, of late, that he can feel Billy's impatience with Lando's lack of self-confidence, and Lando doesn't want to rile Billy right now. Not when he's angling for a lesson. So he stands quiet and still is he can -- which is not entirely -- and waits for Billy to finish considering. Billy frowns and turns slightly to scan the area nearest the road, then cocks his head to squint up at the angle of the sun, one eye mostly closed. He turns his head and spits on the ground and rolls his shoulders as though to settle himself. "I reckon now's as good a time as any," he says, and Lando grins and resists the urge to whoop triumphantly. Lando's got that look right now that reminds Billy of a half-grown herder dog waiting for the practice call, like he could be off and running before a word'd make it fully out of Billy's mouth. Lately, he's been seeing Lando shed youth (and its attendant stupidity) with unconscious but rapid ease, baring the frame of his permanent character. And he's steadying remarkably--just a few months ago he would've been bouncing on his heels, literally, with no notion until Billy called him on it. Now he's standing there, hand casual on the butt of his gun, and only the slight drumming of his index finger on the gripstock gives him away. Billy watches it out of his periphery, and holds off a smile, and thinks that this keen excitement will always be a part of Lando. One day he'll be able to sit at a High Stakes table and hold a royal flush like it's the supper menu, no mistake about it, but in the back of his mind where no one can see it, his bootheels will be bouncing. Now, though, that abundance of energy is a liability for the lesson at hand, so Billy tilts his head and says, "Go fetch my kit -- make sure to get the oil with it -- and a box of bullets. Bring the .44s too." Lando waits an extra beat, to make sure Billy's finished (age and experience have also conspired to make him a better pupil), and then his smile cracks wide open and he takes off for their campsite at a dead sprint. Billy wanders over to a large flat-topped rock, settles himself next to it, and starts considering how best to go about this. When Lando comes back into the clearing, it's at a brisk but more sedate walk (and good thing, too, because Billy would've blistered his ears for running with his gun kit and two boxes of ammunition), and the exertion seems to have grounded him slightly. Billy takes the bullets first, setting them off to the side, and then spreads his kit out on the rock in front of him. He holds one hand out while the other continues to sort his tools; it takes Lando a second, but he cottons on just before Billy has to cut his eyes up in a prompt. He lays his gun carefully in Billy's hand (it's warm to the touch) and drops into a crouch beside him. "I'll teach you this later," Billy says, flipping the catch and tipping the barrel up to double-check the chambers. "For now, just watch." Lando nods and leans in, eyes keen, as Billy begins to disassemble the revolver. It's an S&W Model Two Army, same as Billy's had been before he'd managed to lay hands on a pair of Model Three's. He intends to boost Lando to the same, provided Lando shows a knack for this, but in the meantime he doesn't feature ending up in situations that'll rest on Lando's ability to reload in seconds, so the Model Two'll do for now. It's a good gun besides, if a little fragile at the top hinge, and Billy's still got the proper tools for it. So far, it looks to be well cared-for; the components are yielding easy enough under punch and screwdriver and plier, and he's not finding anything worse than a bit of grime and caked-on grease. Having broken the gun down to his satisfaction, he unstoppers the gun oil and dips the first of the brushes in it. "You need to clean it nightly," he says, scrubbing out each of the chambers, "cylinder, barrel, and frame at least if you can't get a clean spot to take it apart. If there's been rain or dust, especially both, always do the full job. Same if you've had occasion to fire it; trouble comes in decks." There's a stubborn little stain above the trigger; he works it over with the chamois. "If you scrimp on the maintenance, you won't notice much at first, but the pins'll come to stick and the screws'll give over time, and you're liable to learn of it staring down the barrel of another man's gun." Cadence follows action as he polishing the pins down and checking each of the screws for wear or stripping. A couple of the springs want replacing, but they're sound enough to learn on, and they can stock up on spare parts in Denver. There's not much more to say, as he's saving the hows of the maintenance for later, so he goes silent to concentrate on what he's doing. As always, Billy finds the methodical nature of the work soothing, cleaning and examining each bit of metal, laying them all on the cloth with deliberate care. When all the pieces are gleaming, he seals the oil and starts the reassembly process. It's both easier and more difficult than taking the gun apart; there's nothing there now to gum up the works, but even a slight mis-set will cause problems later. Billy takes his time, lining the starter-punch up precisely, double-checking the angle before each tap of the hammer. He's aware of Lando's eyes tracking his movements, Lando's fingers twitching in mimicry as he commits it to memory. It's an enviable knack, the way his body soaks up what his eyes witness, and Billy's got no doubt that he'll find Lando's half-learned this when he goes to teach it to him. The hinge-screw twists into place, and Billy spins the cylinder, checks the action on hammer and trigger. Thumbing the barrel catch, he gives the gun a firm shake to test for rattle. Everything's as it should be. He wraps his tools back up and hands the kit to Lando to tie off while he reaches for the box of .32s. Each cartridge slots neatly into its chamber. When Billy stands Lando does too, right hand drifting out, but he drops it to his side when Billy makes no motion to hand the gun over. Billy cocks his head back a little, to get a better look at Lando's face. "Tell me what you know about shooting," he says. "Um," Lando says, but he's aware enough of himself now to know that no matter how dismayed he might be feeling currently (that would be very), it's not showing on his face. Billy's expression remains neutral in the face of Lando's uncertainty, however, so Lando figures it's okay. It's an honest question, not an excuse to mock. Billy does mock, but it's fairly gentle, a form of ribbing Lando had witnessed growing up (between brothers, sometimes, or hands on the ranch). Lando's never actually been a party to that kind of thing before Bills, though, and even now he's not used to it. He shrugs and backs up a couple of feet so Billy won't have to crane his neck to look at Lando. "Not much," Lando admits. "Not much more than you point the end with the hole in it at what you want to shoot." He hooks his thumbs into the stiff, new leather of his gunbelt and forces himself not to rock or bounce. "I haven't ever even shot a rifle or a shotgun. My step-father kept them under lock and key." Billy nods his understanding of this, but doesn't say anything, which Lando takes to mean he's to keep talking. He considers for another minute, then gives into the urge to rock a little on the balls of his feet. "Well, then," he says. "I know you have to cock the hammer back to fire. I've heard that you have to aim with both eyes to get the right perspective, even though a lot of people don't, but I don't know that that's true. I think it must be, though, since it's true enough with a slingshot." He thinks again, casting one eye toward the gun Billy's still holding, and adds, "I know a gun that size will kick like hell." He takes another minute to think -- it seems fairly ridiculous that that's all he can come up with, but that seems to be the case -- and then sighs. "I guess that's it, practically speaking," he admits. Billy nods. It's about the answer he expected, and one that told him what he wanted to know. "Good. You won't have to take time to unlearn bad habits." He hands the gun to Lando and walks to the center of the clearing, stopping about forty paces' distance from the makeshift range. Lando follows. It's a good set-up, really; nice variety of targets, different sizes, different heights, and not all of them positioned for a clear shot. Billy takes a moment to admire it, then looks over and lets the quiet spin out while he waits for Lando to start them off. Despite what Lando may think (and what he's said on occasion), Billy's hardly a born teacher. In the last year and a half, he's taken to it far more than he imagined he would, but his method is still more instinct than structure. He knows what he wants to teach Lando about shooting, what Lando'll need to know, but there's more than one road into the lesson and Billy's far from settled on which one'd be best. So he opts to pass on the question and just wait and see what Lando does. It's not the kindest way to start, maybe, but he's never claimed to be gentle, and this does tend to get them where they're going as sure as any set course would. A minute crawls slowly by before Lando shifts and tips the gun in his hand, letting the sun catching on the metal. "I don't know how you want me to hold it. For shooting, I mean." He bears Billy's considering look a little uncomfortably but without comment. Picking up a fist-sized rock, Billy tests its weight and then lobs it in a long arc over the open ground. Turning to follow the throw, Lando doesn't flinch when the rock explodes in midair, but he jumps when another shot shatters the largest of the fragments barely an instant after it's been flung loose. By the time he whirls back, eyes dinner-plate wide, Billy's already got his left-hand pistol holstered; he flips the right-hand gun back into the leather, metal still hot from the second shot. He lets his hands rest easy on the grips and meets Lando's eyes. "It depends," he tells him. Lando blinks, following the thread of conversation back, and a little of the admiration and envy fade from his expression as he considers this. "On what I'm shooting?" he asks. Billy tilts his head sideways, less disagreement than redirection, and says, "On the circumstances where you decide to shoot." He looks down at the gun hanging loose in Lando's hand, over at the broken fragments of rock littering the ground beyond them, and then back up at Lando. "When could you shoot a man, Lando?" Lando's face clouds over at the question. Billy thinks that most shooting lessons probably start with how to hit the target (he wouldn't know, he taught himself), but he suspects it won't be Lando's physical ability that sets limits on his gunwork, and he wants them both looking to those other limits now. Voice even and quiet, Billy asks, "When could you kill him?" He doesn't want to admit that the question shakes him a little -- bloody hell, the whole reason this is happening at all is because of the barfight, because of what almost happened that day -- but it does, and he guesses Billy knows it. As well as Billy knows Lando, it's practically a certainty. He feels foolish, he feels young, and he hates that feeling, as always. Of course Billy wants to know the answer to that question. Of course he does. As excited as Lando had been about getting a pistol of his own -- as excited as he still is, in spite of understanding the angles of it -- he hadn't once thought about the most basic reason a man needs one. A rifle or a shotgun might be for hunting, might be for self-defense, but there's no reason for the Model Threes hanging low on Billy's hips -- or the Model Two Lando is holding in his now-sweaty right hand -- except for killing people. He ought to consider the question, ought to give it the attention he knows it deserves, but the simple truth is, he doesn't want to. The idea makes him feel sick and unhappy, fills him with more than a little dread. He remembers the smell of the gunpowder hanging in the air, a smell he usually quite likes, and the way it had been mixed with the sweet tang of cooked blood. He remembers the warm spray of it across his own face. He remembers the mess and the cold, cold look in Billy's eyes, and his mind shies away from the notion that he could ever look like that himself. He doesn't know how to say those things. And he isn't sure he would, even if he did know how. He loves Bills and wouldn't hurt him for anything, and though Billy isn't the kind of bloke that's easily hurt, Lando thinks knowing that Lando doesn't want to be like him, not like that (that the way Billy looks when he's behind the double-dose of death of his guns in both hands is the only time Lando doesn't admire him), might be enough to do it. But he has to say something; he knows Billy, and unless he finds something to say there will be no lesson. And in spite of everything that goes along with the gun in his hand, Lando wants to learn this. Even more, perhaps, than he'd wanted to learn poker, he wants to know this. It's not just the thing in the bar, either. Someday may come the time when there's a bloke behind Billy and there isn't a shot glass at hand, there may come a time when Lando needs to reciprocate that act, and he must be able to do that. As sick and awful as the idea of killing a man makes him, the idea of losing Bills because Lando doesn't know how to save him makes him feel a thousand times worse. "When I have to," he says finally, and is a little surprised to hear his own voice come out low and grim and grating, but certain. Watching the thoughts circle back and forth behind Lando's face sets Billy on alert, because it's clear that they're not pleasant but he can't tell much more than that. And he doesn't think it's because Lando's trying to hide them (he can't quite manage that yet when there aren't cards involved, though he is getting more opaque, more careful), but because they're on new territory now, and Billy doesn't have all the cues he needs to recognize what he's seeing. The hard edge in Lando's voice speaks clear enough -- he doesn't doubt his answer, and Billy doesn't either, not exactly. But necessity's a nebulous thing, with boundaries that shift without warning, and he means to walk them along the edges a bit so Lando knows it too. More than that, though, it's the look in Lando's eyes that makes him wary, because his face is tight but his eyes look wild -- cornered. "And when's that?" Billy asks, and Lando turns his head a little farther, as though he wants to make sure his glare doesn't miss its mark. He looks about as pissed off as Billy's ever seen him, and that ratchets Billy's attention a notch tighter. Voice dispassionate, he keeps fishing. "When he's drawing down on you?" "Yes." Lando fills the sound with a world of aggravation. "If he's pulling a knife?" "Yes." Same answer, same tone. Billy takes them the next step forward. "What if it's a chair, or a whip -- something that'll hurt like hell, but won't kill you?" This time, Lando hesitates a little. "It depends. I don't know. Maybe." His free hand is beating a tattoo onto his left thigh; he doesn't seem to notice. There's a rhythm to this, not unlike tracking, and for all that it's Lando's limits Billy's trying to find, each question feels like he's circling in on Lando himself. Lando feels it too, obviously; the tension in his shoulders is visible out of Billy's periphery, and the hand holding the revolver has wrapped around it, thumb on the gripstock, fingers curving down tight around the outside of the trigger guard. It's a queer way to hold it -- awkward, and a little hateful, as though he's prepared to cast it away. Instinctively, Billy shifts so that his weight's balanced better over his feet. He doesn't feel threatened (he can't imagine Lando ever raising a hand to him, or vice versa), but it's clear they're coming up on something from the way Lando's braced for it, and he wants to be ready when they get there. "Depends on what?" Lando frowns. "On the situation. On whether or not I think he means to kill me. On whether or not I think I can talk my way out of it, or fight my way out of it without getting too messed up. On lots of things. Is there some point to this, Bill?" On any other day, that last snippy question would mean the end of the lesson, and they both know it. In one of their early poker lessons, back when Billy was still struggling to put words to things he'd never intended to talk about, Lando had complained that Billy wasn't telling him anything, that he just sat there and beat him. Billy'd stopped, and stared at him, and finally said, Kid, I'm not gonna teach someone who doesn't want to be taught. He hadn't brought the cards out again for two weeks. But this isn't a poker lesson, and it's not impatience that's putting the fight in Lando now. Billy ignores the question, not to be difficult, or because he doesn't know the answer, but because telling him outright what they're trying to get to would give Lando the means to avoid it entirely. And the more Lando fights this, the more Billy's sure they can't afford not to get into it now. Lando waits, mentally getting a grip on his temper, just waiting for Billy to say something sharp, or just turn and walk off. It's a lesson, just a lesson, he tells himself -- and he knows that this isn't all that different than the way Billy usually goes about teaching Lando things, it only feels different -- but it doesn't dispel the sense of being ... pushed, somehow. Cornered. He waits, certain that Bills will call it off, and only half-regretful of that. But Billy doesn't do it. Instead, he ignores the question entirely, and carries on as though Lando hadn't said a word, as though there hadn't even been a good two or three minute silence in there. "Could you kill on a job?" he asks, voice inflectionless, and something hard and heavy settles in the pit of Lando's belly, something that feels suspiciously like dread. "To protect a boss, his trade or his goods?" Lando looks away, squints up at the sky for a long moment, and tries to put whatever it is aside. He feels it, whatever it is, feels it like a threat hovering at the edges of his perception, hummingbird-quick, too quick to really track with your eyes. Like a bullet, like the moment when everything empties out of Billy's eyes, like the movement of his hands as he draws ... He shakes his head a little, not a negative, just a motion, movement to try and let off some of the tension he can feel coiling under his skin. He shifts his gaze out to the shooting gallery, picks out the badger skull with his eyes, stares fiercely at it while he tries to get ahold of himself. "Lando," Billy says, and it's a prompt, but it's an unusually gentle one. Any other time, Lando would probably appreciate that, would value it (because while Bills is a lot of good things, patient is not one of them), and even now he knows that he must've gone quiet for a while, a minute at least, for Billy to actually say something, but he can't ignore the sharp uprising of aggravation that flares in his chest and tightens his shoulders. "I don't know, dammit," he snaps, tongue just a hair faster than his self-control, and that will be the end of this for sure. Lando runs his free hand through his hair -- it's so long now that his fingers tangle briefly in the curls and he has to tug them free, which only aggravates him more -- and sighs. "I don't bloody know," he repeats, more harshly than he means to, but less snappish than before, at least. The weight of Billy's gaze is enormous. Lando can sort of see it out of the corner of his eye, though he doesn't turn to look. He doesn't want to see that cool, distant look Bills gets on those few occasions on which Lando manages to actually offend him, rather than just aggravating him. "Lando," Billy repeats eventually, and his tone is still quiet and calm. "We're trying to answer your question." Huh? he thinks, but doesn't say, some shade of his mother reminding him silently that "Huh" is not a word, but that's almost periphery to what he's actually thinking. He's actually thinking that he doesn't belive Billy has ever spoken to him with quite this degree of patience, with such deliberate intent not to rile Lando, and he can't help but respond to that by doing his damnedest to comply. He shakes his head again and forces himself to think about what Billy's saying. "What question?" he asks, because he honestly doesn't remember what he'd even asked, and he asks it calmly, if perhaps not exactly nicely. "You asked how you're supposed to hold a gun while you're shooting," Billy says, still with that same steady patience. He's just looking at Lando, his expression serene but focused. He's never looked at Lando like that as far as Lando can recall, and it unsettles him. The weight in his belly turns over oddly, almost fluttering, and Lando is so uncertain of what that look means, and of what his own reaction to it means, that he blinks and looks away. It takes him a moment to come back to the thread of the conversation, and it occurs to him that this is by far the hardest beginning to anything Billy has tried to teach him yet, and that hardly bodes well. He shrugs the thought away with difficulty, and takes a deep breath. "I'm not following you, Billy," he admits with deliberate calm, though he doesn't look at Billy again. Lando's grimace is frustrated and weary, the same face he wears toward the end of a messy day of field labor. Billy can sympathize -- they've spiralled pretty far from the nominal topic, and he hasn't given Lando much of a map to follow. He's not ready to, not quite yet, but he cuts back to beginning in hopes that something concrete will make the going a little easier for Lando. "Well, for one thing, it matters whether you've got it out or not when you start shooting." Lando sucks a slow breath in and turn his head away. Billy waits, watching a muscle twitch at the edge of his jaw, the only part of his face his can see. The sun's climbing higher, and the quiet hangs still between them. Lando lets the pent-up air out of his lungs, his shoulders dropping into a slump. "Sometimes you're an ass, Bill," he says to the far side of the clearing. The hand holding the gun sinks to his side. The response rocks him back a half-step, though he doesn't mean to move. Lando half-turns at the sound of pebbles shifting; his gaze aims itself at some patch of ground a few yards in front of him, as though he doesn't quite want to look at him directly yet. Billy, for his own part, stands there and waits for the strange pressure in his chest to dissipate. It's an unfamiliar feeling. Anger (at himself for not being better at this), regret (because he knows bone-deep that easing off will only sink them later on), and other things too dense and unfamiliar for him to put names to them. The silence drags itself out long enough that Lando looks up at Billy, his face wary and shuttered. "I'm not going to run you around for fun, Lando," Billy says, and the words come out quiet. Lando studies Billy's face, considering this (and it's uncomfortable, being looked at right now, but he can't pin down why so he just waits under it); a little of the tension unwinds itself visibly from Lando's shoulders, and he scrubs his free hand across his face. "Okay," he says, and then, less clearly: "Sorry." It's not, obviously, but this moment is getting thicker than Billy'd really like, so he sidesteps the apology and turns back to the task at hand. "That's all right. But you need to know these things, or at least start thinking on them, and I need to know what to teach you." Lando nods and shakes his shoulders, the way a horse dislodges a fly. He's back to studying the far edges of the clearing again. "We know almost enough to start. If you can manage a little bit more, we can move on to the easy part." As irony goes, it's pretty weak, and Billy's left waiting to see if he's managed to coax Lando back in. Lando suspects he should find the gentle, steady calm in Billy's voice soothing, even comforting, but he's still feeling too jittery to be able to appreciate it. He can feel a muscle in his jaw jumping, but he can't quite unclench his teeth enough to make it stop. But since he believes Billy when he says he isn't going to run Lando around for fun (or he wants to, anyway), he keeps his gaze fixed on the shooting gallery he's set up (what now feels like hours ago, when he was still thinking of this whole thing as fun), because he doesn't want Billy to know how angry he still is. Justified or not. Just get through it, he thinks, and it should be easy because God knows he's done it often enough, just stood still and let his step-father lecture him about being a man or rant on Lando's shortcomings (or even worse, on Lando's father's failures, with Lando, with the ranch, with whatever he happened to be riled about that day). Let whatever it was just unravel until he finally ran out of words or temper. But this is different. He's never had to endure something like it from Billy, not like this. Bills hardly says anything about what Lando does wrong; he's naturally fairly spare with words, anyway, which is what makes winning praise from him so ... worthy. When Lando screws up, it's usually just, "Try it again," or "You can do better," or occasionally an explanation as to why what Lando did won't work. But. He won't quit. He won't. So. "Yeah, okay," he says, and feels more than sees Billy nod. He can't help bracing himself a little for whatever is still left that Billy wants to know. Just get through it, he thinks again -- because he guesses it must be something Billy thinks is important if he's willing to put up with Lando's sullenness without comment -- but he still isn't ready for it when Billy says: "Could you shoot a man who didn't know he had it coming?" He flinches, he can't stop it, and half-gasps, "No!" It feels a little like the words and his breath are being shoved out of him by a painless blow to the gut, but while it doesn't actually hurt, there's some kind of rolling, thunderous panic blossoming there, and he's horrified to feel a tell-tale burning at the backs of his eyes. "Christ, Billy, no!" "Hey, hey now," Billy says, his voice now faintly concerned. He steps forward (and Lando draws himself in, feels it happening without being able to stop himself, and sees Billy seeing it, though he can't tell from Billy's face what he thinks of it, as per usual), and sets a hand on Lando's back, directly between his shoulder blades. Lando blinks -- he isn't sure what he'd been expecting, but that wasn't it -- but doesn't move away. For a long moment Billy just looks at Lando. There's a little verticle line between his brows and his eyes are slightly narrowed, which is how Billy looks when someone seriously pisses him off, but it's different. It takes Lando a few more seconds to translate that expression into worry, and when he does he feels a little flare of something behind his breastbone. He might've said something stupid, then (he can almost feel the urge to apologize crouching in his throat, right under his Adam's apple), but Billy tilts his head a little and takes Lando by both shoulders, turning him (and Lando's too surprised to resist even a little) a bit so they're facing each other. "I," Lando stammers, "I can't, I..." Billy gives him a single, gentle little shake, and Lando blinks again. "I don't reckon you're ever going to have to," he says quietly, and it sounds an awful lot like an promise to Lando. The flare of warmth behind his breastbone blazes for a moment, and Lando's breath catches, hitches unsteadily. "You just need to know so you don't find out the wrong answer at the wrong time." He pauses and gives Lando another little shake. "Okay?" he murmurs, and Lando nods a little dazedly. It's Billy's touch that calms him, really. Billy hardly ever touches him, so it's not expected, and it's soothing, even with the way Lando's head suddenly feels like he's been clipped a good one in the ear. Billy just continues to look at him, so Lando says, "I'm fine. I just ..." He shrugs, trying to shake off whatever it is that's making him feel so ... off-balance, all of a sudden. "I said when i have to, Billy. And that's what i meant. Have to." He waves one hand, gesturing a little aimlessly sort of in Billy's direction. "I'm not ... I won't ..." He trails off, uncertain how to say what he wants to say. Lando doesn't finish and Billy's doesn't need him to, because it's clear enough where that sentence is headed. Concern (a strange feeling, not one he's used to) drains away and leave its space for something colder, a cloud in front of the sun. I'm not: like you; I won't: do the things you do. It's true, all right, even more than in the telling of it, because Lando has seen Billy kill, but he doesn't know all the killing he is capable of. There are other deaths, delivered by steel, by lead and fire, that a better man would wear as a scar on his soul and a worse one as a notch in his belt. Billy carries them as scuffs on the metal of his guns -- they're there, all right, but they hold no weight and the memory of them doesn't slow his hand. Billy is not a good man. Lando will be. Nothing that true needs to be said out loud. He lets the brim of his hat shade his face for a moment and slides his hands an inch or so down Lando's arms, squeezes once before letting go. "Let's do what we set out to do," he says. "I'll talk you through it." Lando curls into himself a hair more -- Billy can't tell if it's at the thought of firing a gun or if his shoulders have just been waiting to hunch and can now that Billy's hands are gone -- and he glances down at the revolver in his hand. His grip's changed again; he's holding it properly, hand curled around the stock, index finger resting along the trigger guard, but with a cautious edge he hadn't had at the start of the lesson. Since the day they bought it he's held it with care, but the same care he'll show for a toolkit or a deck of cards. Now he's holding it like a weapon. Billy watches a little more of Lando's youth rise off of him, steam in the morning sun, and doesn't know whether he should be sorry to see it go. "Okay, yeah," he says, straightening his shoulders and lifting his eyes from the gun. "What first?" "First," Billy tells him, "I want you to holster your gun." Lando's head turns a little at that, chin coming up, and Billy lays out the shape of his thoughts before Lando can get the wrong idea. "When you're shooting out of necessity, it's a safe bet you won't be drawing till you mean to fire. That means you're gonna have to do it all in one motion, and you're going to be aiming and firing from the hip. It's not as easy as having your gun right out in front of you, but the skill you're going to use is the one you want to practice." Lando's face clears as he listens to the explanation, visibly linking the physical task to the net of questions before. Billy's damn relieved to see the suspiciousness dissipate; he's not good enough at this to get to the heart of the matter by talk alone, so it's fortunate that his ass-backwards teaching style has finally looped them to the point he was trying to reach. "We'll take it slow for now; speed'll come with time," he continues, and Lando nods and slides the gun into the holster. "Drop your hand to the gripstock -- is the holster at a good height? Good. You always want to holster on the same side, not border-style. Know why?" Hand resting on the butt of the gun, Lando considers this. "Faster?" Billy nods approval. "Dead right -- takes less movement, too. If your hand's gotta cross your hip, the man you're gunning for is gonna see you moving years before you get there, and swinging back across makes you more inclined to shoot wide." He walks around to Lando's far side and faces the shooting range, making sure that Lando's got a clear view of his right hand. "Now watch. When you go for your gun: get your fingers in place as you pull free. Thumb cocks the hammer back and swings the gun up -- get the barrel level as your hand comes forward -- and you pull the trigger." As he talks, hand and gun match words in a slowed-down version of the technique he's describing. It's a sight harder to keep the draw clean this slow, but this is how Billy taught himself to shoot, running through the motions at half-speed over and over while he isolated all the extra twists and swings that marred his aim and smoothed them out. He hasn't had to practice like that for years, but his body remembers, and the gun slides as surely through the air as though he'd carved a channel for it. He doesn't fire -- no need to waste a bullet -- just finishes with the gun hovering inches from his hip and holds there for a moment before flipping it back into the holster. Billy circles back around to Lando's gun-side, stopping a half-pace behind him, and gestures at the target range. "Go ahead." Lando twitches, straightening abruptly, the invitation to begin somehow taking him by surprise. He turns dead-on to the range and lets his eyes scan all possible targets, though he knows already what he's going to go for. The grinning, empty-eyed skull is just too tempting a target. He doesn't give into the urge to think about the actual mechanics of it; it never helps him to do that. In fact, it would be fair to say that he's only safe really thinking about how a thing is done once he's already comfortable with doing it. Instead, he replays Billy's draw in his head, just the motion of it, and feels the muscles of his shoulders and neck ease as he fixes his gaze on the skull and imagines it shattering. A faint tickle of excitement itches faintly at his skin, and his right hand twitches and settles onto the butt of the pistol easily. And it is easy. It feels just right, and he acknowledges silently that while the idea of shooting somebody makes him deeply uneasy, the idea of shooting itself ... Well. He likes that just fine. "Just the draw?" he hears himself ask, as though from a distance. "Or do you want me to actually shoot?" "The whole thing, and keep the gun out when you've fired," Billy says, his voice falling into what Lando thinks of as his "teaching cadence," a slow rise and fall of voice that indicates nothing at all, no expectation and no impatience, but rather just conveys information. "Don't think about it too hard, and don't worry if you miss your mark -- we got plenty of bullets. Just pick your target and let's find out what your body knows." The itching of his skin shifts and solidifies into a bright, hard knot in his belly -- he faintly recognizes this as having something to do with Billy's choice of words, but the understanding of that seems unimportant -- and he flexes his fingers on the smooth, warm butt of his -- his -- gun. He doesn't even try for speed. Instead, he goes for a smooth, easy motion, something that feels as natural as this always looks when Billy is doing it, and he's as surprised as he can be when the gun comes out and up not just smoothly, but almost fluidly, like his hand already knew this, and had just been waiting patiently for his head to catch up. His finger finds the trigger by some natural grace, and it all feels eerily familiar, as though he's done this, as though he remembers it in some fashion, and when he squeezes it's an extention of that motion, slow and easy and utterly correct. He isn't surprised when the badger skull explodes, and the flat, heavy crack of the shot doesn't startle him in the least. The kick of the gun is expected, and he rolls his shoulder to absorb it without thought. He stands there for a long moment, after, considering. It wasn't fast the way that Billy is fast -- no one else is that fast -- but it was still bloody fast. He knows it. Easy as poker. Easier. He slides the pistol back into the holster slowly, but doesn't take his hand off of it. He's conscious of his grip on the butt of the gun, of the way the grain feels under the pads of his fingers, and though he isn't consciously looking at any of the other targets he'd set up, he knows where they are, he knows how to move if he were going to try for them. He turns to look at Billy -- also familiar, utterly so -- and sees the gleam in his eyes, the very faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes that isn't a smile, but is, for him. "Bills," he says, and Billy's chin comes up, his eyes narrowing slightly, as though he's heard something unexpected in Lando's voice. Lando doesn't doubt it. He hears it, too. The satisfaction, the cool, bright certainty. He hears it. "I can do this," Lando says. Billy gives a single nod, but Lando shakes his head. "No," he says almost sharply. "I mean. Look." He turns back, and this time he doesn't look at any one target, almost doesn't look at anything at all, just lets his eyes rove over the range, lets his smart right hand pluck the gun from the holster, and he's firing almost at once, watching the old boot flip end over end, a triangular slice of shale disintegrate, the bird's nest explode into a shower of straw and twigs, and he stops only when the click of the hammer is dry and flat, breathing hard and feeling almost feverish. He eases the hammer back down -- apparently his hand had tried to cock it again, fire it again, before he'd registered the lack of bullet on the last shot -- and slowly, carefully, drops the hot metal back into his holster. In the back of his mind, Billy's aware that he's holding his breath and has been since Lando's gun cleared leather for the second time. It's not out of surprise (the day he does something that damn-fool obvious is the day he turns in his deck) but a sort of reverence, instinct urging him not to interrupt what he could see coming just an instant before it started. Hands resting on his own pistols (and it's just his own body heat and the sun, but he feels a sympathetic sort of warmth in the grips), he lets himself stare out over the range for a minute. There's nothing new he needs to glean from it; as he looks over the debris, he's running the same five seconds over and over again in his head. The way Lando had moved, gun swinging easy from target to target like each bullet knew what it was meant for and just borrowed his arm to get there. The long narrow curve of his posture, the lazy sweep of his hand. There's a certain casualness some gunfighters get, where every motion is as loose and as sure as the pendulum swinging in a grandfather clock. A sort of deceptive slackness that, in Billy's experience, comes with vast familiarity, a taste for murder, or being more than a little touched in the head. Lando's got none of those qualities (jokes about the last aside), but he's got that look about him even with his hand resting on a gun still hot from the first shots he's ever fired. Lando's no killer and they both know it, but if Billy came upon him as a stranger, he'd keep both hands free. The queerest part, though, is how steady he looks. From the first day Billy picked him up on the road, Lando has had a mercurial quality about him, like he's always a moment away from being somewhere else. That's gone now, like emptying the chamber knocked him into place. Billy looks him over, trying to take in the difference, and Lando stands easy through it. His eyes are bright, his face a little flushed -- and what's not there, Billy realizes, is Lando's perpetual question: did I do all right? He may be waiting patiently for Billy's judgment, but it's plain as day that this time he's judged his own performance and known its worth. He looks like a man. It's a strange realization, and Billy tips his head a little under it, runs his thumb along the brim of his hat and smiles. Lando cocks his head a little at Billy's chuckle, and Billy hooks his thumbs into his gunbelts and leans back to grin up at the sun. "I don't even know why I'm surprised," he says to the placid blue sky, and he looks back in time to catch Lando's own smile spreading wide. They share theirs between them for a minute. "All right," Billy says, and he reaches over to claps Lando on the shoulder without really thinking about it. "Reload and show me that again, a little faster, and then we'll see how you shoot when you're moving."

Billy flips the new card (eight of clubs) up, glances at it briefly, and then lays it face down on top of the folded stack in front of him. He learned years ago that the less he looks at his hand, the less he touches it, the more it tends to unnerve his opponents. Not that his current opponent poses any kind of a challenge. But right now he's a hell of a lot more amusing to watch than the cards ever are, and Billy intends to remember every minute of this afternoon for years to come. Orlando's frowning a little in concentration, but other than that, his face is as neutral and even as he ever gets it. It's impressive, really, how far he's come, only it's hard to be impressed by someone who's swaying one way while the cards he's holding sway another. A little more tequila sloshes out of the tumbler in his other hand, and Billy fights the urge to snicker. "You'll need to play well under a lot of different circumstances," he'd told Orlando that morning. "Can't let your game slip because you're not at your best." "Besides, in some halls, you're expected to drink at the table." Blearily, Orlando's gaze swims back up to Billy's face. "I'll see your nickel," he slurs, taking another swallow of tequila, "and I'll raise you two bits. The cards blur and shift in his hands. Orlando steadies them with deliberate concentration, because no shifting, shifting is bad. He distinctly remembers Billy saying so... one time... some time... Wait, is it his turn? He glances up at Billy, and the room does an odd little motion blur thing, like when on the ranch he would ride, fast and far, so brassed at his stepfather that hot tears prickled at the backs of his eyes and he couldn't see anything but what was right in front of him, trusting his horse to keep him safe while his chest burned and his jaw ached with tension from clenching his teeth... Wait, is it his turn? What was he doing? Oh, looking at Billy, yeah. Billy isn't looking at him. Rather, he wasn't, but now he looks up and he is, and wow, his eyes are green. He isn't smiling, but he still looks amused, which changes the lines of his face into something less stern and harsh, even if it isn't a smile. Orlando doesn't smile back -- or look amused back, because it's not actually a smile, is it? -- because he's practicing looking neutral and bored. Tequila is not good, he thinks carefully, but he takes another drink anyway, cause he'll be damned if he'll tell Billy that. "See you," Billy says, sliding two bits into the center of the table. "Raise you," he adds, and slides another three forward. Orlando wonders if he's not naming his bet just to see if Orlando is too drunk to remember how to count. Orlando considers his cards. Two pair is a damn good hand, which he knows in spite of the blur of his mind, which is pretty much obliterating everything else he knows. Seeing as one of the pairs is queens, it's a very good hand. He flickers his eyes up to Billy, but there's nothing there for him to read, as usual. Doesn't matter, though, as he's at the end of the round, and the only real choice now is to fold or call, and he's not going to fold with two pair. He slides his three bits into the pot with a fingertip on each coin. "Call you, Bills," he says, and for a second, Billy's face flickers into open amusement. Orlando arches one brow pointedly, and makes a come on gesture with two fingers. There's a grin lurking in his chest, but he keeps it there, with effort. Bills, is it? he thinks, eyeing the bottle. Orlando's definitely had enough to justify the occasional consonant swaps (which he doesn't seem to have noticed he's doing), but this sounds to Billy like something Orlando might've been using in his head for a while now. Oddly, he finds that he likes it. He reaches out and flips his hand, fanning it out neatly as he does. Laying the cards out one by one is showboating, a amateur's confidence trick, and it's a habit he doesn't want Orlando picking up until he understands when (and when not) to use it. The hand is neither bad nor much -- pair of jacks, ace high -- but he's pretty sure he'll be taking this pot. While Orlando's ceased to wear every thought on his face, he's barely grasped the basics of bluffing. With the way he's been betting this hand (slow and steady), Billy's almost positive he's got a low pair and a case of alcohol-induced beginner's enthusiasm. Orlando just sits there, staring fuzzily at the cards. The effort it's taking to keep a neutral face is visible, but the expression he's fighting off isn't. Billy makes a mental note to comment on it later, when he's sober enough to remember the praise. Now, though, he just leans forward and drawls lazily, "You gonna keep me waiting ... Lando?" He's distracted by the nickname only for a second, because the enormity of the situation -- actually honest-to-Christ beating Bill Boyd at poker under his own merits -- just won't allow him to be distracted for long. Poker is a drabble of luck and a pint of skill, Billy says, and while Orlando has won a couple of hands, he's never won a betting game, and he's never won during something that he's still sober enough to recognize as a test. And he's never won without Billy knowing it long before Orlando had. And Billy doesn't know it, Orlando can tell. He can't read Billy -- that's still beyond him, and maybe it always will be -- but he can sort of feel his confidence, that little bubble of certainty that Bills carries around with him, and it's firmly intact. He's expecting to win, not because of any skill of his own, but because of Orlando's lack of skill. He's never had to struggle to keep elation off his face before, and he's finding it a hell of a lot harder to repress than frustration or disappointment ever had been. The effort of it is surprisingly sobering, and he feels like he is almost thinking clearly. "No," he says, and spreads his cards into a fan before easing them onto the table, face up, keeping his face still as he meets Billy's eyes. "But I believe I'll be hanging on to your thirty-one cents," and he waits for Billy's eyes to settle on the cards before he grins, and adds, "Bills." Billy barely gives the cards time to register before he's replaying the last hand in his mind, and yes, yes, Orlando did it. Played the fives and queens close to the chest, bet wisely enough to keep Billy in the game, kept his calculations off his face, and did it well enough to win even after a pint of tequila. Pride surges up in him, warm and unfamiliar, and he lets out a bark of laughter and smacks one palm hard against the table. "Well played!" When he looks up, Orlando's gaze is still blurry and a bit bewildered, but there's a wide, uncomplicated happiness breaking through his poker face like sun through afternoon clouds. Billy grins right back and gestures towards the little pile of coins in the center of the table. "Your pot," he pronounces, and Orlando blinks, looking a little disoriented. As he reaches for it, one long, loose arm smacks against the tequila bottle, and Billy has to dive to grab it before it hits the floor. Orlando's beet red and halfway through a (slurred and accented) apology-- "Bugger, bugger, Bills, I'm sorry--" but Billy waves him off. "No harm done," he smiles, sticking the bottle safely on top of the dresser beside them, "though I think we'd best end the game now. Don't want you cleaning me out while we're between jobs." "Yeah, alright," Orlando agrees, and relaxes somewhat, now that he's not trying to guard his face and his body to keep from giving away secrets. He slumps down in his chair and cocks one leg, hooking his boot heel on the edge of the chair and winding one arm around his bent knee. He's still holding the glass of tequila in one hand, and he considers it fuzzily for a few seconds. The slightly slippery warmth of the bitter alcohol softening the edges of things doesn't seem so bad, now that he's not trying to actually think through the haze of it, so he takes another cautious sip -- it's about the worst thing he's ever tasted, really, although truthfully it seems to taste better now than it had at first -- and it burns its way down his throat to warm his belly, which is nice, yeah. Billy is gathering the cards up, his fingers quick and precise as ever as he flips them all so they're facing in the same direction, shuffles them twice, fast, and tucks them into their little wooden box. The cards go in the box, the box goes into a soft little pouch, and he's wondered before why Billy bothers with such things, if this particular deck has some sort of sentimental value to him, that he takes such good care of it. Billy has a couple of other decks, and they don't have wooden boxes or deeply red velvet pouches. And Billy only uses these cards himself -- although that's not true anymore, is it? No, Billy lets Orlando use them, now, though he didn't used to. The thought draws a smile up, like it's coming from somewhere deep, somewhere below where the tequila is busily warming his belly, and he just looks at Billy, blinking softly, feeling just fine, warm and triumphant and, yeah, fine. Billy glances up at him, pauses, his bright eyes flicking from Orlando's eyes to his smile, then to the glass of tequila in his hand before he smiles back, clearly amused at Orlando's expense, but Orlando can't be bothered to be embarrassed or irritated by it. "You're going to lose that," Billy says, and nods his head at Orlando's glass. What? Orlando thinks, and looks, and sees that the glass of tequila is tilting rather precariously in the loose clasp of his hand. Whoops! He tries to adjust his grasp, but the glass moves rather more sharply in the opposite direction in had been tilting than Orlando means it too, and tequila splashes up over the rim and across his wrist before he manages to right it. "Bugger," he growls, and puts the glass safely down on the table, feeling cool liquid sliding up his arm. He turns his wrist and catches the droplets about midway up his forearm, spicy and mixed with the salty flavor of his own skin. He tracks them all the way down his wrist and across the webbing between thumb and forefinger, and hopes he managed to catch it all, otherwise he's likely to be all sticky with it. Billy watches Orlando run a narrow pink tongue along the taut skin of his inner wrist and feels something hot and dark uncoil within him. It's been a long time since he's seen someone do that. Done that to someone else. Had it done to him. Not since before he picked Orlando up off the dusty road outside his stepfather's ranch. Months. His mouth goes bone-dry and then slick with saliva as his mind supplies the taste (sun-baked skin, road dust, the double tang of alcohol spilled and sweated out through pores) and texture (silk-soft, unyielding, pulled tight over angles of tendon and bone). He can already hear the sharp drop of breath down an open throat, feel the flesh jump and quiver under his lips. A very long time. Out of sight, his hands clamp down on the seat of his chair hard enough to make the splintered edge bite into his fingers. A kid, he snarls at himself fiercely, just a kid-- no way to know what he wants yet, what he is. And from the back of his mind, like velvet, like smoke-- The same age you were, first time you did that. Years older than when you first knew you wanted it. And he can feel that now, too-- the way his skin had jumped and sang, the pound of his heart against someone else's ribs, the fear, the need. Orlando skims his mouth along the curve of his thumb, and Billy almost runs his tongue along his lips. Almost. No, goddammit. He can feel his throat form the words, hot and bitter. Not now. Not when he's drunk, when he'll think you planned it. Another image, unbidden, swirls up: that night in front of the campfire, Orlando's face when Billy said he'd teach him how to play. That smile, uncomplicated. Unbent. Unbroken. He grabs onto the memory, clings against the tide of want, and forces the mask back into place just as Orlando looks back up, eyes black-bright and quizzical. "We should," Orlando says, and then loses track of what he'd been going to say because his boot heel slips off the edge of his seat abruptly, making him flail for balance until Bills grabs his arm and steadies him, because Bills is quick like that, and not clumsy at all the way Orlando is. Orlando beams widely at him -- "Hey, thanks, Bills," -- and repositions himself to be somewhat more stable, deciding that for now he'll leave both feet on the floor, as things seem to work considerably better that way. Billy is smirking at him again, but Orlando can't really seem to mind it. "We should what?" Billy asks, and Orlando smiles and cocks his head in question, and the room shifts very slightly, so he grips the edge of the table and that seems to work to still things. "We should what?" Orlando echoes curiously and leans forward to rest his elbows on the table, which seems to work even better at making things still the way they ought to properly be. Billy chuckles, which does nice things to the corners of his eyes, makes them crinkly and a little unfamiliar, but in a good way, so Orlando chuckles, too. "We should go downstairs," Orlando says, "to the..." and he gestures downward, the word escaping him, "... to the thing, Bills, we should go down and..." He can't think of what he wants to do down there, though, and Billy's expression makes him think that Billy, at least, doesn't think Orlando's idea is a very good one, although Orlando can't think why. "It's still early," he says, by way of explanation. "Early, Bills." "It's not, actually," Billy says, which makes Orlando glance over at the window, and apparently Billy is right, because there isn't any light showing out there, and Orlando could have sworn it was light out only a minute ago. He slumps down in his chair, forgetting for a moment that he'd been using his elbows on the table to keep the world still, and when he does, Billy's face swims blearily in his vision, soft-edged and gentled, momentarily resembling the paintings Orlando's mum likes, portraits of women and men with soft edges and vaguely wistful expressions. He wonders what his mum is doing now, and that thought brings on a wave of homesickness so powerful it's like vertigo, and he closes his eyes until it passes. It occurs to him that he's drunk, and that his mum would probably not be pleased, so he guesses it's probably a good thing he's here and not there, and that's totally aside from the fact that his step-father would probably react to discovering Orlando in such a state by beating him unconscious. He frowns and opens his eyes, and Bills is looking at him and frowning a little -- he's always frowning a little, even when he's actually smiling -- and Orlando admits: "I think I'm drunk, Bills." "I think you are, too," Billy murmurs, the residual heat from Orlando's arm still tingling in the palm of his hand. Somewhere in the last few seconds, Orlando's eyebrows have knit themselves together, and the hangdog look on his face makes Billy feel bizarrely like apologizing. Instead, he asks, "You been drunk before, Lando?" Orlando shakes his head-- a bit too vigorously, based on the way he sways and grabs the table-- and scrubs one hand across his mouth. "No. 've drunk before, but not like this." He grimaces. "And not tequila." Billy winces internally. "Don't care for it, do you?" This time, he gets a languid hand wave in lieu of a headshake. "No. I mean, no, I don't not like it, it's kind of ... something-- fun, that's the word, it's just ... every time I move, things aren't where I expect them to be." He can't resist a snicker. "Things? Like the bottle?" Orlando grins ruefully and slides a little further down in his chair. "More like my arms. My legs, too. Actually ..." He frowns thoughtfully and tilts his chin up to stare at the ceiling. "I'm not sure those are still attached." That earns him an outright laugh. He laughs because Billy is laughing, and actually he doesn't think he's ever heard Billy really laugh before. It doesn't sound like he'd expected; not that he'd really expected anything, because Billy just doesn't laugh and he'd never really expected him to, but now that he has, it's unexpectedly... bright. Uncomplicated or something, which isn't a word that goes well with Billy in general, but seems to describe the sound of Billy laughing pretty accurately. Bright. He laughs again, and thinks, Lando, because that's twice that Billy's said that, and he thinks he likes it. Knows he does, actually, because he hasn't had a nickname since he was a wee thing, and then it had just been a baby name, the kind of thing a boy has to leave behind once he starts school if he doesn't want the other boys to beat him up. "When I was six," he says, and raises his head up from the back of his chair -- he doesn't actually remember leaning back so far that he couldn't see anything but the ceiling -- to look at Billy. "I couldn't be Orli anymore, you know? Because of school, and because it's a baby name, and so it was just Orlando, which is a pretty crap name anyhow." He smiles at Billy, and Billy doesn't actually smile back, but he seems to be listening, and he doesn't look like he usually does when he wants Orlando to shut the hell up, so Orlando decides to keep talking. It's Billy's stupid fault, after all, for giving him tequila. He suspects he could blame tequila for all manner of things. "Except at home, sometimes, my mum still called me Orli, like when I was sick with mumps, and when I had nightmares, sometimes, about my da. But then my mum married my step-father, and he didn't like the sound of it, and she didn't use it anymore." He frowns slightly, and looks at Billy. Billy is frowning, too. He finds this vaguely encouraging, though he can't think why. "I hate him," he says. He's never actually said it out loud before. Billy doesn't say anything, but he gives a slow, solemn nod, which is very much a Billy thing to do, not bright like his laughter, but solid and dependable and honest, and that's just as good. "He wouldn't like Lando, either," Orlando says, and lifts his glass to swallow what's left of the tequila. It's bitter and warm. "I like it," he says, and looks at the empty glass. "I like it, and I can use it if I want to." A strange mixture of defiance, satisfaction, and old hurt radiates from Orlando like steam off of sun-baked river rocks. After so long at the tables, Billy finds he sees emotion in the space around a person as much as he does in their eyes, hands, or face. It disturbs him a little, sometimes. Emotion's not his preferred stock-- he's mastered it, because it's necessary, and learned to read it, because it's useful, but. He's not what he'd call comfortable with it. Not that he'd call it anything. Because this is not a conversation he'd have. So why is he having it with himself? He shakes his head a little to dislodge the train of thought (and make the haze around Orlando, the one he knows he isn't really seeing, go away). Pull it together, Boyd, he snaps at himself. He's the drunk one, remember? But he can still feel Orlando there, lost and resigned to old memories. Because Orlando's like that, has been ever since Billy met him. Everything he feels just rolls off him in waves. Early on, it was one of the things that occasionally made Billy want to go back and thwap himself for rescuing the kid. Even during his infrequent silences, Billy could hear him thinking so loud that he might as well have kept yammering. It's different now, has been since he started teaching Orlando poker. He speaks less now (though still outtalks Billy about eight to one), and his face and body are calmer, quieter. Billy appreciates the effort, but privately (and very rarely) recognizes that it doesn't matter. He's never had a traveling companion before, and he finds he's too attuned now. The quieter Orlando gets, the more closely he catches himself listening. "They called me William, sometimes. Back home." He's not aware of any desire to speak until he hears the words leave his mouth. "Ma, when I made her worry. Pa, when I did something that he knew'd make her worry. Jack, to rib me." Orlando's staring at him now, keen eyes bright and much more focused then they were a moment ago. A distant part of Billy feels gratified to have knocked him out of it, but he's a little too dumbfounded to find himself talking about this to much care. While most of his mind is still occupied with: What? his mouth apparently decides it isn't done yet. "And after, to help me remember them." Shit. He spends a full ten seconds considering that, and even the dim haziness of his drunken mind doesn't fully cushion the impact of it. Billy doesn't say things like that, doesn't tell things like that, and Orlando -- Lando, he thinks, Lando is who I want to be and Lando is who I will be -- doesn't know if it's a response to what he had said (though it seems unlikely, since he talks about himself fairly often, and it's never brought about any form of reciprocation before) or if it's something else. Maybe he thinks Lando is too drunk to remember in the morning, and it's just something he needs to get off of his chest, and maybe he would have said it no matter what drunken idiot was with him when he needed to say it. But he doesn't really think that. After what, Bills? he asks, but he does it silently, because he knows better than that. He knows better than to ask, after being rebuffed so many times in the early days on the road, when his questions about Billy had been a lot more general than this one. Still. His chest feels almost as warm and heavy with the knowledge that Bills had chosen to impart this little bit of himself, as oblique as it is, as his belly feels under the influence of the tequila, and he smiles slightly, though he knows enough to avert his eyes, so he isn't smiling directly at Billy. He wouldn't want to give the impression that he's smiling in the face of Billy's... pain, or whatever it is. And he's not, not at all. "My mum used to use all three of my names when she was brassed at me," he says, eyes focused on the ceiling, but unsteadily. Tequila seems to affect his ability to focus properly, and he has to concentrate to keep his eyes from blurring out. "Orlando Francis Bloom," he intones, mock furious. "What were you thinking? Have you got naught but rocks in your head, boy!" Billy chuckles quietly, and Lando chances a glance at him. He thinks the smile is genuine. "Imagine the mortification, Bills!" He snorts. "Francis! Enough to get your nose bloodied if the other boys should happen to hear." He sits up, rather too abruptly, it turns out, and even the table can't save him this time. He tumbles sideways, chair and all, letting out a little whoop of surprise that dissolves into a slew of hiccupy snickers that he can't seem to quite get under control. Bills -- who hadn't even tried to save him, the bastard -- is smirking down at him. "Very effective maneuver," he says. "I encourage you to use that move in a game, Lando. It should send your competition into a fit of nerves. Especially the giggling." "I'm not... bloody giggling," Lando protests, through a spate of giggles. Billy arches one eyebrow -- Lando wishes he could do that, maybe he'll practice when he's feeling a little more coordinated, it's a very expressive gesture -- at him, looking a bit like he's on the verge of laughing himself. "Oh, bugger off, then!" Lando grumbles, whapping at Billy's calf, which is the only place he can reach. "This is your fault anyway. Sodding tequila." He scrambles around until he can get a good grip on Billy's trousers and drags himself into a semi-upright position by Billy's right knee. "Be a mate and help me up at least," Lando demands, and thumps Billy on the knee. "I need a piss!" "I see I'll have to teach you how to hold your liquor," Billy smirks down at him. The sarcasm's a lot harder to muster than usual, as one long-fingered hand wraps around his calf and the other--Christ--kneads the flesh above his knee. He lets the eyebrow rise a little higher and refuses to shift his weight to the other leg. His trousers are thick. From that angle, and drunk, it's unlikely that Orlando will notice anything. Unlikely. "Think you can walk?" Orlando's eyes unfocus a little more as he thinks about this, and he starts to sway. Tightening his grip--rein it in, Boyd!--on Billy's leg, he pulls himself a little farther upright, frowns, and confesses, "I'm not actually sure." Billy nods once, reaches down to grasp Orlando's arms, and starts to haul him to his feet. He's stronger than he looks, but he's angled badly and Orlando weighs a lot more than anyone that gangly ought to. He fists Billy's vest and tries to tug himself upward; the motion presses his face into Billy's hip, so that when Billy finally wrestles him into place and starts pulling, he ends up dragging Orlando across the entire length of his body on the way up. Quickly, he transfers his grip to ribs and wrist and drapes Orlando's arm over his shoulders. It's a lot more stable. It also gives Billy a good excuse not to look him in the face until the flush (goddammit) subsides. The heavy breathing can be passed off as exertion. "Outside, Lando," he says, and starts to head for the door. Orlando squawks in protests and digs his heels in, wheeling Billy around and nearly pulling them both over. He grunts and snaps Orlando against him, bracing him upright (as that's apparently what this is going to take) against his own body. His voice, thankfully, remains steady: "Is there a problem?" Orlando goes a little pale at his tone--"steady" apparently leaves room for "violent;" he'll have to work on that--and stutters, "But ... there's a pot, and people, and ... it's far, Bills!" Billy snorts. "In your state, you'll piss on the floor. And I have to sleep here." He settles Orlando's weight a little more firmly against his hip and starts heading for the door. "Don't worry, 'Lando. We'll take the back stairs." As they careen off the doorframe, Bill quietly reflects that the effort of wrestling six feet of intoxicated teenager down two flights of stairs ought to distract him from his own ... condition. And from the conversation that they (thank God) didn't quite have. There are a couple of times when Lando seriously doesn't think they are going to make it down the back stairs. First of all, they're steeper than the front stairs. Which is like the nature of back stairways anyhow, like, to be steeper and narrower and darker than front stairs. Also, he's pretty sure they're moving -- the stairs, not them, because of course they are moving, because otherwise how could they even get down the stairs? They do make it, though, because Bills is both stronger and steadier on his feet than Lando, which is always true, but is even truer right now, because apparently tequila steals things like balance, grace, strength, intelligence, and anything resembling sense. Also, Bills is tense again, not like he was in the room right after Lando won his thirty-one cents, not laughing and relaxed and pleased, but all tight and hard and with his jaw set like he does when he's taking care of something he doesn't think is particularly pleasant, kind of jutting out slightly, and Lando hates the idea that he's the something not particularly pleasant that Bills is taking care of right now, but he can't think how to ask if that's the case or not, and besides that, he really does have to piss, and he really does need help getting there. The outhouse is behind the place, at least, and they don't see anyone. Bills pushes him against the side while he wrestles the door open, and then just wraps one hand around Lando's bicep to steady him while he steps in. "Smells like arse in here," Lando observes, and he abruptly hears the slur in his own voice, and wonders if he's sounded like that all night, and if so, how the hell is Billy even understanding him? "Arse," he says again, trying for more clarity, but without much success. "Arse," he repeats one more time, carefully, and grins, because it sounds about right that time. Billy cocks that eyebrow at him again -- did he think earlier that he wished he could do that? well, he's changed his mind, that's very annoying -- and Lando pokes it with his index finger to make it go back down. "Don't poke your eyebrow up at me, Bills, thatsh... that's very annoying!" "Didn't you have to piss?" Billy demands, but he isn't jutting his jaw anymore, and he actually looks a bit amused, and that's better. "I did!" Lando agrees. "I mean, I do! But you have to shut the door, Bills, even if it smells like arse, because I don't want everyone in the whole bloody town looking at my arse!" Billy looks at him pointedly for long, silent seconds, his eyes skipping from Lando's face down to Lando's foot, face, foot, face -- ugh, this is making him feel dizzy -- foot, face, foot, and then Lando realizes his foot is still outside the outhouse. "Oh," he says. "Right." He directs his foot inside, and after a moment, it complies. Billy shuts the door. Lando hears him snort softly. "I heard that," he mutters, and fumbles at the buttons on his trousers. It takes him several tries to coerce them free, but he eventually manages it, and then he encounters a problem, because the only light in here is coming from the little crescent moon cut out of the door, and even that is only moonlight, and he can't bloody see what he's aiming at. "Should have brought a lantern," he announces. Outside, Billy says something that sounds a bit like, "I couldn't carry a lantern and your drunk ass," but Lando could be wrong. "I can't see to aim, Bills!" Lando complains. "Open the door a little. Just a little!" The door creaks open slightly, giving Lando just enough light to make out the darker cut out hole in the wooden bench -- he's abruptly glad that pissing is the only thing he needs to do, because seriously, that thing looks like it could give a man a bloody painful splinter -- which should do well enough. He sort of braces himself with one hand on the wall behind the bench, and there must be something about being drunk that makes pissing really really good, because the relief of the pressure in his midsection is so profound it's nearly pleasurable. He half groans with relief, and pisses for what surely must be about three years. Then he tucks back in and fumbles one-handed at his fly, because he's still holding himself upright with the other. Eventually he decides that's not going to work, and has a go at it with both hands, and he's almost got one button into its (really remarkably small) hole when he loses his balance slightly and thumps backward into the outhouse door. It gives immediately -- of course -- and before he really knows it, he's laying on his back in the dirt, looking up at the stars, which look oddly streaky and fluid. The sound of a body hitting the inside of the door gives Billy just enough warning to jump sideways as Orlando flies out backwards and lands in a boneless sprawl. A cloud of dust bursts up around him, and Orando blinks once and says, to no one in particular, "Huh." Billy clamps down hard on the rising laughter and comments, mildly, "Ought to be grateful you finished first." Without shifting his gaze, Orlando languidly raises one arm and makes an obscene gesture in Billy's general direction. He smirks, but a small voice in the back of his head whispers, Someone could take that as an offer. He does his best to ignore it. The arm lowers, and Billy waits for the next drunken remark, but it doesn't come. He's an unexpectedly thoughtful drunk, actually more reflective than he is sober, and it cuts through Billy's amusement at his incapacitation. The faint light picks out the edges of his features, not quite well enough for his expression to be readable. In silence, Billy watches Orlando's chest rise and fall and, for the first time, finds himself wondering what he's thinking about. His mother, maybe, or his stepfather, or some minor past incident that there's no way to guess at. In the darkness, the air still wreathed in the unspoken traces of the last half hour, there's a sudden gap in the space around them. Billy's been a poker player too long to feel a real need to fill it, but it's there nonetheless, and it twitches faintly at the creases of his skin. After a couple of minutes pass without change, he steps out of the shadow of the outhouse and, extending one hand downward, murmurs, "This isn't the best place for a nap, Lando." "I'm not," Lando whispers (because he doesn't want to speak too loudly, it might disturb the stars), and reaches up to fumble at Billy's hand. "I'm not sleeping, Bills. Look." He wraps his fingers around Billy's hand, smaller and harder than Lando's, and tugs downward. Billy resists for long moments, and Lando wonders blearily what he has against stars, but eventually Lando hears him sigh (he smiles faintly, it's familiar, oddly comfortable and comforting) and feels the resistance wane and fade as Billy comes down to one knee beside him in the dusty dooryard. "What are you going on about, boy," he mutters, but there's no bite to it. "Come down," Lando says. "Come down, Bills, look at the stars." They are bloody amazing, pinpricks of ethereal light embedded in the black of the endless sky. They streak madly every time Lando blinks and leave swirls and streamers of color imprinted on his eyes. "I'm not going to lay in the dirt with you, Lando," Billy says, but quietly, still without the kind of bite that Billy's words often hold, and even as he says it Lando can see him leaning back slightly from the corner of his eye, can see him tipping his face upward to look. "The stars," Lando murmurs, and tugs on Billy's hand again. "So bloody gorgeous," he breathes. The night sky is quiet, to Billy's eyes. Stars, a few faint hazes of cloud, a low-slivered moon. He's seen clearer nights, and more spectacular ones, when the orange globe of the moon loomed large and threatening on the horizon, when shooting stars blazed and burst their doomed glory across the sky. He doesn't see much extraordinary in the darkness above him. But when he tilts his head back down to watch the wonder flow across Lando's face, making his eyelids flicker wide, he gets hints of what he was supposed to see. Lando's eyelids drop to half-mast and don't reopen, and Billy leans in, squeezing his hand slightly. "Time to head back up," he murmurs. "Stars'll still be here tomorrow." Lando blinks, eyes visibly shifting to focus on Billy's face. For a few moments, neither of them moves. A crash from inside punctuates the night, followed by a loud burst of laughter, and nodding, Lando lets go of Billy's hand and starts levering himself up. Deftly, Billy threads one arm around him, grasps a wrist, and lifts him carefully to his feet. Lando sways heavily into him and mumbles thanks when Billy shifts to steady him. Slowly, but with less difficulty than before, he navigates them both back through the door and up the stairs to their room, Lando trailing one hand along the rough walls as they pass by. Reaching back with one hand, Billy shuts and locks the door behind them and guides the stumbling Lando across to drop gracefully onto the bed. Eyes mostly closed, he mumbles something and gropes toward his feet. Silently, Billy bends and pulls both boots off for him, setting them neatly by the foot of the bed, then brushes Lando's hands out of the way and begins to dispatch the buttons on the front of his shirt. The chest beneath them is brown and narrow, hairless as a child's, and Billy is suddenly filled with the memory of himself at fifteen, crushed and half-blind with fever, and his brother helping him in and out of clothes as chills came and went, changing bedpans, fetching water and damp cloths. Singing to him once, the quiet tune cutting through delirium like a cool breeze. Gently, Billy maneuvers Lando's arms out of the cotton shirt, unbuckles his belt and slides the jeans down his hips. Lando moans and twitches at the air against that much exposed skin, and Billy helps him wriggle the rest of the way onto the bed. As he pulls the covers up around Lando's shoulders and reaches to settle the pillow more securely under his head, Lando stretches one hand out blindly and presses it onto Billy's chest. "G'night, Bills," he breathes. His fingers curl around Billy's open collar, hold there, and then his arm drops slowly onto the bed. Billy stares down at him, the smooth clear brow, the narrow bones of his head, the thin curve of too-long limbs beneath the blankets. Lando's shoulders hitch once as he yawns, then sink into the boneless rise and fall of the deeply unconscious. Quietly, Billy reaches under the bed and drags the pot out, moves toward the chest of drawers and retrieves the pitcher of water they filled earlier. Lando doesn't stir. Billy stands, looking at him, and then, nodding once, walks across the room. "Goodnight, kid," he murmurs, and he turns and pinches out the lamp.

When I grow up, I want to be a forester Run through the moss on high heels That's what I'll do, throwing out a boomerang Waiting for it to come back to me They drive. Mostly Nathan drives, and Peter slouches with his booted feet wedged against the edge of the dashboard or his head in Nathan's lap, sunglasses permanently affixed on his face. It's been weeks now, or months, Nathan lost track of time a while ago. It's immaterial at this point, really. At the gas station Peter piles up a mountain of sweets and chocolates. He likes Twinkies, and Oreos, and those disgusting pink things that probably taste exactly as bad as they look. "Real food, Pete," Nathan says disapprovingly, because Peter fills himself up with junk and then he takes a few bites of the burger that he orders at whichever crappy diner they can find and declares himself done. Not that the food they find on the road is much better, but at the very least it's hot and is made up of more than processed sugar. The sugar drives Peter even more loopy than he usually is, and this time the cashier at the counter frowns disapprovingly at them both as Peter tries on a huge pair of sunglasses with a hideous pink frame and says, "Look, Nathan. That's kind of hot right, you gotta admit." "My brother," Nathan says pointedly, and the girl looks less offended, but only slightly. "We'll take those glasses. And all of," he idly picks up a packet that's the most godawful shade of purple, then sets it down again. "These. Please, and thank you." - Back when they figured they still had a chance, or when Nathan did, Peter would read bits of Dad's letters to Mom out loud: Dear Angela, Today I thought of you, so I made it snow. For at least a half-hour, and then I had to stop because the trees were starting to die due to the cold. The leaves don't talk to me anymore. Give my love to the boys. - Arthur "They're not love letters," Peter told him, "Not a single one." "Yeah well, it seems pretty fucking romantic to me. Stop doing that, it's private." "If Ma hadn't wanted us to read them, she wouldn't have given them to you, now would she," Peter said, and scowled. He took off his sunglasses and squinted briefly as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. "I think of you as winter as well, but the end of it, not the beginning or middle." "Whatever, man." Nathan winced even as the words stumbled from his mouth. Too much time spent in this car, and he was starting to sound like Peter. Twenty-eight and regressing to sixteen, and weren't they supposed to work the other way around. "I'm melting snow and slush piles, just great," he concluded finally, and hissed from between his teeth. "No, Nathan," Peter said, all seriousness. "You're the promise of spring." - Most of the time, they don't even pretend anymore. He pushes Peter up against walls, drags him into the backseat of the car, locks them both up for days in shitty motel room after shitty motel room, only emerging, when necessary, for food or beer. Nathan always worries, whenever he leaves, that when he returns Peter will be gone and Nathan will have to start looking for him, but no, Peter is almost always exactly where Nathan left him, arms and legs spread out on the bed, sheets pooled around his feet. "Did you get me my M&Ms," he says this time, raising himself up on his elbows and smiling sleepily at Nathan. Nathan sets the beer down on the nightstand and tosses the brightly colored packet in his direction. "M&Ms, for your highness, as he wishes." "Oh," Peter says, mouth rounding over the O like a pretty pink bow, "I wanted the peanuts. These are plain." Disappointed in his way. "Great," Nathan says, irritated suddenly. "How the fuck am I supposed to know what kind of fucking M&Ms you wanted. You should have been more clear, do I look psychic to you?" Peter only smiles though, sweetly. "You should have just asked. But it's okay, I can eat these." He falls onto his back and tears open the packet carelessly, and a rainbow of candy-coated chocolates rains down onto his face and chest. Peter picks up one and offers it to Nathan. Nathan takes it, but only so he can suck Peter's fingers into his mouth, suck them until they're wet and sticky and tinged faintly with red dye. Nathan blinks slowly, and Peter blinks in response, his eyes huge, almost owlish in the dim light. Nathan pulls their clothes off roughly, and Peter tries to help but he usually just wastes more time so Nathan swats his hands away, holds one finger up impatiently until he settles. Nathan's only half-hard by the time he's done, and Peter gets on his knees, pushes Nathan back until he's on his elbows, watching lazily as Peter's mouth slides, hot and steady, over his cock. "Pete," Nathan says, and he starts when fingers press into him, sudden and invasive. Peter holds him down easily as he shudders and jerks, and after a while Nathan relaxes, rocks into Peter's mouth. He could come just like this, but the night's young yet and he hasn't fucked Peter yet the way he needs to, slow and deep, until Peter makes those startled little bird noises he does, and the foundation of the world starts to shake around them both. "Stay with me," Nathan tells him afterwards, when they finally get around to it, whispers into Peter's ear until he nods, almost imperceptibly, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead and his eyes squeezed shut. Nathan's hands are on Peter's chest, pushing him down, holding him still as he spasms and sobs, the orgasm making him groan. "I love you," he says, and Nathan bites down on his shoulder, hard enough that it almost breaks the skin. He stops before he can come, straddles Peter's ribs, knees sinking down into the too soft mattress. Peter's hands flutter, settle loosely on Nathan's thighs as Nathan jerks himself off, quick and desperate, until he's almost there, then he raises himself up and finishes messily on Peter's face. They leave mattresses sticky with come and drying sweat and the crushed remnants of half eaten candy, but Peter drops extra money and whatever candy's left on the nightstand for the maid. Nathan grabs him by the wrist and drags him along as he lingers, because Peter's always had a hard time letting go of places, even ones likes these. - Nathan calls home sometimes, just to hear Heidi's voice. He will listen to her cheerful "Hello," and then say nothing, strain to hear Monty's toddler babbling or Simon's cooing or crying in the background, until she gets tired of the silence and hangs up. Once, she says, "Nathan?" and he's so stunned he almost answers, but he catches himself just in time, exhales quietly instead. He tells himself that he misses them, that he calls because he misses his life, but the truth is he calls only because he feels guilty. Only because as the time passes by he finds himself forgetting their faces, and sometimes even their names. I have two sons. Their names are Monty and Simon, he scribbles once on a blank card, and tosses it out the car window. I will remember who they are, on another one, watching as the wind catches it and blows it behind them, forever lost. Committing it to memory, to the road. I wish I knew who I was without Peter, he writes on the final card, and then he throws the marker away as well. "You know that's littering," Peter says, and Nathan laughs and stretches, muscles aching from sitting for so long. "You don't have to love them you know," he continues, and Nathan stills, mid-stretch. "What?" "You don't have to love them. There's nothing you need to be forgiven for." He takes Nathan's hand in his, turns his wrist so he can kiss the vein on the inside of it. Nathan feels weak and rudderless, tethered to this place by nothing more than the softness of Peter's lips on his skin. He doesn't pull away, and he doesn't call home anymore. - Nathan had a map laid out on the hood of the car - at some point he'd ditched the Benz for a '69 Charger, but kept his suits - trying to figure out how they were going to get to Los Angeles of all places, because Peter had decided he wanted to go. Nature boy in the most unnatural place on earth, it was oddly fitting. Peter of course was no help whatsoever, he sat on the edge of the driver's side of the hood, swinging his legs and tilting his head back to make the clouds shape themselves into bunny rabbits or castles or wolves being chased by little red riding hood. He had a beer that he was five years too young to drink in one hand, the other one was between his knees, tapping rhythmically on the metal, a little Peter melody, all his own. "I made it rain," he told Nathan conversationally, "For that little girl we met while we were getting ice-cream at that gas station. She told me she loved it when it rained. She seemed sweet. I really liked her." "That's because you both have the same mental age." He folded the map back shut and said, "Okay, I think I know how to get there. It's only a three day drive. Wonderful." Peter didn't respond, but when Nathan passed him by to get into the car, he put his hand out and snagged one of the lapels on his suit, forcefully enough that Nathan had to stop, turn back. "What," he said, and Peter smiled, a wholly secret smile. Nathan just raised his eyebrows at him, and when Peter tugged him gently forward he just went, in a daze somehow, and ended up standing between Peter's open knees, his feet bumped up against the front wheel of the car. "I like it when you're tanned," Peter said, and he traced the line of Nathan's jaw with the still cold lip of the beer bottle. Nathan didn't move when he followed it with his mouth, tongue tracing wetly over cooling skin, but when Peter reached his mouth Nathan shoved him back, grabbed both his shoulders and held him there, so he couldn't move. Couldn't do what his faintly knowing smile said he was planning to. Peter set the bottle carefully down on the hood and said, "Nathan, please." In the end, Nathan kissed him because he was hot, and he was angry, and he had a three day drive to look forward to all on a whim, and because Peter wanted him to. Because Peter's eyes were big and hopeful and he moaned when Nathan buried his fingers in his hair and tugged hard, and he hooked one leg around Nathan's waist to pull him closer still, until they were touching everywhere they could. Nathan sucked Peter's tongue into his mouth, and he responded by snapping his hands to Nathan's waist, pulling urgently at his pants. Nathan batted them away, grabbed both wrists and twisted them behind Peter's back, held them there until he whimpered. "Is this what you want, Pete," he said, but Peter only nodded his head defiantly, and kissed him again. Nathan let go of Peter's arms then and fell to his knees. Belt and buttons, he tugged fiercely and Peter lifted himself up enough so Nathan could slide his jeans and briefs down to below his knee. Peter's skin was too white and he was too thin, but anticipation and need curled in Nathan's belly nonetheless. He pressed his face to the inside of Peter's thigh and kissed him gently, chastely. Peter bucked unexpectedly, and hissed, and when Nathan looked up his head was hanging low and his face was red, dark hair like a wave over his eyes. He wouldn't last long, and he didn't, not when Nathan slid his mouth over his cock, just the hint of teeth and as deep as he could, and Peter said, "Oh god Nathan I love you," and he came, desperate and pulsing, right into the back of Nathan's throat, before collapsing bonelessly onto the hood. Nathan followed him up, wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and kissed him deep. "Did you swallow," Peter asked, and he sounded amazed, and Nathan laughed and kissed him again. "I want you to fuck me," Peter said eventually, his hand finding the shape of Nathan's dick through his pants. Nathan was already hard and Peter's touch was tentative but insistent, and Nathan grabbed his wrist to still him, but he didn't push his fingers away. "You should, I really want you to," Peter continued, his voice breathy, sweet with honest desire. Which was the problem with Peter, essentially. Everything he wanted, everything that felt good, he saw no reason not to indulge in. Even this. Ma's fault, Nathan thought dizzily. She never did raise him right. "Yeah, well. You can't always get what you want, Pete," Nathan said, and disengaged himself, sharply, from Peter's embrace. His dick was still hard, and his head was spinning with need, and he could see himself suddenly, taking Peter right here and right now, sun beating down on them both as they messed up the spit-shiny hood of the car, as he opened Peter up and made him scream until the ground shuddered and flames consumed all that they were. He only pushed himself off though and got back into the car, gunned the engine until Peter slid into the passenger seat, eyes hidden behind sunglasses once more. - Ma used to bend down and whisper into Nathan's ear, "Your brother's sick, Nathan," her hands smoothing over Nathan's hair. "It's okay, he has you. When I'm gone, he'll have you. You'll take care of him, won't you." Ma was always crying then. When his parents had first brought Peter home from the hospital, he'd been almost preternaturally silent, and if Ma hadn't been constantly fussing over him, Nathan might have been able to ignore his existence altogether. He liked to go into the nursery though, late nights when everyone else was asleep, and hug Peter to his chest and listen to his baby-heartbeat, the almost inaudible gurgling noises he made as he slept. Once though, he'd walked in and found Pa standing over the crib, strange expression on his face. "Your brother," Pa said, and the way he said it made Nathan want to shrink back against the wall, grab Peter and run as far away as he could, even though it was only Pa. "He's special, you understand?" Nathan shook his head no, of course he didn't, until Peter turned three and by then Pa was long gone and Nathan couldn't ask him how he'd known. About Peter's dreams and Peter's endless screaming at the monsters that only he could see, and how the earth bloomed wherever he touched, or turned to dust. How his distress made it rain or snow or even hail sometimes, and even fire would dance when he beckoned. The garden was a riot of color or a barren wasteland regardless of the weather, entirely dependent on how happy Peter happened to be. Everyone marveled at first, but after a while they stopped marveling and started whispering. That boy, they said. That's the one. The freak. And Nathan could feel their fear. More importantly, Nathan could feel their burgeoning hate. They kept moving, and it got better after a while, and so Nathan went to college, went to law school and got the job, the wife, the two point five kids, and pretended he had a life that wasn't about Peter. Peter was sixteen when Ma called him and said, "Please come. Your brother - you have to see what he did." - When Nathan dreams, it's of flying through the desert at night, all the stars a brilliant map and as near as if he could touch them. He dreams of flying, and he dreams of crashing down onto hard mud, his insides splashing, red and black, seeping into the cracks in the mud. He dreams of Peter walking up and sitting down cross legged next to the broken pieces and painstakingly putting him back together again, until he's whole once more, but entirely different. Peter always was the one with the imagination. This isn't a dream, it's memory. He wakes up with tears on his face and Peter's fingers over his cheeks, whispering soothing words into his mouth. Tales of devotion and love, of the earth bursting open and swallowing them both whole, of being reborn out of water and faith. Peter is a magician, and Nathan is his finest trick, the one that the world's convinced is real. His hands are on Nathan's cock, and Nathan watches distantly as it hardens under Peter's touch, and Peter's open smile: this is real magic, right here. "Gonna make you come, Nathan," Peter sing-songs, and Nathan kisses him then, mostly to shut him the fuck up. His fingers are delicate and expert, teasing. Thumb over the head and then under, Nathan shivers involuntarily and jerks his hips, and comes, just like his brother tells him to. Peter fucks him later, restrains Nathan's wrists with his own tie, looped around the headboard of the bed. Nathan protests, but mildly, and he closes his eyes when Peter tells him to, slides his fingers down Nathan's eyelids. There's an infinite gentleness to Peter when he fucks Nathan, like Nathan is made of glass, but Nathan's muscles strain, and eventually he tries to break his hands loose, and Peter licks down the side of his throat, mumbles soothingly, "Shh, Nathan. It will be allright," until Nathan stops gasping and settles, lets Peter tell him nonsense words and stories as the ache starts building once more, and again. When Nathan dreams, he dreams of a town razed to the ground because a teenager got angry, and then afraid. He dreams of burnt faces and charred bodies and the stink of burning flesh, under his skin. Ma said, in the wreckage of their own house, Peter on his knees and his face shadowed by his hair, untouched and untouchable and inexplicably drenched in water, "It's not your fault, Nathan." And what she meant was: You should have been there. This is your responsibility. "What do you want me to do," Nathan said. Ma hugged herself, as if expecting an assault, and said quietly, "Find your father." "Dad - but he's dead. Oh." Of course she'd lied to him, that was what she did, and he was surprised at how betrayed he felt, how angry. "You adored your father, Nathan. I couldn't bear to tell you the truth," she said, and she pressed a stack of open envelopes into his hands. Letters, he realized. Postmarked throughout the years, in Dad's distinct scrawl. "I don't know where he is right now, I haven't received a letter in over four years, but perhaps these will help." Her fingers caressing his jaw, and he stepped away, deliberately, for the first time, and she flinched. "I don't want to talk about it," Peter said, the first day, suddenly, sullenly, nothing more than a kid, lashing out because a girl dumped him, or he got bullied at school, or he was being punished for something that wasn't his fault. Nathan said, "We don't ever have to talk about it," and drove. It took a while for Nathan to get it. These weren't his dreams, they were Peter's. All the death and the horror and the destruction, and underneath it all, a darkly furious curl of immeasurable power. The earth trembles under Peter's feet because he understands it, he knows all its secrets and he desperately wants to see it upturned, reshaped into an image of his own liking. Peter whispers sometimes into Nathan's ears, when they're fucking, when Peter's thighs are splayed wide open and Nathan is deep inside him, rocking and thinking of nothing but friction and heat and everything crashing down, he will whisper, "You're mine, Nathan. Mine and no-one else's. I earned you." Peter always did love Nathan a little more than was healthy. - Once, he called Ma, asked her the question he'd been dying to ask all this time but was never quite ready to hear the answer, not just yet: "Why'd he leave, Ma." Ma said, "Because I would have killed him if he hadn't," and hung up. - Peter tastes like chocolate and processed sugar and mother nature, wild and untamed and utterly mad, and Nathan can never get enough of him. They fuck in the back seat of the car, off dirt roads, muscles straining from trying to balance themselves in the enclosed space. Nathan's too old for this shit, he likes to tell Peter exactly that, but Peter hums and ignores him and Nathan digs his fingers into the slightly soft flesh of Peter's belly, half-moon purpled crescents that almost break the skin. Nathan kisses the marks until they fade away, his lips open and wet over salty skin. He can barely breathe, the windows are rolled up and foggy and there's sweat in his eyes and rolling down the back of his neck, but that's okay. The sweat is good. So is spit, and making Peter come, and then he can arrange Peter whichever way he wants to and not bother with lube, just slide in, slick and just skittering on the edge of too dry, so that Peter will hiss and instinctively jerk away, and Nathan has to cover his mouth with his palm, hold him until he stops bucking. Eventually Peter opens wide enough that Nathan can find a rhythm that will work for the both of them, but he keeps his hand over Peter's mouth because he's clamped down on the soft pad of flesh beneath his thumb, blood breaking the delicate skin and pain radiating up Nathan's arm, making everything spin headily. Maybe Peter's choking, fighting to breathe, but Nathan doesn't care. His brother is perfect like this, and nothing else feels like this. Nothing else will ever feel like this. Nathan sits up afterwards, and Peter smiles, mouth dark red with drying blood. "Roll down the window," he says, but Nathan shakes his head. He takes a battered packet from his discarded coat jacket and lights a cigarette instead, and Peter grimaces. "Fuck, I wish you'd stop doing that." "If wishes were horses," Nathan says, but when Peter shoots him the stink-eye he gives in and rolls the window down. The night air is cool against his skin, cooler where the sweat and come almost immediately starts to dry. - That first night, they'd gotten as far away as they could before exhaustion hit Nathan, and he pulled into the first motel that they saw. The only room left was the honeymoon suite, but Nathan took it anyway. He led Peter into the bathroom and snapped his fingers in front of his eyes. "Hey, hey. Are you good? I need you to get yourself cleaned up okay? Can you do that?" Peter nodded blankly, and Nathan sighed, but then he said hesitantly, "Yeah. Okay, Nathan. Okay." "I'll be right outside if you need me." Nathan brushed Peter's hair out of his eyes, forgetting briefly how much the length annoyed him. "You just holler, you understand?" He ended up getting a pack of cigarettes from the vending machine outside, driven by a craving he hadn't felt in a while. Years, even, but it felt as if he'd never stopped, old habits and all. Nathan tilted his head back as he exhaled, watched the full moon as it hung in the sky, pale and swollen. When he finally went back in Peter was just coming out of the shower, towel hung loosely around his waist. He looked impossibly young and far too thin, and he fidgeted nervously and said, "My clothes are dirty." "Yeah, I'll see about getting them laundered for you. Then maybe we can buy you some new ones." Everything Peter owned except for what was on his back was ashes now, Nathan probably should have thought ahead. But then he didn't figure he'd be here right now, surrounded by gaudy pink and red furnishings and a bed with a fucking mirror on the top. "You just go to bed, Pete." He lowered his voice the way he did when they were younger and Peter was constantly terrified and needed to be soothed, averted his eyes when Peter slid in under the covers, wrapping them securely around his frame. Nathan took the surprisingly uncomfortable love seat by the window, and only fell asleep when Peter's breathing turned slow and steady. He was still thinking about work that night before he slept, about his caseload and who'd cover for him at the office, and what he would tell Heidi about his absence, and Monty's christening which he would probably miss, and how he'd explain that as well. He still thought he'd get a chance to go back, and that nothing would have to change. - He likes to lay Peter out in barren fields, where he can close his eyes and hear the earth whisper, and when he opens them again grass and flowers bloom around them both, heady and tall, and if he picked Peter up now there'd be a Peter shaped mark in the ground where nothing grows. Sometimes Nathan wonders if trees would break out, thick, veiny trunks reaching up endlessly into the night sky, if they just stayed long enough. Jack and the beanstalk. Peter's the conjurer of beans. "Do it," Peter says, softly pleading, and the knife is in Nathan's hands as if it had always been there, the handle cool and curved against his palm. They'd bought it at a speciality store somewhere near Nebraska, Peter wandering around in a daze, carelessly touching the sharp-edged pieces on display until Nathan said, "Peter, heel," and then Peter had blinked wide eyes at him, almost comical in their surprise. He drifted over to Nathan's side though, as Nathan weighed one after another in his palm until one felt right. Porcelain and steel handle and a slightly curved blade; the proprietor said quietly, "That's a good choice. It's a work of art," and her gaze flicked over to Peter and then back to Nathan again, and she nodded her head sharply. "I'll ring you up." She wasn't wrong about the blade, it cuts through Peter's skin like butter, blood welling almost black under the dim light of the moon. Peter hisses as Nathan traces a pattern on his chest, careful not to touch older wounds that were starting to heal. Nathan's trembling, almost shivering, but he keeps the knife steady. He always keeps the knife steady. Peter's cock is hard, stiff against his belly, and Nathan's own desire is a pit at the base of his spine, but it's not time for this, not yet. Now it's the sacrifice. "The earth demands blood, Nathan," Peter said, the first time, and the way he said it, it made total and utter sense. He presses the tip of the blade in deeper now, draws a line on each side of Peter's ribs. The blood blooms violently and slides down his skin, disappears into the rich brown soil. Nathan gives in then, buries his face in Peter's crotch, overwhelmed by lust and love and want, and the hot hard slide of Peter's cock between his teeth. "She loves us, Nathan," he can hear Peter saying, but dimly, as if though a glass wall. "We are her favorite children, and she will always keep us safe." When Peter comes, sighing fitfully, Nathan holds it under his tongue, crawls up Peter's body and grips his jaw so he can force it open, keep him still. He hovers over Peter, lets spit and come drip into Peter's mouth. Some of it glistens on Peter's lips and teeth before Nathan kisses him, slow and sweet. He's too hard, and so he gets back on his knees and tries to regulate his breathing, dick held loosely in his hand. He looks up into the night sky instead of directly at Peter, because that only makes him want to bear down and tear his insides apart, and it's not time for that, not yet. Peter will wait for this, he won't ask and he won't get impatient, and eventually the blood thumping in Nathan's ears slows down to a manageable level, and he lets go. The stream of piss is slow at first, and then faster, and Peter moans and arches up into it as it splashes onto him, pale gold mixing in with the blood, salving his wounds. Peter says that this, like blood, is a gift, returning to the earth, giving it back what it craves, what it needs. Nathan's not so sure about that, but this is what power feels like, right here and right now, with Peter whimpering under him and opening his mouth, licking his lips to catch drops as they fall. - The waitress is blond and almost beautiful, the hard set of her face making her come off as older than she probably is; more likely closer to Peter's age than Nathan's own. Slight worry lines around her mouth and tired blue eyes, she smiles distantly at them both and asks, in a faint unidentifiable drawl, "What will it be, sweethearts?" "How's your steak - no, nevermind, I'll just get a caesar salad. My brother here will have the double bacon cheeseburger with the works." Nathan smiles encouragingly at her, but he's afraid it's all teeth and no cheer. She doesn't react though, only says, "Anything to drink?" "Coffee and a chocolate milkshake." "Coming right up." She starts gathering up the menus, and when Peter grabs her wrists she stills instead of jerking away. Nathan feels a muscle in his jaw start to twitch. He says warningly, "Peter," but Peter's only smiling up at her, his face young and soft and achingly lovely. The girl, her nametag says Niki, Niki stares as if transfixed, pink mouth slightly open and wet. "Sorry, my brother's -" "What? Oh." She snaps out of it and blinks, trembles a little on her feet. "I'll just see to your order now," she says, but it's Nathan, surprisingly, that she says that to, and the smile she offers him is wan but sincere. "I think she likes you," Peter tells him, watching her retreat to the safety of the counter, gaze fixed and focused. "Your hair's too long," Nathan says, and brushes Peter's bangs out of his forehead. "We should get it cut." "I like her," Peter says dreamily. "She's pretty." Nathan ignores him until the food comes, Niki smiles once again at Nathan but it fades slightly when Peter thanks her and tries to catch her eye. She still lingers too long, her fingers tapping nervously on the edge of the vinyl table before she leaves. Nathan plays with limp pieces of lettuce and overcooked chicken, until finally he gives up and pulls Peter's half eaten burger towards him. Peter protests, but he won't finish it anyway; Peter's incapable of finishing anything but a Mars bar. "Drink your milkshake," he says, and pushes the glass at him. Peter pokes at it with the straw, but his attention is elsewhere: Niki, hovering behind the counter, her pale face striking, even under the cheap fluorescent lights. Peter, at heart, is a collector of things that are bright and beautiful and broken. He collects Niki for a while; she sleeps snuggled up in the backseat of the car and when Peter drives, Nathan chats idly with her, about her fiancé, who's a "good guy" which Nathan reads as "career criminal", and her plans for the future which include community college, or most likely just them packing up and heading to Vegas at some point after they get married. She frowns though, face changing almost imperceptibly to something else entirely, when Nathan asks the obvious question: why are you here if you have someone to go home to, and the air is thick with uneasiness until Peter says, "Leave her alone, Nathan. She'll leave when she's ready." "Oh great, the children are mutinying," Nathan snaps, but neither of them reply, and eventually Nathan just gives up, goes back to casual conversations about the state of the economy, the weather and how Nathan not-so-secretly hates American cars. It's nice to have someone to converse with that isn't Peter, and his particular brand of inane, incessant crazy. When Nathan drives Peter crawls into the backseat and they fuck, Niki's long legs wrapped around Peter's waist and filling up the car with the sounds of her moans. His dark hair and pale skin against her lanky blondness, and Nathan will watch, idly, in the rear view mirror, mildly interested but not enough to want to do anything about it. Niki fades away after a while, like they all do, and it's just the two of them once more, like it always is. Like it always will be. - They found Dad, of all places, at the backwoods of the Mississippi delta, in an old colonial house with trees surrounding it like a fortress. Or rather, Dad found them, days after Nathan had finally given up, when he called Ma just to see how she was doing, and she said, voice strained and pale, "Your father wants to see you, Nathan. He told me to tell you where to go." Peter was moody the entire day, the entire drive there, huddled up in the the corner of the car as if he was wishing himself smaller. It had been relentlessly sunny all week, but today the clouds chased them wherever they went, bruised and sullen. "What," Nathan snapped finally, because he couldn't take the silence any more. "I don't see why we have to -" "Again, Pete. We're going through this again?" He didn't want to, because it always ended badly, but he did it anyway. "You're sick. Dad will make you better. Then we can go back to at least pretending we can lead normal lives. I would like some semblance of a life, Pete. Just some." Peter sighed, but then he said, finally, in the tone of voice he'd only used when he was little and the monsters got to be too much to bear, "I'm scared, Nathan." "He's our father, Pete. I know you were too young to remember him, but there's no reason to be afraid." "That's not why I'm afraid," Peter replied quietly, and he shook his head and refused to speak the rest of the way. In the end: The gun was a precaution, Arthur was their father, whatever he had done, no matter that he'd abandoned them, and Nathan had no intention of using it except that Peter was trembling behind him, his fists clenched into the back of Nathan's jacket and his breath hollowed and panicked on the nape of Nathan's neck. "Hello, Nathan," Arthur said, but his gaze was entirely fixed on Peter, his eyes dark and gleaming. Nathan didn't remember this person, but then again memory was a tricky thing and Angela always said that Nathan was fond of coloring the past the way he saw it. "Your brother takes after you in that way," she would say fondly. "I was always unfortunate in that my memories were always crystal clear." "Hello, father," Nathan replied, and the gun felt clammy in his hand, but strangely reassuring. "It's been a while. Glad to see you're - alive." Arthur didn't look all that well. The suit he was wearing hung loosely on him and his face was drawn and haggard, far too many lines on them for a man of his age. "I'm sorry for the lies, son. They were necessary at the time. But you're here now, and just in time, too." He spread his arms out and stepped forward, and Peter stepped back, pulling Nathan with him. Nathan stumbled on his feet, but he steadied himself in time to catch Peter's wrist as he turned to flee. "Enough, Pete," he said. "Enough. No more games, no more of this foolishness. This ends." Peter stilled, and Nathan hadn't even paid attention to any of the background noise, the trees rustling in the wind, the birds chattering to each other, the sound of claws on the ground or against rough bark, until it all, suddenly, stopped. Then it was just Peter's face, soft and imploring, and Nathan's own harsh breathing, and Arthur, who said, quiet as a snake, "Come here, Peter. Give your father a hug." Nathan shot him, right between the eyes. - Nathan still remembers Dad more fondly than he probably deserved, but back then he'd grown up thinking that his life would be normal. That it would exist without a Peter in it. They're in a bigger town today, row of identical houses with leaf-filled swimming pools, mournful over the death of summer. Nathan used to spend hours in the pool at home, getting strong and tanned, innocently flirting with the girl that grew up next door. Never imagining once that he'd end up behind glass doors watching his brother teeter on the edge of a diving board, bending water to his will. Peter's feet and hands are akimbo, dancing stiffly to the beat of a music only he can hear, and the water rises high and splashes back down again in strange patterns that follow his movement. Eventually Nathan slides the door open and emerges, setting his glass carefully down on the nearest deck chair. Peter's on his hands and knees now, staring intently into the water. If Nathan doesn't catch him he might topple in, and Peter can't swim, so he takes off his shoes and socks and clambers onto the board, wincing at the cold aluminum beneath his feet. "Hey Pete," he says, and he sits and straddles the board, hands pressed on the curve of Peter's back. "Hey Nathan," Peter says blankly. "Did you see. Did you see?" "Yeah, I saw. Getting better." Water is Peter's weak spot. It won't listen, he tells Nathan. Sometimes, it just won't listen. Not like the earth. Water has its own will and it wants to do what it wants to do. Nathan puts his forehead on the hollow between Peter's shoulderblades, rests there for a while. He's tired, today. Drained of everything and nostalgic for a life that once was, that never will be again. "We should go," he says eventually, but he doesn't move, and neither does Peter, not for a while at least. When they go back into the house, Peter raids the kitchen for chocolates, and more importantly, the fridge for ice cream, and cake. He plops a container of vanilla onto the table and gleefully tears off the lid. Nathan hands him a spoon, sits and smokes and refuses to accept even a spoonful. Peter's capable of finishing it all without him, anyway. "I think," Peter says, at one point, "That the only ice-cream flavor worth eating is vanilla." "I thought you liked Rocky Road best." Peter frowns. "When did I ever say that." "I don't know, Pete. Just about a million times, that's what I've heard you say. What you insist that I buy for you even though I keep telling you not to eat it in the car because your sticky fingers end up dirtying it everywhere." "Oh," Peter says, then shrugs. "Well, I like vanilla now. You don't have to be such an asshole about it. But that's like asking you not to breathe I guess." Nathan shoots him a filthy look, and Peter tosses the spoon carelessly into the sink, says, "We should go upstairs. I bet they have a nice bed." Nathan lets Peter lead him by the hand, into the master bedroom of this couple that's away, for the night at least. He slams Peter into the wall, kisses him hard, and then walks him to the bed until he falls, ungainly, onto his back. He scrambles up though, drags Nathan on top of him by the collar of his shirt. Mouth cold and ice-cream flavored, Nathan kisses him until they're both shaking with need, and the couple have nice sheets, Nathan thinks dimly, soft pale pink silk, and he silently apologizes to them before he grabs Peter's arms and shoves him until he's turned over onto his front. Peter tries to raise himself up on his elbows, but Nathan grips him tightly by the scruff of his neck, hard enough that there'll be a bruise there tomorrow, a Nathan shaped mark on Peter's delicate skin. Peter shivers, but does nothing as Nathan squeezes even tighter, then drops his entire body weight on top of Peter's slight frame. They fuck without lube again tonight, just spit and sweat and Peter's tiny hitching noises as he struggles to breathe, and when it's over and Nathan's loose-limbed and heavily sated, he finally lets his grip lighten, but he leaves his hand there, and Peter exhales quietly, and then coughs, the sound raw and pained in the stillness of the room. "I love you," Nathan whispers, and he kisses the shell of Peter's ear. At dawn, Nathan wakes up and Peter's sitting cross-legged on the bed, silently watching him. "What," Nathan says sleepily. He yawns and stretches, thinks wearily of the road ahead of them. This early, he almost looks forward to it. The cheerful normalcy of the room, the sun delicately peeking in through the blinds, is almost unbearable. "What," he says again, because Peter's still only staring. "Do you regret it," Peter asks, so quiet but crystal clear. "You could have had all this back," and he waves his hand around, encompassing the room, the house, the picket fence. "What you wanted all along." "Is that what you wanted?" "No, I -" He pauses to scoot down and slide back under the sheets, wraps himself around Nathan's body, hand over Nathan's heart. "I didn't tell you. I would have died. I -" Nathan pulls him closer still, says, "I know." Summer turns to autumn turns to winter turns to spring. They drive, keep driving. Waiting for him to catch me Fever Ray - When I Grow Up | i rest for a minute or two, then back on my feet to call for you Radiohead - Climbing Up The Walls | you know we're friends till we die Crowded House - Private Universe | no time, no place to talk about the weather Laura Marling - My Manic And I | oh the gods that he believes never fail to amaze me Midlake - In The Ground | two sons to follow him, both wrestled long, but younger wins

Sam Carter pulled the car up in front of her house, a little startled by the truck sitting across the street. It wasn't so much that it had never been there before, just that it was usually an expected visit-not a surprise like today-and he was virtually never alone. She desperately tried to pull herself back to reality and away from her meandering thoughts. Sam didn't want to sit there staring at his truck-with him in it-but for some reason her body was refusing to move, refusing to obey her mind's commands. Just before it became really awkward Sam managed to pull herself together, grabbing her bag, her jacket, and her keys. Opening the car door, her eyes immediately slid to his truck, noticing that he had also gotten out and he was now standing beside his truck, leaning against the hood, but not quite meeting her eyes. "Carter." She smiled slightly at the nervous edge to his voice. What on earth was he doing here? "Sir?" She made it more of a question than a greeting. He stepped toward her, until they were inches apart, and put one hand out in front of him indicating the walkway to her door. The other hand hung in the air near the small of her back, as if he had wanted to reach out and touch her but thought better of it. "Think we could take this inside?" He practically whispered. Her body was nearly frozen, but at the same time she understood just what was going on, what he wanted, what he needed. She didn't trust herself to speak with his body so close to hers right now, so she nodded slightly and hoped that he saw it as she took a tentative step forward. The walkway to her door had never seemed so long, but they walked it in silence, eventually reaching her step. His hand finally grazed the small of her back, sending sparks of electricity shooting up and down her spine. She closed her eyes momentarily as she reached the door and quietly cursed her body. How could something possibly be so good, so... exhilarating, yet be so wrong.... forbidden.... against regulations. Her hands were shaking as she reached out to grab the doorknob and insert her key. After taking one deep, steadying breath, she pushed the front door open, while Jack reached out a hand to hold it open, so she could enter. She took her purse and keys and placed them on the table by the door. Finally finding her voice, as he closed her door, she motioned for him to enter her living room as she asked, "Would you like a drink, sir?" He sat down looking rather at home on her sofa. "Sure, Carter, a beer would be great." She smiled. It was the most either of them had said since she had pulled up. "Of course." She headed into her kitchen and leaned heavily against the island. The events of the past few days flooded her senses. The mission itself hadn't been anything too out of the ordinary and once again she and the Colonel, well, the whole team actually, had managed to cheat death. Some more closely than others. And this time, it had been just the two of them, isolated... with no way out... and after the water had gone over their heads and they'd been completely submerged, moments away from drowning, she had kissed him. SHE - HAD - KISSED - HIM. Granted, it hadn't started out from passion-nothing more than a quest for survival and the desire for one last shared breath between them. But once the contact was started it had changed-becoming a passionate kiss that ended only when they desperately needed a breath of air. Only to be greeted by water. She had fought to breathe, only to inhale some of the water. Then, miraculously, the water level slowly subsided, causing her to choke as her lungs gratefully accepted the deep gasps of air. Their escape in the glider and the events from there had been swallowed up in such a rush of adrenaline and instinct that they hadn't even had time to acknowledge what had happened. And now, he was here. Here, no doubt, because she had initiated this and that meant that she had been the one to bring it out of 'the room'.... Hearing him turn on her TV brought her out of her thoughts. He was most likely sitting there wondering what was taking her so damned long, but too nervous to go looking for her. The thought of him being nervous about any of this made her stomach do a little flip-flop just as it had on the ship. She crossed to the refrigerator and grabbed two beers. She definitely needed to go shopping or order something for dinner. Four beers, a six-pack of diet soda, an old loaf of bread, and half a stick of butter did not make a balanced meal. She popped the tops off of the two bottles, using the edge of her counter top and headed back into the living room. He was looking quite relaxed sitting on her sofa, watching The Simpsons. She smiled, handing him his beer. At least it was something mindless. She stepped carefully around his legs, in between them and the coffee table, brushing his knees lightly with hers. She rolled her eyes at herself, frustrated as another wave of electricity coursed through her body at the temporary contact. No matter what else she was feeling she just kept up the same banter of the last six years.... He's your commanding officer.... It's against regs..... It's wrong... And living in denial had worked most of the time. Except now... now, she wasn't so sure. She flopped down next to him, probably a little closer and harder than she should have, and stared blankly at the TV. This was the episode where Mulder and Scully from the X-Files came to town. She smiled remembering the discussion it had spurred between Daniel and Teal'c when it had premiered. Jack took a long swig at his beer, and so did she. "I was starting to wonder if you got lost..." he said, finally breaking the silence. She smiled weakly, not quite meeting his eyes. "Only in thought." "Ah, now there's a shocker." His smile was big and genuine. And contagious. This was right. This was normal; this was his way of flirting to make her more comfortable. And somehow it almost always worked. "That's the only thing that's wrong with you, Carter, you think too damned much. You analyze, re-analyze, and then you over analyze." He stopped, probably realizing he was on the verge of rambling. "Really?" It was all she could manage; hell, she had hardly even heard half of what he said. But why was she focusing on that? Had she lost her mind? "Huh. Well, yeah... but you know that..." He trailed off. The look of confusion was clear on his face. "That that's the only thing wrong with me?" She looked at him with a bemused smile and a raised eyebrow. Sam tried not to laugh when she saw the "oh, damn" expression flicker across his face. Apparently that was not the part that he expected her to focus on. His stuttering reply just emphasized her thoughts. "Um.well..yeah, I guess." Now he was stumbling, and as much as she hated seeing it, she found it very...cute. Damn, now he was cute. She must still be suffering from oxygen deprivation. A calm silence surrounded them once again. Each of them staring at the TV, neither of them watching, but neither knowing what to say. So, they both sat, stared, and drank. She tipped the beer back once again and finished off the bottle. She didn't even remember drinking half of it. This was not good. She held the bottle in her hand, refusing to get a second so soon, and fiddled with the corner of the label. ~~~~~~~~~~ O'Neill sat there beside her and did something he had perfected over the last six years. He watched her. He had trained himself years ago to watch her in such a way that she, and he hoped everyone else, was unaware of. With all of their missions together he had often enjoyed the relaxed feeling that washed over them when he'd watch. He would watch her taking samples or examining some doohickey that they had found. He would watch her sleep... admiring the form that her body took in her bedroll... the content smile that played lightly on her features as she lay there dreaming.... loving the way her hair would get slightly more tousled as she turned over exposing small patches of skin as her tank would.... okay -shaking his head slightly he pulled himself away from his thoughts. He had come here to discuss what had happened between them. Not to let his mind run off on a tangent and allow him to fantasize about his 2IC with her sitting right next to him. They sat in silence for a few moments more, while she slowly peeled the label away from her bottle and he tried, unsuccessfully, to watch the TV instead of her. With one final curve, the label came clear away from the bottle and she rolled it and stuffed it inside. Noticing, really noticing, for the first time what she was doing O'Neill choked slightly and almost spilt his beer. "Sir?" she leaned forward slightly rubbing a reassuring hand over his back. "You okay?" He coughed once more. "Christ, Carter, what the hell are you trying to do to a guy?" He hazarded a look at her face and was surprised to see confusion there. "Sir?" Her hand still lingered on his back lightly caressing his spine. "Come on, Carter. First the whole deal on the ship and now the whole thing with your bottle.. Are you trying to drive me crazy?" She smiled slightly, a light blush rising to her cheeks as she examined her now naked bottle. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not quite sure I follow you.." "Oh, for crying out loud, Carter, after everything can't you call me Jack when we're not on duty?" He motioned toward her hand and the bottle. "And you went to college, you have to know the whole significance of the label thing." ~~~~~~~~~~ She felt the color in her cheeks darken as the realization of what he had said finally dawned on her. Leave it to him to know and remember the one obscure psychological study that every college freshman talked about. And what basis was there to it anyway? Who said that every person that peeled labels was sexually frustrated? "Ah, yes, now that you mention it, I do remember hearing about that study, but I probably over-analyzed it and filed it away." She replied with a cheeky grin. "And I'll agree to call you Jack, if you cut the Carter crap and call me Sam." Their eyes met and he returned her smile, "All right, Sam." They sat there for a few moments just looking at each other. And since they were now much more comfortable, it didn't take Jack long to muster up the courage to really talk for once. "Look, the reason I came here is because I think we need to talk about what happened back there on the mother ship." She broke the gaze and her voice was barely above a whisper. "I know." "You do?" He appeared a little annoyed that his intentions had been so transparent, but then again, why else would he be here without the guys? "Well, yeah, I mean, I didn't think it was all that hard to figure out." She glanced back up catching his eye. His hand reached across and cupped her cheek, his thumb slightly caressing the pink skin beneath it. "Sam, things have been kept in that room so long, I was almost thinking you'd never let them out. Or had realized your feelings for me had changed." He took a deep breath. "I'm pretty sure I know why you did what you did.but I need to know if you ever thought beyond that, or was it simply because you were pretty sure we were gonna die?" She looked at him, really looked at him, and realized exactly why he was asking this. Her eyes widened slightly as she contemplated just what decisions she had come to when they'd been about to drown. She let her eyes quietly drift shut for a moment as she leaned into his hand, which was still caressing her cheek. When her eyes opened there was a fire there unlike anything Jack had ever seen before. "I did think that we were going to drown, Jack." She paused, examining his reaction to her words. "And I didn't want to die with a long list of regrets." Her voice dipped to just above a whisper. "I still don't." His eyes took on a sympathetic glow as she felt him take her into his arms in a tight hug. "Oh, Sam." he whispered nuzzling her hair with his chin. The embrace was long and he held her close. She knew that just like her, he loved finally having her in his arms, smelling her and feeling her warmth. When he released her, his one hand went back up to caress her cheek, while he placed a light, gentle kiss to her forehead. As he began to back away, something in her eyes stopped him and he moved in quickly, capturing her lips with his own in a wonderfully chaste kiss. He pulled back completely after that, leaving only his hand on her cheek. Her eyes remained closed and she gently bit on her bottom lip. "Sam, I, uh. oh. I'm so sorry, I. uh. didn't mean - " He never got to finish his sentence as she descended on him quicker than she ever would have imagined doing. Her lips quickly captured his as her hands snaked around his neck. One hand firmly wrapping around his shoulders while the other entangled her fingers into his hair. She wasted no time, quickly pulling his bottom lip between her own, almost forcing him to allow her access to his mouth. Her tongue quickly and skillfully slipped between his lips and teeth. His hands moved around her, one resting gently on the small of her back while the other cupped her neck. The touch of his naked hand against her bare skin sending tendrils of pleasure coursing through her. She moaned slightly into his mouth as their tongues continued to duel for dominance. ~~~~~~~~~~ The kiss only ended when the two of them were left breathless, gasping for air. Jack pulled back slightly, examining the beautiful woman before him, as she leaned against the back of the sofa once again. Her eyes remained closed, her cheeks a delightful shade of pink, her lips red and swollen as she lightly ran her tongue along them. She moaned slightly, almost purring. "That was even better than I had imagined.." His smile increased as he leaned in again, very close to her ear. "And better than any of the other times." He whispered before planting feather-light kisses along her neck. Her eyes opened, a shy smile spreading across her face at both his words and actions. "Well, I think you can hardly compare alternate universes and alien viruses to the real thing-just you and me-Jack and Sam." He felt the heat rise to his cheeks as he blushed considerably, refusing to leave her neck to meet her eyes. He flicked his tongue playfully across her jugular, hoping to distract her slightly from his upcoming confession. "What about time loops?" Her eyes widened in shock. "Time loops?" Her gaze was piercing but intrigued as she tried to gauge him. "What are you talking about, Jack?" The ease at which she had switched to his first name did not go unnoticed by either of them. He peeked up at her sheepishly. "You remember that time about two years ago. Teal'c and I were the only ones to remember being stuck in a time loop, doing a Groundhog Day type thing for three months?" Her eyes continued staring into his, unwavering. "Yes." "Well, after a while it became a little exhausting. same thing day after day. constantly needing to convince you guys we weren't nuts. constant physicals and needles." He grimaced at the memory. "So, in one loop, Daniel said something about it being amazing to be given the opportunity to do whatever we wanted without worrying about consequences." He paused, taking a deep breath. "And it got me thinking." He watched her stand with her back to him, placing her hands in the rear pocket of her jeans. Damn, why did she have to draw his attention there? Now he'd never be able to pull his eyes away, unless she turned. "So, at what point did thinking lead to kissing?" She sounded slightly annoyed but he couldn't tell for sure. He missed having her beside him on the sofa, though. He stood and walked right up to her, close enough to feel the heat coming off of her body. "About fifteen minutes before the end of that loop my plan went into action." ~~~~~~~~~~~ She turned, not realizing he was so close, and almost hit him with her elbow. "You planned it out?" He had taken the time to think out a plan, follow through, and execute everything, all just to kiss her? Was he thinking about it that much? And if he'd done this two years ago, then why had he never done anything else? "Yeah, well, I wanted it to be nice and all. and I didn't want you to kill me in case it was the last loop." He took one more small step closer to her placing his hands on her hips, bending his head slightly to look into her eyes. "Although, I would have died happy." Her look softened a bit, and a new blush rose to her cheeks as she asked, "So, what did you do?" she paused, taking a minute before continuing. "What was your plan and how did it work?" He shifted slightly closer so that there was barely any room between them, but she didn't step back. "I wrote a letter in my office. Nothing too special, and went strolling into the Control Room with my civvies on. I walked up to Hammond, called him George, and when he asked me what I was doing out of uniform I told him I was handing him my resignation." She went to speak, but he silenced her by quickly placing a finger to her lips. "Then you came over and said, 'Resigning, what for?'. I looked at my watch, wanting the timing to be perfect, and said, 'So, I can do this.'. Then, I placed my hands on the side of your face." As he explained the events, he repeated his actions from that day. She inhaled sharply and let her eyes fall closed as his palms caressed her cheeks. "Then," his face and lips were now mere spaces from hers; she could feel his warm breath and the movement of his lips as he spoke. Her hands left her pockets and hung loosely by her side. "I did this." He finished as he pulled her into a deep kiss and dipped her, while her arms came up to encircle him just as they had that day. Once again, the kiss did not end until they were both breathless and drunk from the other's presence. He returned her to her upright position and regretfully removed his arms from around her. "What happened next?" Sam whispered, still trying to recuperate. If she weren't careful she felt that all of this oxygen deprivation would begin causing some serious damage. He stood before her, mirroring her earlier actions, putting his hands in his rear pockets. He began rocking back and forth ever so slightly on his heels. "Um, actually, we never got this far. The loop started over again with breakfast the next morning, right in the middle of the kiss." She looked up at him. "You timed it that way, didn't you?" He looked away from her for a moment, when his gaze returned he had a sheepish grin on his face. "Well, yeah, pretty much." She shook her head and went to turn away when he reached out and grabbed her around the waist pulling her close. "Sam?" he paused, making sure he caught her attention. "You're thinking again, aren't you?" She looked him in the eye, a bit timidly, and nodded. He closed the remaining distance between them. "Don't." He said as he pulled her in for another searing kiss. He wrapped his arms around her. One hand resting at the base of her neck while the other went to the small of her back, pressing her body against his. She groaned into his mouth and wriggled her hips slightly as she felt the pressure on her belly from the pleasant bulge that had appeared in his jeans. Slowly, he backed her over to the wall, using that to support her as his hands ventured elsewhere. The hand at the small of her back gently slipped into the waistline of her jeans and under her shirt. His fingers lightly playing across her sensitive skin. His other hand moved around to her front, pulling her shirt from her jeans so that he could slide his hand across her stomach and up to cup her breast. His thumb gently encircling her already hardened nipple and areola through the lacy fabric of her bra. She gasped and moaned audibly as his lips abandoned hers to trace a path over to her ear and continue on down her neck. He nuzzled, nipped, licked, and sucked at her neck until every inch of it was covered. Her one hand threaded its way through his hair while the other traced a path down his side to reach up under his shirt and run her fingers and shortly trimmed nails up his back. His moan sent shivers down her spine as he moved his head to her shoulder. She could feel him trying to control his breathing. "Oh, God, Sam." His hands traveled under her shirt, making sure that it was completely released from her waistband, and promptly moved it up and over her shoulders and head. She gasped, watching her shirt fall to the floor and looked at him, searching his face. Seeing the complete admiration and lust burning beneath the depths of his eyes made her cheeks turn a new shade of scarlet. He kissed her once again, this time hard and fast. Leaving her lips before she could protest, he moved to her ear, then down her neck, to her collarbone. There he paused, tracing the line of her collarbone with his lips and tongue, gently nipping at her flesh with his teeth. Her breathing had changed into light murmurs and sighs as she reached down and grabbed the bottom of his shirt removing it just as he had removed hers. She allowed her nails to rake lightly across his chest after she released the shirt, watching it fall to the floor joining her own. He nipped harder at the sensitive flesh near her collarbone in response to the actions her nails were taking on his chest, eliciting a deep moan from her throat. Placing his hands at her sides he slowly made his way lower. Following her collarbone to the center of her chest, Jack then traced a path of light kisses down between her breasts. The sides of his face brushed against the bare skin not covered by her bra and he felt her shake as the tendrils of heat flashed across her chest. She continued to run her fingers across any part of him that she could reach. She let them caress his back and neck, ran them through his hair. 'God, she loved how his hair never seemed to want to stay down.' He planted kisses across her stomach, and then his hands moved to the button of her jeans, making fast work of the fastening and zipper. Opening the flaps so that he could see the milky skin and the ridge of her underwear, he kissed the new-found area just as he had the rest of her body that he had exposed. As he slowly made his way back up to a standing position, she could see a twinge of pain pass across his face and imagined him cursing his knees the entire time. His fingers slowly traced the rim of her panties and then gently slipped beneath the fabric. She gasped loudly and her head shot back, thudding loudly into the wall, but she didn't seem to notice. Her fingers clamped down on his shoulders like vice grips. "Jack!" He stopped. Looking into her eyes and cupping her face with his other hand. "What's the matter? Did you hit your head? Are you okay?" His voice was husky, but concerned. ~~~~~~~~~~ She took a few deep, steadying breaths. "No, no, I'm fine. it's just. um. are we really going to do this?" She suddenly became very shy and uncertain right before his eyes, and he couldn't help but smile. "Sam, oh, God, Sam.. Do you have any idea how much I've wanted to do this? To just forget about everything else in the world and take you into my arms." He pressed his forehead against hers. "I can't make any big promises, I can't give you everything you've ever wanted. No matter how much I would like to. But I can promise you this; nothing that we do here and now could possibly be any worse than having to look at you everyday and know that this can't be. I'm tired of doing that. I'm tired of wanting to be able to pull you into my arms and not being able to. I'm tired of trying to keep a safe distance and not be able to comfort you the way that I'd really like to. I want to be here for you, be here with you. And if nothing else, I want to take advantage of the time that we do have together, because we have no idea when that might be taken away from us. I do know however, that I don't want to have you anywhere on my list of regrets when I go." He tilted her head slightly and gently, lovingly kissed her lips. ~~~~~~~~~~ Her hand reached up and around his neck holding his lips to hers. When the kiss ended she took his hand in hers and led him down the hallway to her bedroom door. Stopping right in the threshold she turned and leaned up against the door frame. "I think that's the longest speech I've ever heard you give, Jack. You're sure about this? No regrets?" He smiled at her. "My only regret would be if I turned around and left now." He looped his arm around her waist and led her over to the foot of the bed. Kicking his shoes off once he got there and helped her do the same. Using his other hand to reach around and unhook the clasp of her bra, he used the hand that had been around her waist to reach up and ease the straps off of her shoulders and watch the lacy fabric fall to the floor before him. He eased her to a sitting position at the edge of the bed and parted her knees slightly to allow him between her legs. Her hands reached up and grasped at the waistline of his pants. Pulling him closer she tilted her head up to meet his lips with her own, while her hands quickly worked on his fly. After undoing the fastening she wasted no time in slipping the jeans over his hips and down toward the floor where he quickly stepped out of them and kicked them to the side. He gently pushed her to lie back on the bed, his hands grabbing her waistband and lifting her hips so that he could remove her jeans. He stood before her, in nothing but his boxers and leaned over her, pressing his lips to hers once more. Her arms wrapped around him as the two of them moved as one shimmying across the bed toward the pillows at the head. They arrived at the pillows and he looked down into her blue eyes. "You're beautiful, Sam." She smiled brightly and brought his head back down to her lips. Positioning her legs on either side of his hips, she found her leverage and promptly flipped them so that she was atop, straddling his hips. She kept the kiss going for a while before relinquishing his lips to find her way down and across his chest. Teasing his nipples with her tongue and teeth, she was delighted when he gasped and clasped his hands onto her sides. She worked her way lower still and smiled to herself when she heard Jack's deep groan as she let her fingers slip beneath the fabric of his boxers, pulling them down to his ankles and then throwing them to the other side of the room. From there, she worked her way back up his body, stroking and messaging the tense muscles of his legs. Her nails, gently traced shapes across his inner thighs and she smiled as his erection bounced lightly on his stomach with his breathing. His eyes were closed, his breaths short, shallow gasps. He reached toward her but she carefully avoided his hand and leaned forward tracing his length with her tongue. The sound that escaped from his lips could be described as nothing more than guttural and primitive. His hands grabbed at her bed spread, while her tongue gently reached out and encircled the head of his penis before she took him into her mouth. His hips jerked at the sudden feeling. "My, God, Sam." She toyed with him, making sure that her nails left hot trails across his chest and thighs. She cupped his balls and rolled them slightly in her hand, all the while running her tongue along his shaft and sucking him deep within her mouth. He reached up then, grabbing her by the shoulders and urging her upwards. She sucked hard as he pulled her up and he made an almost regretful sigh when her mouth relinquished him. Jack was panting when she reached eye level with him. "God, Sam, I don't think I would have been able to take much more of that." She giggled slightly, then sighed, as he leaned up and kissed her deeply, once again rolling them so that she was pinned below him. She shifted to make room for him, lifting her knees to cradle him between her hips. He pressed against her and she moaned into his mouth, arching up to meet him, feeling him press urgently against the moist fabric of her panties. She almost didn't hear the phone beside the bed as it began to ring. Jack looked annoyingly at the device and pulled away. "Any idea who that could be?" he barely muttered. She thought deeply for a moment. "No, and the SGC could use my beeper if they need me, please, just ignore it." She reached for him, trying to pull him back. He smiled wickedly and leaned over to the phone, grabbing the cord and swiftly pulling it out of the wall. "Much better," he said, as he leaned back down to reclaim her lips for another in a series of oxygen depriving kisses. ~~~~~~~~~~ He pulled back suddenly, and she sighed in protest as his lips left hers completely, beginning a new journey down her throat toward her chest leaving a searing trail in his wake. His mouth reached her breasts and he took one supple nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his teeth and tongue, while his hand administered to the other nipple. The noise that she made when he lightly nipped at her sensitive and engorged nipple made his knees go week and he committed the fact to memory. His hands slid down lower, removing her panties, as he planted a trail of searing hot kisses across her stomach. Sam's head leaned back further into the pillow, her back and hips arching up towards him. His hands now rested on her thighs, his thumbs gently messaging the muscles at the top of her inner thigh. Her breathing was more like panting and a sound very similar to purring was coming from deep in her throat. He smiled as he lowered his head to her, taking one arm and bracing it gently across her stomach as his tongue flicked out to taste her. Sam cried out in delight and thrust her hips forward, her hands reaching down and grabbing him by the shoulders. His grin broadened against her thighs and he brought a finger down, gently tracing her folds, before slipping it inside her. Her inner walls tight against him, he lowered his mouth once more, gently suckling on her clitoris. Feeling her fingers tighten their grasp on his shoulders, he continued on, urging her to the brink. ~~~~~~~~~~ Sam threw her head back as deep into the pillows as she could get it. Every muscle in her body seemed to tense as the familiar heat pounded through her veins. The warm tendrils began low in her stomach and fanned out, her every sense on overload from the sudden influx of sensation. The feel of him, everywhere. touching her. kissing her. the list of things he was making her feel, that it had been way too long since she'd felt. The smell, the wonderful smell of him mixed with the unmistakable smell of sex. The taste, the taste of something that could only be described as him still lingering on her lips. The sight of him, with that wonderfully, shit eating grin on his face, knowing full well what he was doing to her. The sounds, her moans with every breath that she took, and his primal noises as he possessed her fully. Her orgasm reached its crescendo and she convulsed around him. Her inner muscles clamping down on his fingers as the rest of her shuddered almost violently as wave after wave hit her. "Oh, God, Jack!" She cried out, clinging onto his shoulders as he moved up her side, pulling her close. Kissing her forehead, soothing her as she returned from the point of ecstasy that he'd brought her to. "Sam? Are you okay?" He whispered quietly in her ear. She opened her eyes, and swallowed once, hoping she could find her voice. "Uh, huh," was the only immediate response she could muster. He smiled broadly. "Well, Major Carter, I think we may have just found a cure for your thinking problem." She pulled him to her by his shoulders. "Colonel, if that's the cure, you can get me to stop 'thinking' any time you want." She kissed him deeply, relishing how intoxicating the entire experience of him was. She shifted so that once again his body was covering hers. Her legs cradling him as she arched up and pressed herself fully against him. "Jack.." she moaned. "Please.." He smiled at her as his lips claimed hers once again. Leaning up on his elbows, he positioned himself right at her entrance. Slowly, he began pressing his way in. She was tight, and they both tensed and groaned as he slowly pushed onward, filling her completely. "Oh, God." she gasped out as he held himself still, allowing her muscles to relax and adjust to him. ~~~~~~~~~~ When she brought her legs up around him, her ankles locking around his buttocks, he began to slowly rock against her. They quickly found their rhythm and Jack was delighted at the reactions she willingly gave him. Moaning quietly at his every shift, every thrust. He kissed her deeply, desperately wanting to take this slow, but nothing seemed to be able to control their first coupling from turning frantic. Both of them needing to give themselves completely over to the other. Needing to give in to everything that they'd wanted and felt over the past few years. Wanting nothing more than to meld their minds, bodies and souls and simply revel in the basic feeling of being very much alive. Alive and in love, because that's what they were, and they had more than accepted that. The feel of her body once again tensing below him caused him to break the kiss and slow down slightly. Her eyes were closed, and her hands had moved off of his shoulders to grasp at the bed sheets. He could tell that she was fast approaching the edge, and that there was no way he could not follow her over it. My, God, he would follow her anywhere. He slowed a bit more, making sure to keep up the stimulation, but not allow her to go over that precipice just yet. "Jack." Her breathing was little more than a series of quick, deep gasps, but she had somehow managed to moan out his name. He smiled, again, loving the way his name sounded on her lips like that. Nuzzling her neck he replied, "Uh, huh," as he licked, nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin. She tilted her head, allowing him greater access to her neck, collarbone and beyond. "Oh, God." she breathed as he continued. He glanced down at her hands, watching as the grip they had on the comforter continued to tighten as the sensations continued flooding through her. He removed his head from her neck and looked down upon her. How many times had he fantasized about just this? He didn't want it to end this soon. Placing a hand to her very flushed cheek and turning her to face him, he said, "Sam, honey, open your eyes." She obeyed him without question and he saw the intensity of the fire swirling beneath the depths of those blue orbs. "Not yet. I don't want this to end just yet." Refusing to break the gaze, she made a nearly imperceptible nod and replied between gasps, "Never." Just the thought made him want to scream out in ecstasy. Not in his wildest dreams did he think reality could ever be this good. He thrust a little harder than he'd meant to and was rewarded by her back arching further into him as she bit down on her bottom lip, still not breaking eye contact. The battle continued back and forth with each of them pushing the limit slightly until they were both trembling and moaning between every gasped breath. He was losing his hold and he knew it. There was no way he could deny her, deny them, the spectacular finish they were quickly approaching any longer. He moaned and broke their eye contact as his own squeezed shut. He grabbed her knee, which was firmly locked around his waist, and hooked it over his elbow as he thrust into her. Her eyes widened further than she'd ever thought possible and her mouth opened in a silent cry as the sensation once again flooded her entire system. Every nerve ending firing at once as every muscle she knew she had, and some she didn't, tensed and contracted. She threw her head back and refused to stop the cries that came out. "Oh," gasp, "my," gasp, "God," gasp "Jack," gasp, "Yes!" The entire experience became too much for him as he felt her muscles contract around him, desperately trying to milk every last bit out of him, and he gave one last thrust exploding within her, groaning out a name that he had previously only said in his dreams. "Samantha." ********** Sam's eyes opened and her senses were flooded with the smell and feel of the man beside her. She gently traced her nails across his chest doing her best not to wake him. She became vaguely aware of something in the background, something that had caused her to awaken. Her phone was ringing in the kitchen. She leaned over and smiled slightly looking at the bedside phone and the cord lying where Jack had left it when he pulled it out of the wall earlier. Carefully, she extricated herself from the bed and pulled her robe on, heading to the kitchen and the annoying ring of the phone. She entered the room, cursing quietly as the cold tile floor met her bare feet. Picking up the phone she gave a quick, "Carter." as she flicked on the dim light over her stove. "Sam? My, god, we've been trying to reach you for hours. Are you okay?" She closed her eyes, once again, silently cursing. "Damn, Janet. I'm so sorry. I completely forgot. With everything that's happened." she trailed off slightly. "I know, honey, but still. Cassie was worried sick and wanted to make sure you were okay. So, where the hell have you been for the last six hours?" Six hours? Had they really been trying to reach her for that long? "Um. In bed." Well, she had been. She had been in bed, just not alone. She'd been in bed, with her CO, for six hours. Damn, if anyone ever tried to make a crack about his age or stamina ever again she'd have to be sure to set them straight. Six hours! Six incredible, fantastic hours! "In bed?" Janet was speaking again. Sam leaned against her breakfast bar willing the conversation to end so that she could return to the aforementioned bed and the very wonderful man that lay waiting within it. "Sam, honey, are you sure you're all right?" Sam sighed slightly. "Janet, trust me, I'm great. I just.uh. really want to go back to bed right now." She hoped the doctor would allow her the chance to finally "rest". Janet's pause lasted a little longer than it probably should have. "Alright, Sam, just answer me one question. Are you alone?" Sam's eyes bulged and she gulped audibly. Was she that transparent? The woman was her best friend, but come on. "Janet, what are you talking about? Of course, I'm not alone." She paused ever so slightly. "Am alone. I meant to say am alone." Damn, her mind for not catching her sooner. She swore she could hear Janet giggling on the other end of the phone. "Nice try, Major." Janet emphasized the rank. "But as your best friend and doctor, I demand that you give me the details." This time it was definitely a giggle that she heard. "So, who is he? Do I know him? And how long has this been going on?" Sam seriously considered thudding her forehead against the counter top. "Janet, please." she trailed off, hoping that the good doctor would just let it be, but knowing that she wouldn't. "Come on, Sam." Janet practically whined. "Cassie has a more exciting sex life than I do. I need to live vicariously through someone." Sam sighed. "I know, it's just. things are complicated right now, and I'm really not certain about getting others involved." She barely felt his approach until he was right behind her, planting kisses on her neck and reaching around her to slip his hands beneath the silky fabric of her robe. She gasped as his tongue darted out and gently flicked her earlobe. "Sam?" Janet's voice pulled her back and she briefly mouthed a "quit it" to him before responding. "I'm still here, Janet." "He's there, in the room with you, isn't he, Sam?" she sighed a little. "And you're not going to tell me anything are you?" "Janet, how about we get together tomorrow for lunch? We can talk then?" She turned in Jack's arms so that she could face him, and his hands would stop doing the things that they were to the flesh beneath her robe. Jack looked at her with a wicked glimmer in his eye as he leaned forward, stopping right next to her other ear. "Tell Doc I said hi." He whispered before his tongue darted out to capture her ear. His hands now moving the front of the robe open as he grabbed her hips and hoisted her onto the counter top. She cried out a nondescript "Oh!" forcing herself not to yell out his name. "Sam?!" Janet's voice rang through, but looking into his eyes as he stood before her, in nothing but his boxers, Sam barely heard her. His hands now tracing their way up to her thighs, parting her knees so that he could stand between them, she almost didn't want to respond. She had waited so long to see his eyes burn with this kind of passion, and she was more certain than anything that he felt the same about her. "Tomorrow, Janet. Lunch. I'll tell you whatever I can then." She gasped slightly as his thumbs traced her inner thighs. "Good night, Janet." She blindly reached over to attempt to hang up the phone, rather unsuccessfully. But the Goa'uld could have invaded earth at this very instant and she wouldn't have cared. For right now, she was just going to be happy. Happy to be alive and happy to be with him. Things definitely wouldn't be easy from this point on. but they never were, were they? "Jack, I swear, you're going to get us caught before we even have time to really enjoy this." she trailed off as she kissed him. ~~~~~~~~~~ On the other side of town, a very shocked Janet Frasier stood in her kitchen and watched helplessly as her phone crashed to the floor. Sam and Jack? No, it couldn't be, the regulations, they would never... And then a very pleased grin crossed her face. Oh, yes. And tomorrow would prove to be very eventful. Lunch was suddenly being looked at from a totally different perspective.

By Saturday afternoon, all Jensen really wants is a break. He's spent the last four days buttoned up tighter than the Queen's guard at Buckingham, but even his best efforts hadn't been enough to satisfy the natives completely. So, of course, he'd exhausted most of those four days and himself trying to make the awkward glances tossed Misha's way seem less awkward and the stilted conversations he'd had with Jared less stilted. As far as he knows, it worked. If not well, at least well enough for Jared to let him vacate the passenger seat without answering a barrage of questions. In Jensen's book, that counts as a win. Right now, there are more important things to worry about. Namely, what he's going to say when he catches his friendly neighborhood folder with their proverbial pants down. He feels good, might even say great. Certainly better than he has in a week, because tonight he's got the upper hand. Given the wildly different content concealed inside the cranes he'd found at the bar, Jensen can only assume they weren't meant for him. Whoever it is, he's pretty sure they're not expecting him and will therefore be easier to find, easier to pin down when he does. Freshly showered and shaved, he gives himself one last head-to-toe in the mirror before slipping outside, locking the door behind him. Answers, even the prospect of them, are distilled adrenaline, so Jensen spends most of the drive over tapping the steering wheel and laying on the accelerator a little harder than he should. When he turns into the lot, it's already half full. It's also well lit, which is an unexpected bonus, and he picks a pole to park under. As soon as he swings the door open he can hear the driving bass line, the twang of an electric acoustic hot on its tail. He weathers a wave of unexpected longing, thinking of long summers and longer hours spent caught in the undertow of Steve's guitar with Chris and Jason tussling over who hummed up the better harmony like they were all still twelve and had eaten their way to the bottom of the box of Fruit-Roll-Ups. It's been too long. Up close the building looks just as squat and black as it did online Tuesday morning, but the neon's lit bright and beckoning, the thrum of life spilling over and into the street with an irreverence he's missed. Jensen doesn't catch a double-take from the bouncer when he pushes his way through the double doors, just a nod and that careful once over any good security guy would give a potential problem. He's good at looking unassuming when he wants to, so the quick flick is it. Through a second set of double doors the music hits him hard, digging up through his heels, climbing his spine, the three quarters time well on its way to a full-on mindfuck when anchored by an electric bass with dirty pickups. And maybe it's just the fact that he's finally here, balanced on the cusp of all those answers he's been after, but Jensen thinks he might actually like it. All the lights save the ones on the band are turned down low, muted with jewel tone gels that trend red and purple. To his right there's a long, well-stocked bar manned by three dudes in various stages of body modification, all of them wearing black T-shirts and giving each other shit above the hum of the amplifiers. There are tables scattered at random intervals, couples too, but most of the action's up front in the open area at the foot of the stage. Jensen decides to play it safe, get a beer and try to blend before he combs the crowd for a familiar face. Like shooting fish in a barrel, all he has to do is aim true and pull the trigger. He's got all the time in the world for that. In theory it works. In practice- In practice the plan falls apart before it's even fully realized. Jensen might even go so far as to say it blows up in his face. Spectacularly. Not five minutes after he props his elbows up on the bar, Cheyenne sidles in beside him, her face a profile of pink as she leans in to order a round. Jensen bites his lip to keep from saying the first thing that pops into his head. Without solid proof, calling a co-worker a liar and a stalker seems ever so slightly over the top. She chats with the bartender, giggling at some joke Jensen's not privy to, and he can't tell whether she's feigning nonchalance or if she really hasn't noticed him. Could be she's just buying herself time. Jensen waits. Drinks in hand, she twists towards him this time, presumably to make her way back to whatever table she's commandeered in a dark corner. He feels her eyes on him, the cursory catalog she does of his features and he's about to call bullshit when she stops two steps away and turns back. "Jensen?" His name gets lost in the sharp cadence of the snare, but he can read the shape of it on her lips. Her face is an even easier read, if considerably more confusing - no guilt, no concern, just surprise. Maybe her moral code works differently though and getting caught in a lie doesn't eat at her the way it would him. Doesn't really matter. "In the flesh," he says and raises his beer to her in mock salute. "Did Dan invite you?" "No, I -" Jensen stops short and studies her. Like before, she seems genuine and it confuses things, makes him question his assumptions. "Which Dan?" "Danny from sound. Danny that is currently kicking the shit out of that bass drum. I told him to at least say something to you about the gig, but he was being weird. The new kids usually are." Jensen hears most of it, but latches onto the part about Danny being in the band the hardest. That little tidbit of information means the bar's probably crawling with crew and his master plan for narrowing his suspect pool down to one is now little more than a pipe dream. He has to ask. "So who all showed?" "Amy, Liz, and Brian from lighting. The whole sound crew minus the big dogs. Nate and Deb from production. Couple of prop monkeys. And Misha." In retrospect, he shouldn't have expected any less, but it still makes him swallow hard and pick at the label on his bottle knowing Misha's here. Unlike every other dream he's ever had, he can't shake this one. Each time he's seen Misha since it takes him longer than he'd like to set aside the taste of his mouth, the feel of his tongue. This, apparently, is no exception and he's lingered too long in silence for Cheyenne to ignore it. "Trouble in paradise?" she asks, smirking like she knows more than she should. It's too close to a truth he's not ready to recognize and too far from where they actually are for Jensen's comfort. "Guess that depends on the definition of paradise," he says and takes a slow pull off his beer. Cheyenne frowns at him, arched brows tugged together in a tight peak and blond streak falling in her eyes. "So, uh. Most of us are over there," she says, chin tipped over her shoulder. "If you want to join us, cool. If not, that's cool too. Haven't seen Misha for half an hour or so, but I think he's still around somewhere." She's gone before he can say, "Sure" or "Thanks" or ask any one of the new questions swirling in the back of his mind. Jensen follows her progress across the room, feels the extra eyes on him once she gets there. Doesn't matter how long he's been in the business, he'll never really get used to the weight of people watching when he's not inhabiting someone else's skin. In this case, it's a necessary evil, a means to an end. Two dozen potential suspects whittled down to eight. It's better than nothing. The edge of the bar digs into his back, a broad stripe of pressure that keeps him grounded as he pounds the rest of his beer and scans the floor for stragglers. There's a couple hovering near the back of the crowd that he thinks he recognizes, but their heads are tipped together so it's hard to be sure. No Misha. If Lady Luck's on his side, Misha's long gone. Lately though, he's been her bitch and fucked six ways from Sunday before he even opens his mouth. As such, Jensen's not the least bit surprised to find Misha on his second sweep. It's expected, like death and taxes and overtime. The where - well, that's something else altogether. The alcove sits near enough the stage to provide a semi-obstructed view, but then Jensen figures it was never intended for serious aficionados, more like those who came for the atmosphere and music instead of the visuals. High-backed benches done in red velvet line all three walls, the squat table shoved in the center leaving little room for movement beyond what's required for the careful side-step around the edge. It's not the corner Jensen would have picked, but then Misha routinely does stuff that flies in the face of conventional reality - like suck face with some coffeehouse douchebag turned punkster. Colloquialism aside, Jensen thinks first impressions stand in this case. The unfortunate facts of the club's architectural details leave nothing to the imagination, six softball sized globes throwing the pair of them into sharp relief. Or sharp as it gets with Misha half-hidden by roving limbs and lips. They're pressed against the wall and each other so tight that Jensen couldn't begin to figure out where one ends and the other begins. It's all a blur of dark denim and black cotton, skin and ink, Misha's fingers twisted into the fabric stretched tight across the guy's shoulders. In and of himself, dude's not unattractive - lanky with broad shoulders and sharply defined features, longish dark hair that's just the right kind of mess that Jensen knows from experience it took half an hour to get right. From what he can tell, the ink is tasteful and custom, and he can see how Misha might be drawn even if he doesn't really want to. If he was a little drunker or a lot more self-involved, Jensen might be inclined to believe this whole night had been designed to drive him up the fucking wall. Not that he cares. He doesn't. Misha's a grown ass man with no known romantic entanglements and has every right to screw around with whomever he wants. Still. Jensen smacks his bottle down a bit too hard and waves at the blond bartender with the snake crawling up the side of his neck. "Whiskey. Double. Keep it coming." "Any preference?" Punk boy slides a hand up Misha's thigh and it takes more effort than it should for Jensen to keep his voice even as he grits out, "Whatever gets me to shitfaced faster." "Can do," he says, and Jensen turns in time to catch the sly smile twisting the bartender's lips before he moves away. It hits him wrong, like there's some great truth he keeps missing caught up behind all the weird smiles and knowing looks people have been lobbing his direction all week. The only thing worse than ignorance is getting your ignorance batted around like a chew toy, but he's never worked out how you ask a stranger what the fuck their problem is without actually asking. Jensen watches him stroll the length of the bar and flip a highball glass into hand, admiring the quick flick of wrist that sends the whiskey spilling after, smooth and honey-colored. The glass sits at his elbow before he can reach to take it. Disappointment makes Jensen reckless, always has, so he asks, "What's up?" without expecting an answer and turns back to watch the artsy little fuck with the turtle tattoo and skintight T-shirt molest Misha. The answer he gets in return might actually go down in history as the weirdest ever, not to be disqualified by the fact that it's actually a question too. "Your ex?" Jensen coughs around a swallow of whiskey, both grateful for and irritated by the solid thump of the bartender's fist against his back. "What makes you think that? Uh-" "Noah." "Noah. And what makes you think it's any of your business?" Even the amber swirl and the liquid fire burning down his throat can't distract him completely. Jensen knows he should leave, knows like he knows the world is round and drunk isn't going to make a damn bit of difference. There's nothing keeping him here now that all the clues have been sifted through and cataloged. But he can't quite get past the way they're slotted together, the motion of Misha's jaw as he tongues at punk boy's mouth, the splay of his fingers between hem and waistband. "Don't shoot the messenger, my man. I've seen pining aplenty. You're straight up panting after him." "No. No, I'm... a concerned bystander. He's a friend." "Bystand my ass." Jensen sighs and tosses back the rest of the whiskey, mutters a "Seriously," he can't even bring himself to believe. "Shit. So he's not into you?" Noah leans across the bar, forearms slapped flat against the scarred surface. Whiskey appears in Jensen's glass again as if wishing is all it takes. The shrug comes naturally and before Jensen has a chance to change his mind. "He blind or just a bastard?" "Neither. Both. Fuck, I don't know. What do I care? Not like I'm hard up or anything," Jensen says, rolling his shoulders back slow and easy. It's the truth. He could charm his way into the pants of anyone in this bar if he applied himself, Misha included. It's one of the burdens of being so awesome. Again, it's a plan that works in theory. What it doesn't take into account is the matched pair of elephants parked in the proverbial corner - one named 'You want more' and the other named 'Own it, you know what you want'. They're pachyderms of monstrous proportions, distracting and nerve-wracking and annoying as all fuck, because they won't let him forget or even substitute anymore. He can sure as shit try though. Noah settles chin to palm, elbow bent against the bar and Jensen watches him do it out of the corner of his eye. "What about you," he asks. "Sure you get pretty aplenty in this line of work." There's something in the way Noah smiles, the self-deprecating huff tacked onto his laugh that's almost but not quite perfect. "I'm kind of a dick if you hadn't noticed," he says and taps his rings against the bar hard enough that Jensen feels it right between his shoulder-blades. "And I'm also-" "Gay?" Jensen offers, because that feels like it might be Noah's elephant, if he's reading his signals right. He's not exactly operating on his most tactful cylinders tonight. "Particular is what I was going to say," Noah answers, his smile drawn tight across his teeth like maybe he's afraid of being judged. "But then, I'm generally not a fan of stating the obvious." Jensen smiles and tosses back a long swallow of whiskey, draining the glass a second time and savoring the burn, the tingle starting to lodge in his jaw and sing across shoulders. The silence stretches between them, full of unspoken promise and a challenge Jensen's not sure he wants to rise to. Noah fills his glass again without having to be asked, whiskey sloshing up past what any sane bartender would pour as a double. Jensen could kiss him, might even sack up and do it under different conditions. Because Noah's totally his type, if he could claim to have a type for dudes. He doesn't, but that's not a detail he's in any hurry to focus on right now considering the nature of his own previously alluded to elephants. No harm in appreciating aesthetics though - compact build, nice lips, slender without being scrawny, singular without being over-the-top weird, graceful in a way that proclaims to anyone with eyes that he knows how to use his body. Jensen's perceptive enough to recognize it's on offer. Of course, that's when Misha laughs, head tipped back and sideways, Mr. Rockabilly Coffeehouse whispering something in his ear with his fingers hooked into the collar of Misha's T-shirt. As it just so happens, that's also when Misha sees him, catches him staring for the second time in a week. And Jensen's gotten so settled in his undeniably perverse voyeur routine that he can't look away - doesn't want to because their eyes lock and his stomach sinks right down into his knees. He's so fucked. Impossibly and completely fucked. Noah leans in again, fingers wrapped tight around Jensen's wrist, breath warm and wintermint-scented in his ear. It's enough of a shock to shift his balance and Jensen feels the stool rock off one of its legs then settle back with a solid thump. "Relax, cowboy," he says when Jensen tries to jerk his arm away. "Two can play." "If they're playing the same game, sure," Jensen says. "This is not what you think it is. Hell, I don't even know what it is." Across the room, Misha's on the move, slipping what looks like a business card out of his wallet and scribbling furiously on it with a pen he produced from who-the-fuck knows where. He tucks the card in the punk boy's back pocket and pats his ass to send him on his way. Jensen can't quite parse the meaning of the moment three-quarters of the way to a whiskey drunk, but he thinks he should feel vindicated. The view makes even less sense after another sinus-clearing gulp from his glass because when he opens his eyes Misha's occupying the stool to his left and Noah's fingers are no longer a firm, warm band of pressure circling his wrist. "Misha." "Jensen," Misha answers, and Jensen will never get over how many meanings he can pour into a single word. This time all Jensen can extract with any certainty is the frustration and humor. Whatever. "Misha, Noah. Noah, Misha." Jensen takes a long, slow sip of whiskey just to have something to occupy his mouth that doesn't require speech. This far down the neck of a bottle, he's way more likely to incriminate himself than he is anyone else. And it's not as if his input would do anything to disarm the full-on Animal Planet turf war raging silently between them. Neither even has the decency to be subtle and Jensen's not looking to get clubbed over the head and dragged anywhere by his hair. If Misha wasn't a part-time asshole and Noah was actually entitled to the overprotective insanity, Jensen might go so far as to call it sweet. As it stands now, the bullshit posturing's just annoying. Telling either one of them to step the fuck off would only make the situation worse though. That's a lesson Jensen learned a long, long time ago thanks to Welling. The band wrapped their last encore what feels like an hour ago although the clock above the door seems to think it's only been fifteen minutes. Regardless, they've taken with them his last, best hope for distraction - the club clearing rapidly until all that's left is a handful of crew, the band and the staff. Seems a late start means a short set. Jensen wants to fill the air with noise to keep his ears from ringing, but instead, he drinks his whiskey and waits. By the time he reaches the bottom of the glass, they seem to have worked out their differences. Misha, unsurprisingly, emerges victorious if his body language's to be believed - his arm a warm, barely there presence along the edge of the bar and behind Jensen's back, fingers dangling way too close to his side for comfort. Noah breaks the silence first, eyes narrowed down to slits, tone careful and professional when he asks Misha, "What'll it be?" "Circumstances appear to dictate that I'm done for the night," Misha says, his tone sharp but smile wide. Noah slings a towel over his shoulder and rubs his hands together, tops off Jensen's double one last time and says, "Great, I'll just go be elsewhere," then turns to move away. Jensen blinks after him, the set of his shoulders as he slams together racks of dirty glasses and goes about the business of flushing the trap in the sink. It's not like he had any kind of attachment to Noah, but he can't help wondering what the fuck Misha's smoking to have treated another human being with such carelessness. That's not what he's about. Not usually anyway. As expected, Misha reels himself back in as soon as Noah's out of earshot - heels hooked on the bottom rung of the stool, fingers laced together and shoved between his knees. "No need to thank me," he says. "These things I do for the good of mankind." And that - that is it. "Fuck you, Misha," Jensen hisses under his breath, feels the venom work its way through his system chasing the whiskey, and slams back another swallow. Misha huffs a laugh and it pisses Jensen off that he can tell the difference, that this flavor of self-deprecation is, like Goldilocks' porridge, just right. "Promises, promises," he says and tips forward on his stool to try to catch Jensen's eye. Just. No. Jensen finishes the last of his whiskey and shoves himself away from the bar, the stool, most of all Misha and his smug fucking face. The same face Jensen still seems to want to do things to, things he's not entirely comfortable with. He wobbles for a tenuous handful of seconds before he gets his knees under him and what was a totally workable buzz while he was sitting down turns nasty when he's on his feet. It makes him more determined, not less. Noah's not ten feet away, bent down behind the bar stocking beer or lemons or whatever the fuck they're low on, his hair a shock of light against the dark woodgrain. A couple carefully measured steps and he's there. "Hey," Jensen says, slurs, shouts. It sounds deafening in the relative quiet, hollow and off. "Jensen? You good?" Noah asks. There's real concern in his eyes once Jensen can see them, bring them into a shaky focus, and that's enough to make his mind up. Takes him two attempts to find a grip with Noah's T-shirt wet, but Jensen gets his hands where he wants them eventually, soft cotton crushed between his fingers and then the unmistakable taste of wintermint on his lips. Noah grabs back and Jensen feels his hands like boat anchors at his shoulder and across the back of his neck. One of them makes a noise, low and urgent, the kind that never really comes up all the way no matter how hard it tries and Jensen takes it as permission to lick into Noah's mouth for more. He wants more, needs it to quiet the ringing in his ears that's gone internal, to shut out the images that flash back unbidden. Misha's lips. Misha's tongue. Misha's hand on him, coaxing him with a sly certainty of purpose. Fuck. The "Jensen," comes from nowhere, but he feels it in his toes, Misha's breath on his neck, Misha's hand on his elbow. He tries to shake free, savoring the slick slide of Noah's lips as he fists his hands tighter, but Misha's like a fucking terrier tugging at him. It's distracting. Jensen breaks away to breathe, far enough but not too far, his nose still nudged up against Noah's cheek and heart racing. Misha's fingers flex harder, digging into muscle and tendon, but Jensen won't look, can't look if he has any hope of pulling this bullshit off. Can't kid a kidder. "Problem?" he asks, both surprised and grateful that it sounds about a thousand times more resolved than he actually feels. Jensen looks to Noah, trying to get back that sense of solidity because his head's beginning to swim. But the closeness clues him in to an unfortunate fact he hadn't yet realized - Noah's eyes are blue. The tide of the memory takes him then and he loses focus, Noah blurring down to fuzzy flesh-colored shapes. "A word?" Misha says, and Jensen can't help himself. He looks. "Outside," Misha continues. "Preferably before I relocate your arm." Noah sighs against his neck, hands already sliding like he's got some superhuman sense of insight, like he knows Jensen will go before Jensen does. It's a phenomenon that's starting to become a pattern and Jensen wonders if it should worry him. Right now, he's too drunk to worry about much of anything. So he says, "Yeah, okay," and tries to smooth flat the wrinkles he's put in the front of Noah's shirt. When he shuffles away, it's on the tip of his tongue to say that he'll be back but Noah stops him with a beatific smile and a muttered, "No you won't." Beyond the doors of the club, the night has cooled considerably, the gentle breeze catching in the trees enough to raise gooseflesh across the back of Jensen's neck. It also goes a long way in pulling his head out of the clouds even if it can't completely counteract his short-sighted decision to over-indulge. The wall beside the entrance is far enough outside for him quite frankly, and Jensen leans against it, the red of the neon overhead turning the black paint a ruddy purple in the dark. At least it isn't spinning. Misha, it seems, has other ideas about the wheres of outside, because he keeps walking - long, purposeful strides that eat up asphalt and only slow to a stop once he realizes there's no one following. Even with the distance, Jensen hears him curse, the wind taking the word in the opposite direction. He tries to follow it, but can't catch on, doesn't want to move because the black brick at his back is good. So good. "Jesus, Jensen," Misha says, and Jensen opens his eyes not knowing when they closed, thoughts he should not be entertaining rooting fast in his brain. Misha's close enough to kiss, not halfway across the parking lot or across the room tongue-fucking some other dude. He's standing a foot away with one hand on Jensen's chest and the other on his wrist, trying to wedge his shoulder under Jensen's arm and steal him away from his friend the wall. The whiskey sloshes in his stomach, a burning swill that makes him pitch forward enough for Misha to wrap an arm around his waist. Then he's walking, the pavement beneath his feet pounding back up his legs, Misha's hip bumping against his on every other step because Jensen can't seem to find the right rhythm. Misha shifts against him, shrugging closer, holding tighter when he staggers and remembers that there were supposed to be words and that he's pissed. "Not my keeper," he mumbles. Misha laughs, shoulders shaking with it until his face softens into one of those unreadable expressions Jensen wants to kill him for making. "If you really want to embarrass yourself by passing out halfway through the blowjob your new friend Noah was going to give you in the back room, you're more than welcome to. Don't ask me to deliver you to him. Even I have limits." Jensen glances back over his shoulder, the neon's still lit but it shines from what seems miles away. As awesome as a blowjob would be, it's probably not fair to either of them. Instead he leans on Misha a little harder and says, "Limits? You?" Part of him wants to throw caution to the wind, pull Misha down with him amongst the dried leaves and broken beer bottles to find out once and for all. It wouldn't take much, one misplaced step or turned ankle to tumble them both. But he can't, or won't. Instinct sends him on to safer trains of thought. "So apparently I have a stalker," he says, groaning when Misha deposits him against the side of a familiar silver sedan. "Only the one? How disappointing for you." Misha tugs the door open slowly, one hand pressed against Jensen's chest to keep him upright. It's a small thing, but it makes him hope. And panic. "Love notes," he blurts out, his hand flying to the front of Misha's shirt before he thinks to pull it back. Misha looks at it, considering, then follows the line of his arm up to meet his eyes. It's strange, and again Jensen wants to do some very ill-advised things that would at least give him an idea whether Misha's interested or not, he's just too chickenshit to pull the trigger. Easier to talk about a whacknut stalker. "Love notes," Misha repeats, and he looks down like the ground has suddenly become the most fascinating thing on the planet. "Shaped like birds and turtles and ugly black bugs, but yeah. Love notes. And other stuff. This address for one." It's a relief to have it out in the open, for someone to know besides Jay and Cheyenne, and he's past caring whether Misha will mock him or not. Mockery's much easier to handle than the powder keg packing down behind his ribs, ready to explode. His fingers slip free as Misha steps back to give him room. The passenger side door is the one hanging open, so Jensen guesses it's on him to get in. He tangles his arm in the seatbelt on the way, but eventually he manages to sit the fuck down without damaging himself or the car. Misha slams the door after him, and Jensen watches him in the rearview, the hand pushed haphazardly through his hair, the slow saunter around the ass end of the car before he slides into the driver's seat all smiles. "Shall we?" he says, but doesn't wait for an answer before he coaxes the car to life and shifts her into reverse. Vancouver whips past the window in a patchwork of shadow and light - neighborhoods sleeping behind closed doors and every so often a cluster littered with bars and clubs, restaurants that accommodate the often alternative lifestyle of her part-time HoNo residents. Jensen uses the silence and inebriation to his advantage, stripping down and sorting through the clues to see if something shakes out in his altered state. Misha's lost to thought anyway, one wrist strung lazily across the steering wheel, the other hand tapping at his lips, his knee, the gearshift like it has to be in motion in order for him to think clearly. Up ahead the light flips to red and the car slides to a smooth stop. "If I know you at all, there's a list," Misha says, his hands finally still and wrapped tight at ten and two like he's bracing himself. "Sure there's a list," Jensen answers, puzzled. "How the hell else would you figure something like this out? It's driving me insane." "And here I thought we were already there." The car jolts back into motion as the light turns green and Jensen's stomach flips over then into his throat, whiskey swirling fast and furious and generally making him wish he wasn't alive. "So?" Misha says, and Jensen feels like he missed something in trying too hard to not puke his guts out all over Misha or his car. "So what?" "Regale me with the fruits of your divine deductive labors," Misha says. Jensen breathes carefully in through his nose and grips the dash as they take the turn into his neighborhood, swallowing hard around the "Eight," he grits out between his teeth. "I'm sorry?" "Got it narrowed down to eight," Jensen says. From here he can see the halo of his porch light shining where he left it on, and he could swear it's the sweetest thing he's ever seen. Except now he has to decide if he's going to man up and ask Misha in or - not. There's no reason to believe he'll get the answer he's after, no solid signs to indicate that Misha's even interested, much less willing or wanting. He still wants, though. Despite his best efforts and every last shred of common sense he ever possessed, he wants Misha. Misha. The burden of asking gets taken off his hands when he nearly sideswipes his face with the driveway on his way out of the car. He doesn't only because Misha's already there, arm looped across his chest and yanking him back. "I could drop you right now," Misha says. "And still be a better friend than Jack." Jensen blinks and steadies himself against the car. Perhaps consuming a fifth of whiskey in the space of an hour wasn't the best of ideas. Sometimes he can be a jealous bastard though, and that slim-hipped little pseudo-punk was grating his last nerve. "That what his name was?" Jensen asks and pushes away from both car and Misha, aiming for the front door. He doesn't trip again, just scuffs the shit out of his boot because the first step seems to have migrated two feet further down the front walkway. "Oh for fuck's sake," Misha sighs. "Let's get you to bed. If you break your face on my watch, I'll never hear the end of it." While it's not exactly the most refined of propositions, it gets Misha inside, Misha's hand on his back or his hip whenever his balance fails him. But Jensen's not into games, playing or being played. He doesn't dangle carrots or hint at shit when he really wants something because it's a waste of time. He takes. So he doesn't stop moving once the door slams shut behind them, he lets the momentum carry him down the hall and into his room with Misha trailing after. The bed bounces when he flops back on it still fully clothed, his stomach roiling at the sudden motion. "Mission accomplished," he says, lacing his fingers behind his head with a smile, a smile Misha doesn't return. Instead he says, "Jensen," and paints it up with all those subtle shades of inflection and meaning that neither of them have a reference for, says, "I didn't realize," and kneels to unknot the laces of Jensen's boots. "What's there to realize? That I'm a sad fuck a little in love with a person I may never know?" Jensen asks. Misha's hands still for a second, but he holds his tongue. And it's too much to have him so close but not be able to touch, stubble rasping at the knee of his jeans as Misha shifts to work the other set of laces loose. Somewhere in the back of his alcohol addled brain, there's a question he can't get a handle on. It feels important, like maybe he should chase it down, but the thud of his boots against the dresser chases it off. "S'not even about that anymore, y'know? Solving the puzzle. I care who, but not for the reasons I thought," he says, looking down the line of his body to catch Misha's eye. "I want that. Who doesn't want that?" Misha only hums, and Jensen realizes he's accidentally wandered into the maudlin portion of the program with Misha still in attendance. It doesn't bode well for him or his rapidly diminishing manhood. Then Misha's fingers - his long, clever fingers - are fumbling at Jensen's belt buckle, slipping leather through metal and Jensen's asking himself entirely different questions. Ones that make his face flush hot and his own fingers twitch with want, like whether Misha's hair is as soft as it looks and what kind of noises he makes when he's as straight-up fucking needy as Jensen is right now. Both questions he can't answer until he asks the first. His body makes the decision for him when Misha unfastens the fly of his pants and hooks his thumbs under to ease them down. Misha doesn't ask if it's okay or if he should or can. He just smacks Jensen's hip and Jensen lifts up to let him do it. It's so simple. Jensen catches Misha's wrist at his ankle, feels the tendons twist against his palm as Misha works denim down over his foot. He whispers, "Stay," and Misha pretends he doesn't hear, rocks back on his heels to stand instead and tosses Jensen's pants alongside his boots. Light from the hall lands on Misha's face, a soft gold glow that strikes in complete contrast to the studied stillness of Misha's features, too blank to be honest. "Turn over," Misha says quietly and Jensen narrows his eyes. "Or what?" Misha doesn't answer, and in a flash he's gone, reduced to nothing more than a series of loud disembodied footsteps in the hallway and a muttered, "Fucking stubborn dickface," that makes Jensen smile wider. He does as he's told, not because Misha asked, but because he's not stupid and has taken care of enough drunken idiots in his time to know that you can actually drown in your own vomit if you try hard enough. There was one night he'd almost had to sit on Kane to keep him from rolling over. Kane's not here right now though, thank all that is holy. Misha is. Jensen tries to focus on his movements, shutting his eyes tight to listen - the refrigerator opening and closing, plastic rattling in the master bath, water running. At some point, he must doze off, because Misha's voice in his ear brings him back around. The "Hey," is just as soft as the earlier command and Jensen forgets himself, thinking, maybe even hoping he's back in that dream with Misha and his creepy smile, back where Misha wants him. So he reaches out to tangle his fingers in Misha's shirt, to pull him closer and kiss him quiet even though he's not actually saying anything. This Misha tastes like Red Hots from what Jensen can tell. Not that he's getting much of a sample yet because this Misha is also slow to respond, tentative instead of consuming and Jensen has to wonder what the fuck is wrong with his subconscious that it would feed him such a lameass dream. When he tries to get a hand around the back of Misha's neck to pull him deeper, he finally gets it. His elbow catches against the bottle of water on the nightstand, tipping it over onto the Aleve beside it, sending them both tumbling into the trashcan below. The same trashcan that the real Misha has thoughtfully emptied of both garbage and bag to make the cleanup easier in case an unfortunate stomach evacuation is, in fact, imminent. Fuck. "Misha?" Jensen feels the press of a cool washcloth against the back of his neck, Misha's breath warm against his cheek before he answers. "Go to sleep, Jen," he says, and the last thing Jensen hears before he passes out is the solid click of the front door latching.

Things aren't any better in the morning. On the upside, they're also not any worse. It comes as a small comfort when the top shelf of the bookcase in his living room resembles nothing more than a damned paper menagerie. The were-dog looks slightly more dog and less 'were' in good light and Jensen fingers the folds, the color of the paper worn through to white in places. Whoever made it obviously took their time, folding and re-folding until the corners matched and the right lines emerged, someone patient though not necessarily adept. It feels wrong to destroy something so painstakingly crafted, so he hasn't pulled the dog apart yet, or the turtle. The cranes he'd cobbled back together through trial and error but the number of creases required for the others makes him a little dizzy to even think about. Now, with some distance between him and the find, Jensen can see the necessity of pulling them apart. i will touch you with my mind. Touch you and touch and touch until you give me suddenly a smile, shyly obscene [2] The passage scrawled inside the dog is both weirder and more disturbing in the simplest of ways.I will have you. Those four words clue him in to the depth and breadth of what he's actually dealing with. It takes a specific kind of person to be so certain without encouragement, and suddenly he's wading through his list trying to find the floaters. Before he drifts too deep, the doorbell saves him from catching the rip tide of his own suspicion, a long buzz that slots him back into his routine. Icarus paws at his shins, whining softly as he shoulders his bag. Jensen glances at the clock before he squats to give Ick a quick rubdown. Clif's a little early anyway, he can wait. "Be good today, buddy," he says, smiling when Icarus arches into his hand. "Tell Selena to take it easy on you." Icarus stares, tongue lolling, rear end sliding on the tile from wagging his tail so hard. Jensen has the sudden overwhelming urge to scoop him up and bring him along. Any other day he might, but Mondays are traditionally the hardest hitting, the schedule the most grueling. It's different with every director, but most want to get the tough stuff out of the way while the talent's still relatively fresh. Which means Mondays are a bitch. Another long buzz sounds and Jensen frowns, turns his wrist over to look at his watch. Clif never bothers ringing twice. Must be a tighter schedule today than usual. He gives Ick one last pat and flicks the switch on all the lights but the one in the hall. It leaves a weird glow in his wake, a fresh crop of goosebumps prickling his skin as he backs out the front door and sets the alarm. Bumping into something solid on the stoop makes it worse, instinct taking over in the deep dark of pre-dawn, his elbow shooting out to land in the shadow's stomach. The shadow grunts out a breathy, "Fuck," then staggers down and back until the motion sensors trip on the light above the garage. When Jensen turns, he feels stupid. Awake, guilty, and very fucking stupid. "Misha? What the hell?" Misha holds up a hand, still bent at the waist and coughing as Jensen glances past him, sees the black SUV with the silhouette of Clif's head curved over the driver's seat and what must be Jared's on the passenger side. It throws him. Not just because he's usually the first-in, last-out but also because he took off in a kind of embarrassing hurry last night and someone in that car thought it would be a good idea to send Misha to the door. Misha who just took an elbow in the gut. Shit. "Jesus. Sorry, man. I didn't-" Jensen stammers, instinct also making him reach out to help. "You okay?" His fingers fumble, clumsy with recently shaken off sleep and an unexpected adrenaline rush, but when they find a hold it happens skin to skin - the thin stalk of Misha's forearm flexing in his grip. It takes a lot more effort than it should not to snatch his hand back, and more than once he has to tell his brain to shut the fuck up. Misha's a friend. A friend he just gutchecked accidentally because he's a paranoid freak of nature. He bends to set his Thermos aside, obscenely grateful to find the contents still sloshing gently against the insulated walls, then lays a tentative hand against the flat of Misha's back. Jensen gets lost for a long stretch of seconds, the knobs of Misha's spine curved into the heel of his hand, the bunch of muscle and ribs beneath when he exhales and his wheezes transform into something else. "So easy," Misha says, teeth glinting white in the bright fluorescent as he smiles and straightens. A small part of him recognizes the humor, can track the reflection of it back down the months. Unfortunately, that part can't claim control of his mouth or his limbs. Jensen pushes past roughly, irritated with himself as much as Misha, frustrated by his own reactions. Their shoulders bump, Misha twisting gracefully to absorb the blow and Jensen catches sight of that grin again, the one that says the joke's on him, the one he wants to wipe clean off Misha's mouth by any means necessary. Thinking about the means only confuses the issue more, so Jensen has to settle for stalking down the drive towards the SUV. He mutters, "Dick," under his breath as soon as he thinks he's out of earshot. Misha's response comes from way too close - a snort and whispered, "Only when it suits me," that Jensen feels against the back of his ear. It's too fucking early and too fucking much on too little caffeine. To add insult to injury, Misha presses his abandoned Thermos into his hand before he moves away. Wisely, Jensen keeps on walking. Once they get to the car, there's a minor scuffle over shotgun. He wins, thank all that is holy. Jared's vibrating in the backseat like he downed a whole box of Sugar Smacks this morning and Misha's - well, Misha, and truth be told he's not feeling all that social what with the recent events piled on top of the running away fiasco. Clif grunts a cursory greeting and then gets them underway. The studio's only about twenty miles from his place, but he pops his earbuds in anyway then eases down into the seat to get that extra half hour of shuteye. Even with his music cranked to tune them out, Jensen can hear the gentle rumble of Jared and Misha trading insults. It probably shouldn't lull him to sleep, but he doesn't traffic all that well in shouldn't where Jay's concerned. Or Misha for that matter. He drifts off easily to the sound of their voices and the rolling sway of the SUV taking curves just a hair too fast. Jensen has a moment of blind panic when he starts himself awake - the bottom dropping out of his stomach as he scrambles and slaps his palm against the dashboard. Rocks, walls of it not three feet from where his cheek was pressed up against the glass. Boulders and scrub brush and tiny eddies of runoff trickling down to the shoulder of a road they shouldn't be on. He glances in the rearview just to verify he is where he thought he was. Sure enough, Jared's slouched down behind him decked out in headphones and pounding on his PSP. Misha's alternately staring out the window and screwing with his phone. Their eyes meet in the mirror for a fraction of a second before Jensen averts his, running the back of his hand across his mouth in a compulsory drool check. Thankfully, he comes away dry. Small favors. Behind him, there's a quick rustle of fabric and a sharp intake of breath before Jared shouts, "Wha-oh!" and Misha murmurs, "Oh, thank fuck." Apparently the Wonder Twins were getting sick of riding in silence. He feels like Alice, through the looking glass with the Mad Hatter and the Cheshire Cat and flamingo cricket. Everyone else seems to know exactly what's going on. It sucks. There are about a hundred questions tripping across the tip of his tongue, but he finally lands on one that will lead to all the other answers. "Where are we?" he asks. The results are predictable, if not particularly enlightening - Jared and Misha talking over each other until all Jensen catches are the words Disneyland and Magical Mystery Tour. Clif waits them out, guiding the SUV around a sharp hairpin with a practiced hand. "'Bout ten miles south of Squamish," Clif says and sneaks a quick peek Jensen's direction. "You were down for the count." "Yeah," Jensen replies, drags a hand through his hair. "Not sleeping all that great lately." The clouds beyond Clif's window are bleeding pink to gold to white, the sun hidden by the soaring rock face beyond Jensen's. It answers when well enough, but what he can't pin down is why. Sure, he remembers vague references to another remote shoot, another lake tucked between mountain peaks that they had to get on film. The fact that he forgot about it being this week bothers him more than the lack of clothes and creature comforts. Worst comes to worst, he's got a whole trailer full of Dean's jeans he knows will fit. There's a hoodie and a hat in his backpack, toiletries in his trailer. Anything else he can pick up once they hit Squamish if given time or a production assistant to do so. Unprepared equates to unprofessional though, and Jensen hates to think that his personal bullshit has started interfering with his ability to do his job. Just. Fuck. Misha seems to take the silence as a cue to shove his face between the front seats. "You had no idea we were on location this week." True or not, rational or not, it bothers Jensen to be read so easily. With fans, yeah, he takes care to show them only what he wants them to see. Real life's a whole different kettle of fish - a transparent kettle full of those weird ass transparent fish. Being on guard all the time is exhausting and amongst friends Jensen prefers to be taken at face value. By and large, that face happens to be an honest one. When it isn't, Misha's always the one who sees through the bullshit and calls him on it. There's no win here. Nothing he can say that Misha won't twist, so Jensen keeps his mouth shut. Not to be outdone, Jared shifts forward in his seat too, leather creaking, and says," Dude, seriously? You're like the most prepared person on the planet." He isn't, never has been. There's prepared and then there's Prepared, and it requires a lot more effort and attention to detail than Jensen ever intends to expend to be Prepared. Just so happens he's better at remembering shit than Jared is most of the time. Misha leans in further, the jut of his chin catching against Jensen's shoulder all scrape and stubble. "That's really all you brought," he says, his gaze flicking to the backpack situated between Jensen's feet as he clucks his tongue. "Whatever will we do with you?" "We are not doing anything with me. I'm aces. Just pack light is all." It's stretching the truth at the best of times. "Dude, you're two pairs of strappy shoes and a straightener away from being a girl." "Says the fucknut who lugged a suitcase the size of a small car to Rome for a day." Misha edges closer, wedging his shoulder between the seats, his nose in dangerous proximity to Clif's elbow and his face screwed up into sympathetic shapes that waver between sincere and - not. "Poor kitten," he says. "Mi suitcasa es su suitcasa. Within reason of course." The corner of his mouth twitches twice before he adds, "Sorry. Within my definition of reason." Which, to be frank, is a much broader definition than Jensen's completely comfortable with because suddenly he's thinking about Misha's underwear, his subconscious settling in for a good long ponder on the ages-old question of boxers or briefs. Jensen kind of wants to punch Misha. Maybe a lot. In the face. "Fuck you very much too, Boy Wonder. Told you twice already I'm not wearing one of your damned Sponge Bob T-shirts. Not even in the Canadian outback." Misha huffs a laugh and sits back, says, "Suit yourself," softly, like he might actually give a shit. Jensen bites back the compulsory apology because the last week has apparently been weird enough to drive him to rudeness. With any luck, the change of scenery will help, give him time to reap the spoils that close quarters have to offer. It's easier to investigate when all your suspects are occupying the same floor of a hotel in the middle of fucking nowhere. It's an opportunity - one he's looking forward to taking advantage of when it fully presents itself. By the time he and Jared wrap and get back to the hotel, it's ten 'til ten. While today won't go down in history as the worst day ever, Jensen's still sporting a fantastic film of mud and corn syrup blood and his boots feel like they weigh about fifty pounds each and he's starving. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't be a big deal. Here though, the hotel restaurant closes at ten and the room service menu slims down to appetizers and alcohol half an hour later. Unless he wants to harass Clif or walk somewhere, he and Jared are both going to have to make do with the food they can get at the bar. There are worse problems to have. The wall of the elevator is cool at his back, grounding, and he watches the display shift from two to three as the bell dings and the doors slide open. He glances over at Jared who doesn't seem all that inclined to move, the sweat tracks cut through the dust on his face making him look more worn out than he probably is. "Back here in twenty?" he asks, trying for a smile and mostly succeeding. He thinks. Jared returns it, levering himself away from the wall on a grunt. "It's too much to hope that the bar serves steak, isn't it?" "Think that's probably about as likely as getting sweet tea, man," Jensen says, familiarity making his stomach knot up. "Way to burst my bubble, Jen," Jared grumbles, but he's still smiling when he makes the hard left to head to his room. They're at opposite ends of the hall this time, and it's unusual enough for Jensen to take notice but not so much so he feels it needs mentioning. Instead he just shouts, "Twenty minutes," at Jared's retreating back and accepts the hand he raises as an answer. It takes Jensen less than that to strip out of his clothes and scrub himself pink. He even manages to scrape away the dirt and stage blood cocktail caught under his fingernails before he tugs on his hoodie and a pair of track pants he'd found shoved in the back of a drawer in his trailer. At some point he's going to have a problem with other stuff - socks and underwear - but he's pretty sure he can con Clif into running him down to the local superstore tomorrow between set-ups. The message light on the phone flashes in his periphery when he sits on the end of the bed to pull on his sneakers, a bright red beacon that he ignores because it's probably just Selena calling to tell him she picked Icarus up and he's doing fine and that he owes her for the short notice. It's not like he can call her back now anyway since her kids are undoubtedly asleep. Regardless of the message content, it will sure as shit wait until he has food in his belly. Jensen palms both key card and wallet, sliding them into his pocket as he slips out the door. The cast and crew have commandeered most of the third floor, so the corridor buzzes with activity despite the hour. Several doors along the hallway stand ajar and he stops a couple of times on his way to the elevators to chat. Before long, he's spent another twenty minutes at it, his stomach trying really fucking hard to eat him from the inside out, but there's still no Jared. Any other day Jensen might go bang on his door, make sure he hasn't fallen asleep. Today, he's not in the mood. Despite feeling more human than he did an hour ago, he's hungry and tired and still irritated at himself for forgetting they were making this trek to begin with. Jay's a big boy. He can fend for himself. The elevator ride back down is uneventful save the blasphemous Muzak version of Stairway to Heaven piped in through tinny speakers. Jensen finds himself humming along just to drown out the strains of a song that no one in their right mind would ever synthesize. In the lobby there's a quiet hum, an echo of the hallway upstairs that never quite matches its volume, small clusters of familiar faces milling around in mud-crusted boots. He waves without breaking stride, his stomach staging a full-on rebellion by now. It's easy to find the bar, a modestly sized oblong box blocked off on one end of the restaurant so they can share a kitchen. Most of the high-tops are dirty, covered with half-eaten food on non-descript plates, beer glasses, and crumpled napkins, so Jensen doesn't have much choice when it comes to seating. He grabs the first one he comes to that's wiped down and plucks the small, sticky menu out from between the salt and pepper shakers, relieved to find that not only do they serve hamburgers, they play actual music instead of the Muzak shit he was subjected to in the elevator. Across the room he hears the clanking of plates before he sees a tiny girl wrangling a bus tub. She looks too young to be tending bar, pixie-like features sharp in the glare of the big screen and neon, her dishwater blonde hair drawn up into a simple ponytail that bounces and shimmies when she tugs the cloth out of her apron to swipe the tabletop clean. "Be with you in a minute," she says on the tail end of a sigh. It's obvious she's the only one working tonight and the rest of the horde has probably run her half-ragged. Jensen bides his time, drumming his fingertips against the table and scoping out what they have on tap. He gets as far as the third handle before he sees them. Cranes. Two of them riding the ridge of the bar, both folded from grease-stained paper placemats spotted with ketchup. He doesn't make the conscious decision to stand up, not that he can remember anyway, but soon enough he has them in hand, his ass just starting to kiss the surface of his stool again. His first instinct says to shove them in his pocket, wait until he's upstairs and can take his time to comb them for clues. Usually, his instincts don't stand a chance in the face of his urges - especially the need to know - but this time they win out, paper crinkling as he slides them in alongside his phone. A commotion at the opposite end of the bar makes him reconsider, laughter high and girlish tickling against his ears and when he looks up, Jensen understands why. Misha's bent close, his smirk tripping between sly and sated as he flicks the bartender's ponytail back over her shoulder. It's a liberty Jensen would never take with someone he just met but Misha has boundary issues. Drunkenness only makes them worse and seeing as Misha finished his coverage around six, odds are that he's probably feeling really fucking good right about now. He watches Misha lean closer, lips hovering just a breath away from her ear as he wavers on his feet. Whatever he says to her gets lost in the music and the sharp rattle of plates as the girl's neck flushes pink and she almost drops the bus tub. It's a move he's seen Misha make a thousand times over - inappropriately proprietary, completely indifferent to the answer that meets him after the fact because he's almost more interested in the reaction than the potential for sexual acrobatics. Jensen's stomach lurches suddenly, and he's about to clear his throat to remind them both they have an audience when the bartender gives Misha a gentle shove. "Maybe it's time for you to head up to your room. Sir," she says, but even from where Jensen's sitting he can tell she's biting her cheeks to keep from smiling. Someone in the lobby shrieks, feet pounding past the open end of the bar, and if Misha answers her it's pitched too low for Jensen to catch. Not that it matters. And yet, he strains for the words without knowing why. Misha, of course, catches him staring before Jensen has the opportunity to pretend he isn't. Getting caught has its own advantages. For one, he gets to watch Misha slink the length of the bar. On anyone else, it might be ridiculous, but the laws of nature and Misha aren't on speaking terms and he's just lithe enough to pull it off convincingly. His stride stutters though, when he's five steps away, his brow furrowed with some emotion Jensen can't immediately put a name to. If pressed he'd say Misha looks like he lost something, misplaced it in the jumble of plates and beer bottles. For a second, Jensen thinks, "Maybe," but in the next, Misha pats the pocket of his jeans and huffs a laugh, sliding his phone free just enough to make sure it's actually there. The smile that chases the laugh means trouble. But it also means that Jensen knows precisely who he's going to be dealing with before Misha perches on the stool opposite him. Considering the other uncertainties he's been fielding, it's a comfort. When Misha says, "That'll be fifty dollars," what he really means is, "Enjoy the show?" He's used to being the king of this and every other fucking jungle he's ever walked into when he's drunk. Which, come to think, is actually ridiculous, just not the annoying kind. "Not sure you earned it. For that kind of bank I usually demand nudity," Jensen says, eyeing the bottle Misha's sliding idly against the scarred tabletop, his fingers wet with condensation. It only gets weird when Jensen can't figure out if it's the beer he's longing for or something else. On cue, the bottle moves, tipping up to meet Misha's mouth and Jensen catches himself this time, tongue already darting out to wet his own lips as he studies the motion of Misha's throat, the curve of his hand. Unfortunately it seems Misha's observational skills trump the speed of thought even when he's drunk. Not five seconds later he laughs a dark little laugh and says, "A private encore can be arranged. If you so desire." Jensen feels it when his brain begins to shut down, the slow unspooling of his sanity as it wraps around that particular notion and sticks. He's too worn down, too hungry to shuffle it aside with a feint or sleight of hand, to displace the thought by wondering where Jared is or who the cranes in his pocket belong to. Life would be easier if he could. Instead he stares silently at Misha's elbow, tracing the blue plaid pattern of his shirt cuffed around it until Tiny Bartender clears her throat a couple feet away. "What can I get started for you?" she asks, sharp tap of pencil lead to paper acting as punctuation. It figures that of all places, he'd be having a crisis of what-ever-the-fuck this crisis is in public when he's required to actually say things. As a stop-gap, he goes with licking his lips again, trying to work his way around the lump in his throat by force. Turns out there's no need because Misha in all his inebriated grandeur turns to her and says, "Meat and beer. Something leafy or at least green to assuage his ridiculous gastro-guilt." Tiny Bartender frowns at him, then Misha, then back at him. When she opens her mouth to ask whatever it is she feels she needs to, Misha makes a shooing motion that she obeys without protest. "How do you do that?" Jensen asks, which is awesome, since at the very least it means there's been no permanent brain damage. "Do what, exactly?" "Make people do shit by being a prick." Misha hums, a warm, thoughtful sound that gets lost under the opening strains of the hair metal ballad queuing up on the sound system, and Jensen tries very hard not to think about - well, anything. Especially not Misha and his prick. But then Misha drops his voice an octave or ten and says, "Wouldn't you like to know?" in a way that leaves Jensen torn between breaking his nose and other much less fathomable things. Jared saves him the trouble of trying to answer. "Sorry," he mutters, footsteps fast and heavy. Jensen checks his watch, knowing that it's a dick move when he does it. Considering it's been almost an hour since they parted ways and half an hour since Jay was supposed to meet him at the elevator upstairs, he's earned this much asshole tax and then some. At least Jared looks contrite when he swings in behind Misha to snag a stool and drag it into place between them. Jared must catch sight of the clock hanging over the bar when he does because he curses and apologizes again once he settles in. "Gen set fire to the kitchen," is the only explanation he offers before he reaches across the table for the menu. Jensen's, "On purpose?" comes out the same time as Misha's, "Cry for attention?" and Jensen glares. Jay must have more practice at ignoring Misha, because he manages to answer without skipping a beat. More than likely, it's an inverse correlation to how much time Misha spends ignoring - or trying to ignore - Jared when they're filming. Odd that it doesn't work that way for Jensen. When Jared says, "No, not on purpose," it comes across a little bitchier than it probably should, but it's late and they're both tired and he's probably worried about Gen. "I ordered a new fridge," he continues, "one of those French ones. She said she'd always kind of wanted one but never had a kitchen that needed it. It was supposed to be a surprise." Misha snorts around a swallow of beer. "If nothing else, you managed that." Jensen kicks at his shins beneath the table, but either Misha's a mind-reader or he's gotten predictable in his old age because he doesn't make contact. Or, he does, but scraping his ankle against the leg of the stool doesn't really count. As consolation, he squares a heel against one of the cross braces of Misha's stool and gives it a hearty shove. Misha rocks in place but doesn't slide off, so it's not as satisfying as it would otherwise be. Shame. Jared frowns at him, then Misha, then back at him again just like Tiny Bartender did. It's more subtle, but also more perceptive and Jensen wants to dig behind that expression and find out what the fuck Jared thinks he knows. He's tired of people looking at him like that. Quickly as it came though, the frown disappears leaving behind a mask of worry and exhaustion. "Anyway," Jared presses on, "The guy who installed it screwed the pooch." Misha coughs. "And no, Misha, I don't mean literally. Thanks for playing." "So your new fridge is on fire?" Jensen asks. "Just the wall behind it. Something with the circuit the old fridge was on and an overload and the breaker didn't trip. There's an electrician coming out in the morning." And that's when Jensen realizes he can't even be pissed off about Jay being late. He still wants to be, and that in and of itself makes him a shitty friend. Then Misha stretches his arms up over his head and yawns, and Jensen does not notice the wide band of belly bared above his belt. As it turns out, not noticing something is just as distracting as noticing it, and so he misses whatever Jared allegedly said while it was happening. "Fascinating as this all is, I think I'll leave you two to knit tea cozies and swap recipes amongst yourselves. There's mischief afoot," Misha says, pushing up off his stool. His gaze flicks briefly past them out into the lobby and Jensen thinks he may fall over on his own once he has his feet, but in the end he just leans a little too far to place his empty bottle on the bar out of their way. He sobers abruptly, hand splayed against the curve of Jared's shoulder before he adds, "I'm glad Gen's okay," and stalks off. Jensen tells himself twice that even in the face of terrifying new not-quite revelations there are lines he refuses to cross. Watching Misha wander away is one of them. Jared has no such qualms it seems, but the furrow creeps back between his brows as he follows Misha's meandering progress across the lobby. "Don't think I'll ever get over what a nutcase Misha can be." "Says the man who didn't walk in on him half naked and elbow deep in glow-in-the-dark finger paint." Jared smiles and slides around the table to take the stool Misha just vacated. "Everyone has hobbies." Tiny Bartender appears at his elbow then, a frosted bottle of Misha's brand of beer clutched in one hand and a plate balanced on the other. He's loathe to admit it, but the cheeseburger and mixed greens look like a slice of heaven when she sets them down. His stomach plays it a little less coy, growling loudly as soon as ceramic strikes wood. She waves off his thanks with a smile, turning her attention to Jared who says simply, "Yes," and points at Jensen's plate. With any luck the grill's still warmed up. The burger tastes as good as it looks, thick and juicy, and he only has to raise an eyebrow at Jared's incredulous, "You're really gonna eat in front of me," to shut him up. There's forgiveness and then there's madness. Jensen chooses the way of sanity, at least for now. He nods his way through his half of the conversation while Jared relates the rest of Gen's harrowing battle. How the dogs went nuts over the smoke alarm and that the sheetrock will have to be replaced. Mostly he just focuses on chewing and swallowing, finding his way back to center. But there's a small part of him that can't get over how much things have changed and how fast. It's stupid and childish. He knows better. And it's not like they partied all that hard before. It's just - It's never going to be the same. Jensen keeps himself busy with the burger until he can't anymore, the last bite polished off too quickly when he licks a spot of mustard off his thumb. The beer goes down smooth and cold behind it, the fruit-infused afterburn clinging to the back of his tongue. As it turns out, Misha has decent taste. Go figure. Tiny Bartender takes about half as much time to show with Jared's food as she did with Jensen's. It lends credence to the theory that the grill was already warm, sure, but it also gives him ammunition to tease Jared mercilessly about preferential treatment and the trappings thereof. Jensen's winding up to do exactly that when his pants vibrate. More specifically, his phone does and when he reaches into his pocket to slide it out, he comes away with two crumpled cranes in tow. No use hiding them now they're out in the open, but he does his best to make it look casual when he tosses them on the tabletop anyway. Making a bigger deal of it will only complicate matters that are already complicated enough, thank you very much. He gives Jay a minute to choke and chuckle, content to delay the inevitable ribbing as much as he's allowed. It works a little too well. Jared squints at the birds for mere moments before he goes on chewing, the movement of his jaw slowed to half speed. Almost like he's trying to choose his words, let the lettuce buy him time. Interesting. Try as he might, Jensen can only come up with two reasons that Jared, of all people, would tread so carefully. The first is to spare someone's feelings. While Jay's proven countless times that he cares, their friendship has never been about pulling punches. They make fun of each other's failings. Keep each other honest. Put each other back together when the seams start to unravel. Jared knows better than to pull that shit with him. They aren't kid glove guys. The alternative is worse, because it means his best friend's getting ready to lie to his fucking face. Jensen busies himself with his phone, trying to work through the logic in his head while Jay does his very best impression of a cow chewing cud. As it turns out, the text message came from Selena - or, not Selena but an 'anonymous' source demanding ransom with a picture of Ick imprisoned behind a baby gate attached. It's just what he needed. And even though he can't enjoy it fully, Jensen allows himself a small smile and a minute to wonder who the hell is to blame for the flashing light in his room if not Selena. Bigger fish to fry now, though. Time to do old Captain Ahab proud. So long as he doesn't drown. Or get eaten by a whale. Jared swallows. "So," Jensen says, spearing a hefty forkful of his own greens. "Let's just get the lie out of the way first. In my experience it makes the truth easier to find." The corner of Jay's mouth twitches, beer bottle caught in stasis half way between the table and his lips. For an actor, Jared sucks ass at this. Thankfully, Jensen does not. Waiting isn't any more of a hardship for him than breathing, so he's got all the time in the world. He shoves the monstrous mouthful past his lips, savors the tang of vinegar and mustard, the bitter bite of endive against the barely-there base of spinach. And he waits. But Jared just says, "I don't know what you're talking about," and shovels another scoop in, doesn't even have the good grace to look guilty as he does it. Jensen picks at the label on his beer bottle, willing to give Jay the benefit of the doubt as long as he's able. Doubt runs out when he plucks one of the misshapen paper creations from between their plates and Jared's eyes follow it like it's on fire. He knows something. "Really? 'Cause it looks like you might." Jared shrugs and chews, glances over his shoulder at the big Wurlitzer sitting dark in the corner, takes time to catalog the minutiae of every bottle stacked against the wall behind the bar. What he won't do is look Jensen in the eye. And Jensen's done being dicked around tonight. "Right," he says, palming his phone off the table and back into his pocket. The cranes follow closely, something sticky rubbing off on the back of his hand as he thrusts them in after. It's late - much too fucking late for high school bullshit and Jared's unexpected Marceau act. So Jensen does the sane thing and tosses back the last swallow of his beer. He can't say for sure if the wave of exhaustion that washes over him is symptom or side-effect, but it doesn't really matter. He's done. With a sigh, Jensen strips a couple of bills out of his wallet and tucks them under the lip of the plate. It should be more than enough to cover both dinners if need be, but right now he's not particularly inclined to wait for change. "See you in the morning, Jay." As he walks away, he hears Jared say his name once but with the late night bustle in the lobby, it's easy to pretend he doesn't. Even if doing it makes him a bitch. The room's dark when Jensen turns the deadbolt behind him, nothing but the reflected glare of streetlights kicking up off the rain soaked parking lot to greet him. He remembers the placement of the phone on the nightstand because it's part of his job to notice things, evaluate and find the right stride to fit the blocking. No need though, to notice the message indicator or the fact it's not blinking. That's one answer Jensen already has. He'd made the mistake of stopping at the front desk on his way through the lobby. Since the light on the phone obviously wasn't Selena's doing, he thought there might be new pages for tomorrow maligning in a cube behind the desk downstairs. Most PAs would have stuck them in a manilla envelope and slid them under the door. There are new faces this year though, and one method was no better or worse than the other. Anyway. What he thought doesn't make a damn bit of difference because when he'd asked the night manager if there were any messages for him at the front desk, she'd wrinkled her nose, jabbed at a button behind the counter, and pushed a very different kind of paper across the counter at him. A black, beetle-shaped piece of paper to be exact. Jensen tosses it and the two cranes from the bar on the desk and decides, very pointedly, that morning will be soon enough to worry about their origins and undoubtedly innuendo-fueled offerings. Instead of pondering the three ring circus his life has become in the past week, he roots himself in routine. Peeling the hoodie off over his head, Jensen pads into the bathroom, the tile cool beneath bare feet. Two handfuls of water splashed across his face and thirty seconds with his trusty travel toothbrush make all the difference in the world. Given the ridiculous length and complexity of this particular day, Jensen's tempted just to pass out - pull the covers up to his ears until they call the manager for the master key and kick him out of bed because he missed call. He's better than that though. So he slips his laptop out of its sleeve and pokes at the power button, spends the boot time sifting through the promotional materials scattered across the desk until he finds the information for the hotel's wireless. He doesn't look at the paper animals lined up between the room service menu and table lamp. Can't and won't. If he does, he'll never get to sleep. In his experience, there's a lot of real estate between 'not right now' and 'never', and he'd rather live somewhere in that limbo tonight than be stuck staring at a bunch of cryptic chicken scratch designed to seduce him until the sun comes up. Just because he's not immediately bound for an unconscious state doesn't mean he can't get comfortable. He can. He will. He's fucking earned it. The track pants, of course, are the first to go and Jensen shucks them quickly, slinging them across the arm of the wingback in the corner. SportsCenter is the second order of business, muted for now because he's not all that interested in the hockey stats this early in the season. Finally, he snatches one of the pillows from the head of the bed and stretches out on his stomach with it tucked under his chin, the touchpad of his laptop slick and gleaming under his fingertips. His mom, God love her, is the one and only reason for screwing with the laptop tonight at all. They'd played phone tag yesterday morning before he left for Jared's and broken down to base elements, his last message had been a rambling summary of his week followed by a promise to call during the dinner break Monday. A promise that he'd unintentionally reneged on since they hadn't had a break. Semantics. For a thirty second stretch, Jensen actually considers telling her about the origami, the stalker, Jared's probable involvement - everything he'd left out of the voicemail and some things he hadn't yet guessed at when he left it. When he looks up from tapping idly at the keyboard, there's a collection of gibberish splashed across the body of a new email he doesn't remember starting. Most of it could only be considered sentences by the most lenient of definitions. Some not even then. The vast majority has to do with were-dogs and dirty prose, his frustration over not being able to flush out the culprit. The rest makes less sense, hiccups of adjectives and nouns strewn in amongst the rest that tug at his stomach and make him think about things better left to the dank corners of his imagination. Not a word of which is fit for a message to his mother. Jensen learned long ago that sometimes the backspace key is man's best friend. No offense to Icarus. When he selects the contents of the message and hits delete, the words duplicate instead of disappearing. Which is - weird. He tries again, adding the second set of text to the selection. It works. Sort of. All but fifteen of them vanish obediently. Those that remain, though, are huge and red and strobing on the display without quite tripping over the line into full-on flashing. Blue. Blue. Blue. Mine. No. Crane. Shadows. Bow. He. Yes. Curve. Let it go. Know. Jensen slaps the lid shut without powering the laptop down and slides it over the edge of the bed. The floor has more give to it than he remembers there being and the carpet squelches as it takes the weight of both the computer and his hand. He pats it gingerly, trying to figure out where the water's coming from, if the AC unit roaring away under the window has sprung a leak. His fingers come away dry. It's fucking weird. Weird enough to drive him to early slumber anyway. The remote vibrates in his hand when he grabs it to flick the TV off and the bedspread he could have sworn was a non-descript blue floral looks green and plaid no matter how furiously he rubs at his eyes. When the knock comes, Jensen feels like he should be surprised but he isn't. His gut twists again, an echo of the tenuous tug from before. Briefly, he considers letting the knocker stay secreted beyond the pitted blue steel of the door. But his curiosity wins out in the end and he crosses the still squelching stretch of carpet with purpose. The click of the deadbolt is just as heavy and metallic as he expects it to be, the tumblers in the knob groaning when he twists his wrist. Instead of sticking like logic says it might the door flies open of its own accord, impossibly weightless, missing the tip of his nose by no more than a quarter inch. He also feels like it should surprise him to find Misha standing in the hall. It doesn't. Misha's state of undress does - bare feet and legs and chest, but even those can be explained away by the bright orange swim trunks slung low on his hips and the faded pink towel caught in the bend of his elbow. Jensen could have sworn the pool was outdoors instead of in though, and knows for a fact the staff would frown on anyone using it at this hour. Misha smiles. "Something I can help you with?" Jensen asks. He starts to lean against the doorjamb but the paint has gone tacky when his elbow lands. It takes a minute to peel the skin away and when he does the texture's off, just wrong enough to raise his hackles. Rubbing his forearm makes it worse, the flesh there red and blotchy when he investigates, poking to see how far the hives go. Suddenly he's aware of his own state of undress, the chill of the air and the well-worn cotton of his favorite boxer briefs, and he's not sure which is worse - that or the fact that Misha's still smiling wide and silent. Jensen can't quite decide if the silence is godsend or harbinger. Creepy ain't even a question. The rash on his arm tingles as it spreads, and he's grateful for the distraction. The stillness with which Misha's standing creeps him out almost as much as the silence. Almost. If anyone asked, Jensen couldn't say why he's able to track the progress of the inflammation with microscopic precision, but he can. Especially when the back of his hand sears hot, a series of angry pink blisters blooming across his skin. "Ought to have someone look at that," Misha says, still smiling, still just as creepy doing it. "You offering?" Jensen asks, incredulous. Misha shrugs and does that Gumby thing with his face, the corners of his mouth pulled so far down they look poised to slide right off the edge of his jaw. "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," Misha answers finally, chest heaving on a sigh. Again, Jensen feels like it should bother him - both the content and the context of Misha's statement. It doesn't. For some unknowable reason it makes complete sense. So he shuffles aside when Misha presses in, grabs at the door handle just to have something to hang on to. Their bare shoulders brush as Misha crosses the threshold and the spots on his skin flare bright and hot. Blinding. So much so he loses control, vision gone dark for a handful of terrifying seconds. Then the tiny hallway smashed between the closet and the bathroom erupts in a spray of sparks so tangible that Jensen glances up, trying to figure out who the fuck thought welding in his hotel room in the middle of the night was a good idea. There's nothing there and when he levels his gaze, his sight's back to normal. Correction. His sight has returned, sure, but there's nothing about what he's seeing that qualifies as normal. Misha's rooted, smile faded down to a quiet little twist of lips that anyone else might read as indifference. Jensen knows better. But then Misha's also standing too close, Castiel close, their noses no more than an inch shy of bumping. His hands, Jensen realizes belatedly, aren't stilted on his hips anymore either, but only because they're cupped against either side of Jensen's face, every whorl of every fingerprint marked out against his cheekbones in heat. In this case, there's no room for should anymore. He should have noticed, but didn't. Just like he should have noticed that Misha wasn't damp even though he'd presumably been at the pool. Or that Misha's skin is soft and smooth and taut and - that he should back the fuck off and breathe despite the fact he really doesn't want to. The thought is too true for this rabbit hole he's tumbled down, too real to hang onto when Misha licks his lips and sways closer. "The sound of laughter is like the vaulted dome of a temple of happiness," he whispers, and Jensen's caught too firmly between puzzled and pissed to protest the mouthful of Misha's tongue that follows. It's both nothing and everything like he imagined, if he had actually imagined. He hasn't. But his ears are ringing, his heart thumping, the skin on his arm sizzling down to cinders, one big bright pink blister that Jensen couldn't care less about because Misha's kissing him. Misha's kissing him. And then he's not. The ringing makes sense first. Jensen can vaguely make out the oblong lump of his phone, enough to tell who's calling. Jared's face blinks on the screen in time with the jangle. He starts to reach, but just as his fingertips land, the ringing stops and Jensen's left half asleep with a face full of keyboard and an inconvenient hard-on. In retrospect he can reason through it, the dream obvious in the string of oddities his mind had tried so desperately to tame. As much as Jensen wants to explain them away, remind himself that he'd once dreamt of using a celery stalk to brush his great aunt's dead dachshund's teeth, he can't. The dream lingers - the burn in his arm where it's tucked bloodless beneath his body, the frantic whump of his heart in his chest as the adrenaline works its way through his system. Mostly though, it's the shape of Misha's mouth tattooed against his lips, hot and slick and tasting exactly like the beer he'd tossed back at the bar earlier. He blinks at the clock, the numbers smearing out into a blob that reads 3:23. Their call tomorrow may not be until ten, but Jay knows the rules as well as he does. Unless someone dies or needs bail money, the moratorium on phone calls begins promptly at midnight. Truthfully, Jensen can't decide whether to kiss or kill. There's no telling where the dream might have led, but wherever it was headed he's pretty sure his subconscious was the only one ready to go there. Almost the only one. But then, his dick has always been a contrary little bastard. In this particular instance, he's determined not to give it the satisfaction of being right, so he slaps the lid of his laptop closed for real this time and deposits it safely on the desk. Experience dictates that if he just turned over, he'd be less aware and as a result it would be more likely to go away. The only problem is that the slow, familiar roil in his gut seems to agree - the one that says he should give in, put his hands on himself with Misha still lodged in the sizable cracks of his subconscious. Jensen rolls over anyway, pillow tucked tight against the back of his neck, and ignores it, tries to go back to sleep. As soon as he closes his eyes, he drifts back down into the current of the dream, his awareness and purpose altering it in a thousand minute but instantly recognizable ways. For one, Misha feels more real, the sharp curve of hipbone more solid in Jensen's grip. Jensen himself can't tell yet whether he's pushing or pulling, but Misha makes a noise anyway - a dark little chuckle that gets choked off in a hiss when Jensen flexes his fingers. Misha shifts closer and when he does Jensen feels everything, nothing more than the hard line of Misha's cock pressed against his thigh. Dreaming works on very different principles, he knows that logically. In practice, it's disorienting to suddenly find himself not just horizontal but in his bed at home with Misha splayed beneath him. More confusing is how much he wants it, needs it, the ache in his chest bright and fierce when Misha's lashes flutter back, his eyes incandescent in the dark, and he says, "Tick tock, Jensen," tongue curled around the name like it knows things. Then there are deft fingers, slender and strong, curling other places and Jensen starts awake. The clock on the nightstand seems to think it's only 4:58, but there's no way in hell he's going back to sleep. Not now, maybe not ever. Setting aside the guy thing, on-set entanglements are a very, very bad idea. Sure, Gen and Jared had pulled it off, but that's because Jared's stupid and Gen's forgiving and - fuck, he's not actually thinking about this. Not. Because the guy thing can't be set aside, no matter how progressive he presumes himself to be or how vocally he will defend the right of two dudes to get it on. Things have happened before. He lived in Hollywood for fucks sake, spent years on daytime television before he was wizened enough to truly handle it. But an active attraction to a dude, one that might delve deeper than skin, is a brave new world. That's not even taking into account the fact that it's Misha. Misha, who could not be called average by the stretch of anyone's imagination. His abstract fondness and joie de vivre, his sharp tongue and sharper wit, his unapologetic otherness all held together by a constant, low-level amusement for the rigidity of the human race. Misha comes part and parcel with complications even Satan would have a hard time justifying. Jensen blames the underpants for this. It's not the sort of offer you extend to anyone and although Misha never officially extended anything, the implications were there and are apparently still there planting naked landmines in Jensen's brain. He needs a diversion, something to hit reset on this perilously circuitous train of thought. Luck feeds Jensen the answer, his gaze searching and quickly landing on the cranes. Their wings are crumpled, necks bent over, but next to the beetle they're beautiful right down to the last grease stain. Apart from obviously being a beetle, the bug looks amateurish. Almost like he's dealing with two different folders, though the chances of that so slim as to be non-existent. Curious. Since sleep seems out of the question, Jensen happily abandons pretense and swings his legs over the side of the bed. His dick throbs as he stands, the weight of it urgent against the soft cotton of his boxer briefs. Just one more in a long line of things that need ignoring, he thinks, shuffling over to the desk. The laptop sits idle, fans whirring quietly to keep it cool. Research it is. Jensen settles in the chair carefully, mindful of his proximity to the edge of the desk as much as the unflagging erection. Nonetheless, he ends up having to adjust himself twice, all knuckles and muttered curses before he finally gets comfortable. The cranes get deconstructed first because they're easy - head and tail flipped out and under, flaps pulled back. Inside the first there's an address and phone number scribbled above what his brilliant deductive skills tell him is a day and time. Holmes would be proud. 395 Kingsway (604) 555-8576 Sat 11P He flips the laptop open, tapping it awake with a steady hand. Everything seems slow, the browser launching, the search running, the map compiling. It's so beyond frustrating he can't see straight, and more than once he's tempted to give up and go jack off in the shower like the fine upstanding, all-American boy he's supposed to be. The mental movie he knows would accompany such a venture makes him think twice. After what feels like a millennia, the street view finally loads to reveal a squat black building with a wide neon sign slapped against the brick. A venue. Not one he recognizes and not one he'd probably visit if given the choice, but desperate times. Jensen peels a sheet off the hotel stationery and painstakingly transcribes the information before putting the bird back together. A search on the club's name turns up a website, a schedule, and an artist that he adds below the details on the gig. He stops short of Googling the band, then reconsiders. Maybe he's coming at this all wrong. Maybe the cranes are bigger than themselves, bigger than whatever cryptic comment gets scrawled inside. Maybe instead of collecting bread crumbs he should take a step back and figure out what kind of person might be dropping them. Maybe if his dick would behave he could get some shuteye instead of spending his precious down time hunting ghosts. Jensen diligently types the band's name in the search box. The results that surface are not what he expected. Apparently, they play punk-infused folk laid atop an undercurrent of funk, their influences ranging from The Replacements to Dylan. While not entirely in line with his own tastes, it's more refined, more evocative than he'd have imagined a note-passing stalker might listen to. He'd have gone to the show either way, but knowing that it might not blow helps. Inside the second crane he finds a passage that has absolutely nothing to do with him or the ridiculous paperbound courtship. I know myself; I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist. When I speak passionately, That's when I'm least to be trusted. It's very sad, really: all my life I've been praised For my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight- In the end they're wasted- [3] Words so personal, so internalized that it's obvious he was never meant to have these, see these. It makes Jensen question them all, especially their purpose. Were any of them meant for him or was it all a matter of chance? Was he just in the right place at the right time? Was Cheyenne responsible for tucking the crane in his jacket pocket too? No way to know without asking, and no way to ask without looking like an obsessive-compulsive freak. The other, more provocative, specimens are the only ones he can say with any certainty were intended for his eyes - the turtle in his trailer, the dog under his wiper blade, and now the beetle. Jensen refolds the second crane and tucks it in alongside the first, resolving to take another look at the ones littering the top of his bookcase when he gets home. If he's right, it changes everything. The beetle gives him pause. So far neither method nor madness have made a damn bit of difference in the state of things, the weight between his legs just as insistent as when he sat down. It's strange enough to pay attention to whether he wants to acknowledge it or not. Healthy sexual appetite notwithstanding, he's not eighteen anymore and so usually has a lot more control over the how long, when and why. And while he may not be actively thinking about the dream, his body doesn't seem to be coming along for the ride. Jensen knows deep down what awaits him if he peels apart the beetle's paper carapace, that it won't help, couldn't possibly. Curiosity inevitably wins out. It takes longer to unfold the beetle, the paper ragged at the corners where it's been undone and redone already. Again the handwriting matches despite the vast differences in model quality, a fact that leads him to believe that while the cranes are compulsory, the other animals require time and practice to produce. It also implies a specific kind of person outside the words - careful, conscientious, tenacious with unfamiliar tasks. As he suspected, the words paint an entirely different, though not contradictory, picture. I find you in the spaces between - the slope of your neck the cut of your chin the stillness that settles in your shoulders when you think you're alone. I want you in the spaces between - your hands your lips your tongue your teeth your passion turned on me with purpose but not thought. I need you in the spaces between - to drive me to madness to possess and be possessed to see to know to covet in all the forbidden ways. Someday soon, I will find you in the spaces between. Scrawled beneath it, there's another date and time, another place. Sun 9A, Buntz Lk Having a guaranteed opportunity to put a face and name to the culprit is all well and good, but that's not where his eye lingers. On the third pass, he realizes he's touching himself, another squirming adjustment turned into something more. And Jensen lets it, gives himself over to the sensation because he can. Because this has nothing to do with dreaming. There's a real person on the other end of these words, whether they reveal themselves or not. Someone who wants. Someone who needs. Jensen needs more than he's ready to own up to and this is better, safer - a carefully constructed fantasy replacing something, someone he would never- So he doesn't. He uses the overactive imagination God gave him - sculpts her face from thin air, wide eyes, slender nose, pouty lips, long wheat-colored hair. He takes care to make her new and steers clear of any features that might remind him of someone else, her voice in his ear throaty but decidedly female. It's only after he has the image firmly established that Jensen palms his dick for keeps, shimmying out of his underwear until they're caught in a bunch around his knees. His ass sticks to the chair and the arms of it dig into his thighs, but he can't risk losing her in the journey to the bed. The words spool through his head and he pictures the way her mouth would shape them, the graceful "O" that makes him want to slide his thumb across the curve of her lower lip and push in. Instead he slicks his thumb over the head of his cock and draws down, feels the sizzle start, urging him faster. All things considered, he knows he won't last long. Here, with only himself to act as witness, he can almost admit the why, name the awkward ache that skitters under his skin. Connection. And so it isn't the vision of his manufactured shade that pulls him over the edge, but wanting to be wanted. Needed. In point of fact, the imaginary girl disappears before he takes the tumble, golden hair shot to ribbons on the tide of impulses sweeping from brain to groin and back again. At the end, when he's finally coming apart at the seams with a grunt and a shuddering sigh, the only things that stick are the sparks firing against the backdrop of his eyelids, a pair of grey blue eyes, and a short shock of wild, dark hair. It takes Jensen a full thirty seconds to figure out how well and truly fucked he is, but he gets there. Eventually.

The crane comes home with him, of course it does. Jared, on the other hand, does not. And if anything is a testament to how distracted he's been, it's that Jensen can't place why until Clif reminds him Jay and Gen are headed to Idaho for the weekend. Never mind the fact that Jared's been talking about the trip for a month. Without Jared to interrogate, Jensen's plan for the night gets a lot less complicated. Solitude, blessing and curse though it may be, gives him time to think, put his thoughts in some semblance of order before he does what he's known he was going to do ever since he plucked the paper bird from between the pillows and shoved it in his pocket. He texts Misha. Busy? There's still no way of knowing for sure whether or not the animals are genuine, but he's willing to give it the benefit of the doubt. For now. Doesn't change the fact he wants to look Misha in the eye when he asks. Thirty seconds later, a bubble appears with Misha's response. Anyone ever tell you that you might be an alcoholic? Something stirs in the back of Jensen's brain like a half-remembered dream, the taste of whiskey in his mouth. He sorts through the days since Misha ferried him home with a new set of eyes and realizes, albeit belatedly, that he missed something important in his drunken stupor. Ever since then, Misha's been - different. More open, more honest. As much as it pains him to even think it, he's also been more physically affectionate. Not that anyone will ever rise to Jared's singular level of insanity, but since that night it's been like someone turned Misha out of his restraints. Even when doing his damndest to drive Jensen insane, Misha has been damn near inescapable. After everything, he's still not playing with a full deck and it pisses him off that he's the one that handicapped himself. It's not the first time. He focuses on the gentle vibrations of the phone in his hand, the smooth metal against his palm as he taps out his answer. My place. Half an hour. Misha's, My what a commanding tone you have, pops up almost immediately, but Jensen leaves it unanswered. Either Misha will show or he won't, and Jensen's enough of a gambler to let his money ride. Fucking Misha. Ten minutes later, the SUV idles down at the end of his driveway. Twelve minutes later, Jensen slams the door shut behind him and wastes another ten seconds watching the wink of taillights disappear over the crest of a hill. There's nothing he can do to prepare for this, no easy way out. He's not stupid enough to think there is. All he can do is be honest and hope Misha doesn't spend an hour spinning bullshit before he comes clean. It's only logical, rational. But logic doesn't keep his blood from pumping faster, roaring through his ears like some tiny steam engine. And no amount of rationalization is going to put his mind at ease if it turns out he's the butt of some intricately staged practical joke. You can't reason with your heart no matter how hard you try. Icarus greets him at the front door, pawing up his legs after the scratches owed him. Jensen's happy to provide, the countdown in his head tick-ticking faster in the few minutes he spends giving Ick a rubdown. The conversation he's about to have is not the kind that suffers interruption lightly though, so he takes the time now to make sure food and water bowls are filled and that Icarus has marked his fair share of territory in the backyard. Motion keeps him from over-analyzing, so even after Ick scurries back inside, Jensen busies himself with whatever his hands find - jacket hung in the closet, keys and phone dropped on the table in the entryway, backpack relocated to the bedroom along with his shoes and socks. He's blissfully barefoot and halfway out the door with a bag of trash when he realizes he left the last crane in his pocket, so he pulls the box down on the way and lobs it at the coffee table. Jensen's carefully orchestrated detachment falters at the curb, the walls of his carefully manufactured box bending when Misha's headlights sweep across the lawn ten minutes too early. He takes his time securing the lid of the garbage can, breathing in the cool night air and doing his best to exhale his expectations. It works to a certain extent, but he can't remember the last time he wanted something as much as he wants this, needs this to be real and right. The apology fosters doubt, winds up his insides because he has no fucking clue what Misha's sorry for. And despite feigning innocence earlier, when Misha levers himself out of that sleek silver sedan of his, he doesn't look at all surprised to be standing in Jensen's driveway at ten forty-two on Friday night. "Come on in," he says as he breezes past Misha without stopping. For the moment, Jensen's only concern is for the incriminating box sitting on his coffee table with the much more incriminating contents. He beats Misha to the door by taking the stairs in twos, leaving just enough time to slide the box off the edge of the table and nudge it under with a toe. It's not the best hiding place, but it's better than nothing. Until he figures out how all this will shake out, Jensen plans to play as much as he can close to the vest. The door clicks quietly closed at Misha's heels and Jensen's wound so tight he feels the air displace as it does. Misha seems oblivious enough, the, "To what do I owe the terse invite?" rolling effortlessly off his tongue as he plants himself in the middle of Jensen's couch, one arm flung wide and curving to the contours of the cushions. The tightness around his mouth betrays him as much as the fingers tapping against his knee. "Never figured you for asking stupid questions," Jensen answers, crossing back to the closet and his jacket to retrieve the crane they both know he has in his possession. He feels Misha's eyes on his back and can't help the smile that twitches at the corners of his mouth. The crane he tosses in the middle of the coffee table, in amongst the back issues of Sports Illustrated and next week's script, and he remembers how many times he's had the origami strewn across the surface both folded and open, sorting and resorting to try to make them make sense. How now, they finally might. Misha's fingers still, spreading across his thigh like he's at the same loose ends as Jensen. "In this case it seemed appropriate," he says, eyes darting from his hand to the crane and back again. "Or at least necessary." Bitch of it is that Misha's right, that Jensen might have skirted the issue for awhile trying to find an opening to ease the conversation through. The hours spent talking around things have worn him down to certainties and the idea that he might have actually missed the cranes since they stopped coming, absurd as it is, hasn't been allowed time to root and flourish. That doesn't make it any less true. "All I need to know is why, and so help me if you stretch the truth even a little I will know and I will kick your ass." Misha huffs a quiet laugh, licking his lips in a way that makes Jensen want things regardless of the reasons, but he only gets as far as, "I-" before Jensen's phone vibrates on the hall table, the unmistakable sound of his mom's ringtone following half a beat later. "Aren't you going to get that?" Misha asks, eyes flashing bright and Jensen lets go of the breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Wasn't planning on it." "It's rude to-" "Oh fuck me, fine," he says. "If it means keeping you on track, I'll take the call. Give me five." "By all means," Misha replies. Jensen taps at the screen to answer with one foot already on the back deck. There are things he's not ready to do in Misha's presence yet. Talking to his mother is one of them. Especially since he has a good idea why she's calling. Icarus darts past his ankles and out into the yard with a happy yip before Jensen manages to get the patio door shut all the way. Of course. "Hey momma," he says, lowering himself onto the top step. "Now's not the best time." "I gathered that by the eight rings it took for you to pick up." "So?" Jensen glances back over his shoulder at Misha. He's mostly behaving himself, still spread out all over the couch. The crane in his hands is the one Jensen tossed at him just a minute ago, so he doesn't seem to be nosing around unattended. "A mother can't be curious?" "About what, exactly," he says, slowly, carefully. Every fiber of his being wants to be back inside but he's trying not to take it out on her. It's not her fault. "Your person. The one you called about." "That's kind of why it's a bad time." "Oh," she says, then again, "Oh! You have company. Good for you." Even though it probably makes him a bad person, Jensen hates when she does that. It makes him feel like a puppy who just learned to sit or stay or not piss on the carpet. Which he's not. He watches Ick chase fireflies to the count of ten to keep from snapping. "Yeah, so. You understand why it's a good idea to cut this short?" "Of course I do. Promise you'll call me in the morning, though." Jensen makes the mistake of glancing back a second time before he answers, his head filled with the crap he can't afford to have there about what tomorrow morning might hold for him. And, "Fuck me," Misha has the box. Not only has it, but has it open. His mother's voice, sharp in his ear, snaps him back. "Jensen Ross." "Sorry," he says. "Sorry momma. I have to go." He can't seem to look away as Misha pulls the dragon out. Doesn't help that Misha looks right at him as he does it. "I'll call you tomorrow. Promise." Jensen ends the call without saying goodbye, thumbing his phone to silent the second it clears completely. It shouldn't be a big deal. Misha knows better than anyone what he wrote, what he folded, what he gave to Jensen or left lying around for him to pick up. But it is a big deal, if only because Jensen kept them and that's proof enough for anyone with half a brain to think he cares. And they'd be right. He whistles Icarus in and spends a good five minutes brushing the grass out of his fur, the dew off his ears and paws. Prolonging the inevitable isn't usually his thing, but Jensen can't help dragging his feet now, especially if Misha's about to laugh in his face. "We really fucked this one up, didn't we, dude?" Icarus licks his hand then noses up under it to lay his chin on Jensen's knee. "Yeah, yeah. I hear you. Not over 'til it's over," he says. "Let's go take our lumps." Misha's not on the couch anymore when Jensen slips back through the sliding glass door, not that Ick seems to notice in his beeline to the food bowl, quintessential watchdog that he is. There's origami spread across the surface of the coffee table, a spray of color that makes Jensen uneasy even though there's absolutely no reason left to hide it. The breath on his neck is new, so he turns into it, Misha suddenly and completely filling his field of vision. "You kept them," Misha says and Jensen feels each consonant pop against his skin. "Yeah, about that. I was just -" is as far as he gets because it's damn difficult to talk with a tongue in your mouth. With another tongue in your mouth. By the time Jensen registers that Misha's kissing him, really kissing him, he's already started to pull away. And that, well, that's not even in the same realm as okay. Jensen threads his fingers through Misha's hair, thumbs braced against stubble and skin and bone, and he kisses back, nerves strung tight and singing. It's better than dreaming because Misha's not a silent if willing participant, and even in the heat of the moment Jensen does his best to memorize each and every place that pulls the muffled grunts Misha's making into a full-fledged groan. If nothing else, he likes to be thorough. And considerate. That he's been thinking about this for what feels like forever has absolutely no bearing on his focus. Misha's hands are at his shoulders, fingers dug in hard and Jensen doesn't know what to do with that except breathe, only he can't because he's still kissing Misha. This Misha, the real Misha smells like sweat and grass and tastes like cinnamon candy. It's so much better than a fiction, only he's pushing, the heels of his hands insistent as he steps back and away with a gasp. "Wait, I - " he starts, but Jensen cuts him off because now sure as fuck ain't the time. Not with Misha's eyes so wide and bright. Not with his cheeks flushed. Not with his hair tufting out wildly like he just rolled out of bed. "No. No heart-to-hearts," Jensen says, leaning in to lick a long stripe up the side of Misha's ridiculous neck, fitting his lips to the sweet hollow cut by the equally ridiculous jaw line. "You want to be here?" "Is that even a question?" Misha asks, tension easing, hands dropping until he's thumbing at the sensitive skin in the bends of Jensen's elbows. It pulls his focus for a moment, a split second he has to close his eyes and marvel at the stupid serendipity of life. Jensen smiles until his cheeks hurt from it, deciding once and for all to throw caution to the fucking wind. "I want you here. That's all I need to know right now." And it is, because questions can wait. His 'why' and 'how' and 'what the fuck' don't have a place here, maybe never did. Jensen's tired of being careful every time the universe cuts him some slack, tired of hauling his bullshit baggage along for the ride. No matter what Misha felt the need to apologize for, he's here now. Misha doesn't seem to want to let it go, but the warning, "Jensen," shifts tone abruptly with teeth at his throat and hands at his hips dragging him in. It's on the tip of Jensen's tongue to say something cheesy, something worthy of Dean Winchester's swagger-worthy repertoire like 'say my name'. In the end he decides to err on the side of caution. And actually getting laid. Never in a million years would he have expected Misha to be so responsive, so easy. When he's imagined it, not that he ever has, Misha's always been as ridiculous and difficult between the sheets as not. He should have known better than to relegate Misha to a box, does know better when he's thinking straight. But then Misha pulls a move Jensen's only seen the once, back when he dated that dancer friend of Sandy's he would have sworn up and down was boneless or double-jointed or an alien, and he figures maybe he spoke too soon because he can't breathe around the lump in his throat. It makes him stumble back a step what with Misha suddenly shirtless, his back bowed in invitation, hipbones begging for Jensen's hands. Jensen's struck suddenly, lost in the artistry of Misha's body - the curves and angles that add up to something made of grace, slim and devastating and yet still wholly male. It's an inconvenient time to realize how long it's been since he did this with another guy, but better now than twenty minutes down the road when they're both naked as a couple of jaybirds and the 'changed my mind' conversation would be a hell of a lot more awkward. He hasn't though, changed his mind. Not even in the midst of second-guessing and being out of practice and not knowing what to expect of Misha, from Misha. So instead of freezing up, he traces the ridges of Misha's ribs, thumbs along the low-slung line of denim, savoring every tick and twitch and feline stretch like he's starving for them. Because he is and has been for awhile whether he wants to admit it or not. Regardless of what stirred this ache awake, he's been trundling willingly down this very road for too long to turn back. For him, though, this has evolved beyond simple attraction, beyond an appreciation of the purely physical, and he wants it to be perfect. Always does. Misha gasps, lips dry and parted until he licks them wet, and that's close enough. "Fuck," Jensen says, and it sounds far away even in its absolute conviction. "Less cursing, more nudity," Misha answers, slipping his hands beneath cotton to get at skin, tugging at the tail of Jensen's T-shirt with intent but ultimately leaving the final decision to him. Because he's the one making this choice and the ocean in his ears is just the rush of blood finding better places to be. In spite of any evidence to the contrary, he knows exactly what the fuck he's doing. To prove the point, he strips the shirt off over his head as he backs away. It's not nearly as graceful or, frankly, impressive as Misha's mirror move, but it gets the job done even though his elbow catches in the neck hole. "That better?" Jensen asks, and he can feel Misha looking his fill, skin going hot and tight wherever his gaze lands. When Misha meets his eyes again, the look in them is openly hungry, predatory. "Much." Jensen smiles, leans close to lick at the pink purse of Misha's lips just once. "Always aim to please." "Jesus, Jensen," Misha says, fingertips tracing the curve of his collarbone like they've chanced upon a priceless rarity. "The things I'm going to do to you." It's a little too much a little too soon, the implications settling in Jensen's gut with a sudden lurch that puts his limbs in motion, making the journey to his bedroom on autopilot if for no other reason than to escape Misha's inspection. He's not nervous. Doesn't get nervous. Hasn't had stage fright since Kinder Care, but this isn't the stage and Misha has a way of stripping him down with every last article of clothing still in its rightful place. Jensen's not altogether sure he can handle the intensity of actually being naked with Misha, except for the fact he wants it so badly. The hallway stretches on for what seems like miles, the master at the end painted silver by the moon peering through the blinds. Behind him, there's the soft thump of shoes against hardwood and then the heat of Misha following too close. Always too close and too far away, never finding the right rhythm or space to occupy. Jensen knows he needs light, wants it to map the subtle curves and unseen stretches of Misha's skin, to tame that wilderness into momentary certainty. Instead of finding the switch, he laughs, thinking about how this is actually the second time Misha's been in his bedroom. How glad he is nothing happened that might have gotten lost to the cutting room floor of his bender, and he turns to say as much but Misha beats him there. "Well that's discouraging," he says. "Guess that means I should reapply myself." Jensen has no idea what he means until Misha steps into his space, the furrow between his brows wiped away by a wry grin half-hidden in shadow. And his hands, his hands are everywhere, torturous in their diligence, unerring in their attention, Misha watching every reaction keenly as if his life depends on figuring out the precise sequence that makes Jensen squirm. And Jensen lets him. Misha catches his eye then and holds it, marks the lines of Jensen's cheekbones with his thumbs and a tenderness that makes his breath catch in his chest. "Laughter has its place," he says. "But this isn't it." "Trust me when I say I wasn't laughing at you." "Didn't think you were," Misha says. Then Jensen forgets all about the light, because there's a knee wedged between his and finally, finally sweet friction, Misha pressed against him, soft skin and firm flesh. He'll worry about compiling his own catalog in the morning, because no power on this earth could make him willingly stop Misha now. It's everything he wanted and nothing like he'd imagined - the slow climb to fever pitch supplanting a frantic one - and he should have known Misha would be a contradiction. By the time fingers fumble at the button on his jeans he's hard behind the zipper, aching for a touch far more focused than the slope of Misha's hip through too many layers. His balance falters when he steps back to give Misha room to work, heel sliding on a corner of the comforter that dangles from the edge of the bed. Misha catches him, holds him fast with a hand on his wrist and another in the small of his back, pressure and the hard line of Misha's cock sliding against his and fuck he's through with slow. But Misha mouths at his neck, his lips, swirling circles of heat past cotton and denim with his fingertips, and it distracts him. "Careful," Misha says against Jensen's skin, breath warm in his ear. "You'll want to be awake for this." "Will I?" Jensen asks and Misha hums, hands drifting again to the button on his jeans, popping it open, the zipper peeling apart slow and sure after. And if he didn't already feel like his skin was on fire, when Misha hooks his thumbs in both sets of waistbands and starts to ease the fabric down, he lights up from the inside out. It's enough to stir him to action, make him realize he's been standing here stupidly letting this happen to him instead of participating, instead of being in the moment where he belongs. He looks at Misha, really looks, the catch of his lower lip between his teeth as he tugs the band down and over the jut of Jensen's cock, hands hot against his thighs, and he wants. All the confusion and doubt of the past month crystallizes, shatters under the meticulous application of Misha's hands, and how Misha, in his way, was asking for this in revealing himself. Jensen doesn't take his time with the fastenings on Misha's pants, can't take the time, and whatever misgivings he may have had about this being the right thing are gone, burnt up and scattered like so much ash. Misha bends with him, into him, lips seared to the side of his neck, teeth sharp along the plane of his jaw as Jensen finally gets his hands where he wants them, shoving at what's left of Misha's clothes. He mutters a soft, "Fuck," because he can't help himself then kicks out of his jeans, watches as Misha does the same, socks quickly discarded atop the crumpled pile. And Jensen looks his fill, maps the curve of Misha's ass before he tests the weight of Misha's dick against his palm. Misha hisses, hips canted into the touch, fingers sharp and neck arched at an impossible angle that's just asking for a tongue, his tongue, and Jensen's happy to offer it. Misha tastes like sweat too, salty and warm and he's heavy, hard in Jensen's hand. No matter how eager he is for this, it's still odd enough that he's making it up as he goes. Not that he doesn't understand the concept of sex, he does, but this isn't a drunken fuck in an alley or the stockroom of a bar and Misha isn't dragging him anywhere. So he learns the shape of Misha's lips again, the slick sweep of his tongue, counts the bumps of Misha's spine with his fingers until Misha makes a noise low in his throat and backs them both towards the bed. His knees hinge when they hit the edge, and he topples gracelessly back into the tangle of sheets, Misha's knee planted between his thighs. Somehow, Misha manages to avoid tumbling on top of him, a fact which seems neither fair nor right and even given the incredibly distracting fact that Misha's stroking himself hard, Jensen feels the need right now for a bit of solid ground. So he levers himself up enough to make a grab for Misha's free arm and Misha does tumble, rolling onto his back at the last second. Jensen uses the momentum to roll with him, settles his knees alongside Misha's hips to pin him in. "Are these the spaces between?" Jensen asks, his voice crackling, lips parched from sucking uneven breaths. He tries to focus but falters when Misha shifts his hips, pressing in and up and then there's a stripe of pre-come smeared along his stomach. Misha, of course, seizes the opportunity, and Jensen pitches forward onto his hands, can't not, when Misha wraps them up cock-to-cock and tugs. "You tell me," Misha answers finally, his lips pressed into the bend of Jensen's elbow. "Have I found you?" Jensen moans when Misha's grip tightens, rhythm steadying even as it speeds. It renders him breathless for a long stretch of seconds and he has to scramble against the fucking electrical storm already gathering, building under his skin. "Wait," he grits out. "Wait." "Have I?" Misha asks, his own throat bared with a gasp, thumb drawing slick patterns up and over until Jensen can't readily discern where he ends and Misha begins. There are worse sensations and he can't think of any better at the moment, but there are things he wants. Things that would be more difficult to find his way to if he shoots early like some overeager teenager. Misha's unrelenting though, firm grasp only loosened to push at Jensen's shoulders again and shove him over, a shimmy of sweet skin and sinew before his hand returns with a friend. Misha's lips, spit-slicked and soft, close around the head of his cock, the flat of his tongue pressed against that bundle of nerves that makes Jensen buck every single time. Like the freak of nature he is, Misha rides it out, some instinct telling him to pull back when Jensen loses himself and his control to the sensation. It's all too much of what he wants for Jensen to consider reasserting himself, and that word - synergy - flits through his head again as Misha's fingers slide south pressing in behind his balls in a way he's never had, never known he wanted. And, "Fuck me," he's lost, dick twitching against the roof of Misha's mouth as all rational thought attempts to shut down, neurons sparking on the curve of a knuckle, Misha's dark chuckle reverberating down his length before his lips slide free with a pop. "That's the idea," Misha says, hand slack and teasing now in a way that makes Jensen want to shake him. "Unless there's a different bee in your bonnet." Jensen's answer goes missing somewhere between brain and mouth, a protest that's not really a protest at all but comes out sounding like, "Bwuh?" because Misha plays dirty. Because Jensen's too focused on his dick and the way Misha's mouth feels around it, the way his tongue curls down the vein to worry. Jensen has always been the guy who understands the value of patience and that next time, next time, when his toes aren't already curling against the bed and it's not taking every last ounce of his focus to keep from bucking up into Misha's mouth, next time he'll have what he wants. So he spreads his hands against the heat of Misha's scalp, fingers sliding in sweat, and hangs on. Misha doesn't disappoint, humming happily as Jensen's thighs drift wider for him, his thumb circling and teasing but not quite pushing. Then he does ease down, farther, faster, and Jensen feels the head of his cock slide past the back of Misha's tongue, feels the resistance and then the tight band of Misha's throat constricting around him as he swallows. And he has the space of half a breath, one final second of sanity to think, "Did that just happen? Is it happening now?" before the world gets whitewashed. He almost bites his own tongue in half because he's coming, choking around the air, trying not to force himself deeper but jesusfuckingchrist Misha's still swallowing around him slow and steady. Then his arms stop working the way they should, flopping boneless to the bed along with his legs, the sheets cool and sticking in the pools of sweat gathered behind his knees. His heart's still racing, ten beats in the space of two when Misha finally leans back, and Jensen's muscles clench involuntarily as his dick slaps down against his stomach. At this point, the "Fuck," is compulsory. There's a rustle of bedcovers and Misha smirks, or Jensen thinks he does. He's not actually on board with prying his eyes open just yet to see, but he can hear it in Misha's voice. "I don't know whether to respond with pride or concern," Misha says. "I've never sent someone into a cognitive loop." Jensen kicks out at him to shut him up, mostly because verbal warfare doesn't jive with his current state of awesome. His foot doesn't land of course. Having your eyes closed kind of fucks with your aim and Misha catches him by the heel, plants a kiss against his ankle that makes Jensen feel stupid and girly and not nearly ready for this. Moving still seems to be off the agenda though, at least for him, so he doesn't bother trying to follow when Misha shifts away. He does manage to work an eyelid open when he hears the contents of his medicine cabinet being emptied into the sink, plastic rattling against porcelain until there are footsteps again, close and purposeful, the scrape of wood on wood and the crinkle of plastic packaging following soon thereafter. Misha's face swings into view, and even blurred out by his lashes Jensen can tell the smile he's wearing means trouble. Jensen thinks maybe keeping his eyes closed is a workable plan. The bed dips a second time, taking Misha's weight, and before Jensen can clear his throat to ask, Misha's fingers are back, cool and slippery and painfully cautious. "Jensen," he says. "Jensen, look at me." And Jensen does. Partly because right now he'd probably do whatever Misha asked of him if it meant getting his brain scrambled like that again sometime soon. Partly because he wants to know. Partly because he feels compelled to return the favor. The moonlight cuts Misha's face in half with shadow. Even so, Jensen can see the barely-contained urgency, the rhythmic shift of his shoulder that he's either too far gone or too unashamed to hide. His voice doesn't sound like his own anymore, ripped ragged and slow when he says, "Yeah?" Misha's thumb slicks down, and Jensen feels the press of it between his cheeks, feels Misha shake a deep breath in and then back out. "I need to know," Misha says, so undone by the asking that Jensen wouldn't dream of denying. "Yeah," Jensen answers. "Yes." And he stirs his traitorous limbs into action, rolling up onto hands and knees because it doesn't take a doctorate level degree in gay sex to know what will probably work best. Misha promptly joins the cognitive loop already in progress, his hiss and, "Fuck" followed by a reverential exploration of Jensen's back, the backs of his thighs, his ass. It makes Jensen wonder what gave him such patience, because if he weren't already fucked out and someone gave him the go ahead he sure as shit wouldn't be stopping to smell the roses or admire the pretty. It is, however, his ass, so he can't fault Misha for looking. Then there's pressure without preamble, Misha's fingers newly slicked and nudged in tight, teasing against him until they're not. Muscle gives and Misha's free hand flies to his hip, a litany of filth pushed out into the air with Jensen's name caught in the middle, but he can't focus on that. What he can focus on is the way Misha's knuckle bumps against his ass, the way Misha shifts the angle of his deliberate slide, finger crooked and brushing up against that mystical fucking cluster of nerve endings that puts him on his elbows. And breathing. And hanging on to his motionless zen state. And the harsh noises Misha's trying to keep under wraps for God knows what reason. His dick gives an interested twitch that it really should not be capable of, but then it's Misha and Jensen's personally known Misha to do a thousand impossible things before breakfast. Coaxing his cock back awake with nothing but a finger is probably number three thousand and twelve. Jensen breathes again, deep and even and takes a chance, rocks back into Misha's hand. It starts a twitch along his inner thigh and a new flood of unintelligible muttering from Misha. In general it doesn't feel good or even bad necessarily, just kind of weird but Misha's obviously lost the plot. His chin slides in the sheen of sweat on his shoulder when he looks back, and Misha's gone, pupils blown wide in the low light, hips jerking in abortive little thrusts as he bites his lip bloody being careful. "Do it," Jensen says, because what else can you say to that. Confirmation is all that Misha seems to have been missing, because as soon as the 't' rolls off Jensen's tongue, he's pulling his hand back and replacing it with his cock in a long slow slide that steals the breath from Jensen's lungs. And fuck but he gets it now, feeling full and taken and Misha petting him as he gnaws a hole in the comforter trying to get to air. Misha stays as still as he can as long as he can, the shiver that shimmies from his thighs to Jensen's says as much. Eventually, he can't help it, the easy pace turning wild in a roll of hips that Jensen swears is going to drag him inside out in the best way, except Misha's hands find him and hold him steady. It only takes a breath for Misha to find a rhythm, and when he does it's more about depth and angle than speed, and Jensen can appreciate the slap of Misha's skin against his, the little grunts that spill between Misha's lips whenever his hips find Jensen's ass. "Not going to last," Misha mutters, breathless and shaky, grip shifting until his fingers dig in and Jensen aches with it. "Want to. Fuck yes. Jesus, Jensen." And as much as he's thought about Misha, Misha's mouth, Misha's hands, Misha's stupid fucking smile, he hasn't thought about this and isn't prepared for what it does to him, how it effects him to have Misha coming undone inside him. It almost makes him wish he hadn't already come himself, almost. It does make him wish he could see Misha's face to watch him fall apart. He settles for arching his back, stretching an arm out to brace against the wall, feeling the moment Misha's rhythm falters and the one after that nearly ends with Jensen on the floor, Misha shoving himself flush and groaning his way through orgasm. It's satisfying in ways Jensen hadn't counted on when Misha slips sideways and collapses on his rumpled sheets, lacking wherewithal to do anything but strip the condom, tie it off, and drop it in the bedside wastebasket. Jensen knows he should take stock but the lure of stretching out far outweighs any potential pain. As it turns out, his knees are the angriest, his ass a secondary low-level ache that only serves to remind him what he just did, what they just did, and he's pretty fucking okay with that. Misha's quiet though, suspiciously so aside from breathing his way down to a more sensible heart rate, and Jensen's not sure how to take that. "So," Jensen says. "Still want to be here?" Not that he doubts, he doesn't, he just - wants it to be okay. Misha coughs, then laughs a secret little laugh that Jensen's never heard before. "You should be illegal," he says. "Fucking controlled substance." "I'm gonna take that as a yes," Jensen says. If he was a chick, Jensen would also say he rolls over onto his side so he can watch Misha bask, but he's not and so he does it only because the bundle of blankets tangled in the small of his back are driving him apeshit. Really. Of course, it's not like he's going to kick a moonlit Misha out of bed or anything. Without the past few weeks nipping at his heels, pushing him harder and faster, demanding 'now' and 'take', Jensen gets a chance to truly appreciate the long lines and subtle curves, the hummingbird flutter of Misha's stomach muscles as he winds his way down. So much better than dreaming. Misha's eyes are closed, his lashes a sweep of charcoal against his cheeks, lips slightly parted and it hits Jensen like an echo - that other bedroom, the one at Jay and Gen's where he thought all this started. He wonders what else he's been wrong about along the way, if Misha's sole purpose was to get them here. Maybe that's where the apology comes in. No time like the present to ask. Captive audience, subject, prisoner - what the fuck ever. He has the mystery folder blissed beyond reason beside him. It's a golden damn opportunity. Still. Nothing wrong with priming the pipes either. Jensen shifts up on an elbow, leans in to tongue at Misha's lips without purpose or pretense because he can, and Misha invites him in - blunt fingernails scraping at the back of his neck to hold him steady. Misha kisses like he does everything, and Jensen recognizes the resonance in it too, kicking back to when they met and that first scene where Misha was weird and intense and mischievous and yet still managed to be a consummate professional. Somewhere between Misha's teeth snagging against his lower lip and the scrape of stubble against his chin, Jensen forgets where he was going. Or he does until he pulls back a little too dizzy for just kissing and thumbs the spit from Misha's mouth. "Awful lot of effort," Jensen says, stroking the dip between Misha's collarbones. "Should I feel privileged?" Misha smiles. It's crooked and sleepy and Jensen's tempted to get up because he feels it in places you aren't supposed to feel smiles. "Very," Misha answers finally. "Like the fucking crown prince of Luckytown. I am in your bed, after all." "Careful," Jensen says, pressing the flat of his nail against Misha's nipple until he sucks a breath between his teeth. "After all that trouble, it'd be awfully disappointing to crush me under the weight of your ridiculous ego." "I'll take it under advisement." Jensen snorts and flops on his back, untangles enough of the sheet to gather it around his waist. It's not out of some misplaced sense of modesty but more the film of sweat and lube and fuck knows what else drying on his skin making him cold. Or maybe it's something else, something like fear that he doesn't want to actually admit to. Doesn't matter either way. He has things he has to say. "Never really figured you for the slow seduction type," he says. "I think I'd actually be less surprised if you'd strolled up and said, 'Let's fuck'." If the roll of Misha's shoulders wasn't enough to put him on edge, the sigh that follows does the job just fine. Too late to turn back now. "I don't know if you noticed, but I'm actually a dude. That kind of romance is generally lost on me." Jensen tries to keep his tone neutral, casual. The last thing he wants to have a lengthy discussion about right now is the fact that the poetry and secrecy were not actually lost on him. He'd be forced to deny it, then Misha would start spouting gender theory at him and go dig through the mess he left in the sink for some ex-girlfriend's abandoned lipstick. Less messy all around to ignore it. Misha's smart. He'll glean the real meaning eventually. "Jensen," Misha says, and he can hear the 'but' tacked onto it even though the 'you don't get it' hasn't actually come out yet. He knows it's coming. "I thought you understood. That you'd finally pieced it all together. Hell, I thought maybe Jared clubbed you over the head with a fucking clue and led you into the light." Jensen squints at Misha, but Misha only stares at the ceiling like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "Still winding the dark and clubless roads of cluelessness here," Jensen says. "Got a match?" "Only if you swear not to douse me in kerosene." The longer Misha stalls, the more creative Jensen gets and he's on the verge of dismissing everything that's happened in the last hour as bullshit if he doesn't get confirmation otherwise, so the truth can't possibly make this any fucking worse. "Seriously Misha, spill," Jensen says, and Misha seems to get the tone if not the specific meaning. Misha does look at him then, grabs for his wrist like he's afraid Jensen will disappear before he comes clean. Jensen lets him. For now. "It was a prank," he says. "I got, we got carried away." "We, as in Jared?" Jensen has to ask even though he already knows. "As in, you've both been playing me since the beginning. As in, he knew who it was way back when I accused Cheyenne? Fuck." "Jensen, it wasn't like -" "No," he says, unwrapping Misha's fingers one by one. "Just. No. You don't get to justify this. What could you possibly say to make it okay?" "I didn't know it was -" "Didn't know what? That I've spent the last few weeks going quietly insane?" Misha reaches for him again, and Jensen glares until his hand drops against the rumpled sheets. "Will you let me explain?" "Don't really give a shit. You were both screwing with me because you thought you could." Jensen huffs a laugh, feeling the ache of it settle in behind his ribs. "Screwing me now just to see if you can." "You really think I'm capable of - " "Yes. You're totally equipped to sleep with me because you want to see the experiment through. Apparently, it's the way you're fucking wired." Misha's eyes go hard, lips thinned down to a narrow pink line as he spits the, "Finished?" between his teeth. "Sure," Jensen answers, because for the hundred things he wants to say, there's not a one that will make a damn bit of difference. He's tired of feeling like an idiot and trying to find ways to offload the frustration into his work - so tired he's not even plotting revenge. When coupled with that cryptic note Misha left alongside the dragon and the insane week he spent missing the origami, this pushes him over the edge. Misha looks ready to say something, probably make excuses or beg forgiveness, and that's the last thing Jensen wants to listen to right now. "Just go," Jensen says, eyes shut tight, and Misha surprises him with silence. He feels the bed dip, hears the rustle of fabric and the jangle of change, footsteps retreating down the hall. A car starts outside and Icarus whimpers, then there's nothing to disturb the stillness, nothing to keep him from drifting off to sleep but the chorus of pointless questions bouncing around between his ears.

Title: Those Who Favor Fire Fandom: Star Trek XI Rating: NC-17 with warnings. Pairing: Mirror!Kirk/Mirror!Cupcake/Mirror!Leah McCoy Summary: In which Dr. Leah McCoy does not get a night off. Prompt: "Can we get some likes-to-direct!Kirk in here?" at the Kink Meme. Content Advisory: Non-consensual, threats of violence (including towards a child), onscreen violence, offscreen character death. Interstitial segment to "And Would Suffice". Acknowledgements: I wouldn't've written my Mirrorverse without 's. There are some similarities of theme and coincidence to her "Karma", but I finished this story before I read hers. Disclaimer: None of these characters or their settings belong to me. Title from "Fire and Ice" by Robert Frost. Leah pulls her face straight as she strides towards the Captain's quarters. He may be too hurt for his usual after-mission celebrations (stabbed in the groin and left testicle, and the survivors of the away team aren't talking because they know what's good for them, but Leah wonders just how he pissed off some unfortunate native enough to inflict such a personal injury) but Kirk can certainly make her pay steeply for any hint of amusement. Not least since tonight's also when Kirk inputs the weekly code to keep the chip in Joanna's arm from detonating. Some weeks he's made Leah wait for hours, coming up to seconds from the deadline as he chats about nothing and watches her vibrate with impatient worry; he's smirked as she begged on her knees, ordered her to make a fool of herself trying to dance like an Orion, set his padd on her head and typed in the code while she sucked him. The irony of it is, Joanna adores Kirk like a favorite uncle, and he treats her like a favorite pet. Rationally, Leah tries to convince herself Kirk wouldn't kill Joanna, to stop making it so easy for him to wind her up with that threat, but week after week her rational mind freezes up rather than ever call that bluff. It's been a helluva day, three casualties from the away team, not counting Kirk's left nut, and she's even less in the mood than usual. As she arrives at the Captain's quarters she doesn't dare smile, so she folds her arms and tries to radiate neutral severity. Doing her best to look uninteresting, Leah hopes he'll keep it brief and actually get half the rest she told him he needs, that he'll let her get back to reading the latest journals and watching Joanna sleep. The door whisks open. "Bones!" Kirk calls from his desk, smiling toothily, "you're out of uniform." Leah grimaces. Kirk likes to bother her about her insistence on wearing male uniforms instead of the bikini top and glorified belt the women are issued, which is probably why he allows her to. "I'm a doctor, Captain," she snaps before she thinks, right on cue, and feels mildly disgusted with herself; it's almost banter by now. "Even we female medical staff need more than a few scraps of--" A movement beside Kirk's bed catches Leah's eye -- it's a tall, wide, naked man stepping around the partition and striding forward. Chief of Security Lt. Commander Collinson, the goon Kirk's nicknamed Cupcake, smirking nastily through his stupid goatee, meaty fists settled on his hips, erection thrust forward like a truncheon. Leah's mouth falls open on a useless goddamn gasp. She snaps it shut, firming up her jaw, backing away towards the door. "Oh, Hell no." Hot outrage surges in her veins, swamping her obedience, bolstering her voice. "No, Sir," and that's already more insubordination than even a playful Kirk will indulge but her defiance picks up speed and volume, "you can suck each other's dicks because I'm not--" Kirk shrugs one hand up, brandishing his personal padd, and just like that Leah slams from hot to cold, rage to terror, biting down on her lips as the door smacks up against her back. Collinson stands there watching their little drama like some entertainment put on in the goddamn Rec Room. The door slides open, and without its confining support Leah wobbles. Kirk tilts his head a little, narrowing his eyes that way he does before he hits an opponent's weak point and rips them open, that look he gets when considering whether to kiss her or bite her. "You could return to your quarters, Doctor McCoy," he says coolly, almost without inflection. "But I don't think you'll like what you'll find if you do." Leah's fists clench, her eyes squeeze shut, she wishes with sickening force she'd taken the dagger Kirk offered her so she could gut him with it now. But she knows the only person she could hurt with it is herself, and Joanna's nowhere near old enough to leave alone, not with her favorite sociopathic Captain Jim, not anywhere in this shitty Empire. Leah's knee bends, her foot slides forward, her weight shifts and the door shuts behind her. "Captain," she murmurs, and her voice isn't her own, small and shaking. Her heel detaches from the floor, her hip pivots, her leg straightens. "Just input it. Please." Kirk sighs elaborately. "Can't put it anywhere at the moment. Doctor's orders." Leah's teeth grind together, pain sparking into her jaw. "And I think I need a little break from all this paperwork." Collinson snickers, and Leah thinks longingly of spitting in his face. "Come here, Bones," Kirk coaxes with a little sideways smile, a sickening parody of kindness, and Leah shudders but takes another slow step. "That's my girl." I'm not your girl, Leah thinks, clearly and pointlessly, as she staggers forward. She tells herself not to open her mouth, parts her bitten lips, and spits out the words. Kirk snorts. Collinson laughs. "That's insubordination, sir. Want me to discipline her for you before we get started?" "At ease, Cupcake." Leah hears Kirk's chair creak as he stands up, his normal stride hitched with a slight limp. "When I want you to pipe up I'll tell you what to say." Leah stands, and shivers, and waits, dread settling chilly in her gut. Air eddies around her as Kirk steps close, and she braces herself for a blow. He hasn't hit her in front of anyone before, but he's never offered her to anyone else before either. He made it clear no one besides him but Joanna even gets to touch her. The other day she actually forgot and when she reached to pat Chapel's arm her head nurse shied away, eyes flaring in fear. Kirk's hand lands on Leah's cheek, incongruously light for the violent shudder that wrenches through her. "Open those eyes, Bones." His voice is soft and deadly, and she cracks them open, not even trying not to glare. Kirk just pats her cheek, his smirk indulgent. "There you go. Now that uniform doesn't really suit you, but you seem to like it, so if you want to keep it you'd better take it off yourself." Like hell she will. Leah jerks her burning face away into a headshake, dropping her eyes, hoping he's satisfied with this humiliation. "Sir, you've made your point." Her fists clench more tightly, short nails denting bright steadying pain into her palms. "Just, just put in the code and dismiss -- him." She doesn't struggle for as long as she used to, as long as she should, before she adds, "I'm begging you." Kirk slides a finger under her chin, and her skin quivers. "Bones, honey, there is no point." He raises his voice a bit. "Hey, Cupcake, I guess you're going to have to help her." "Yes, Sir!" Collinson steps nearer. Leah inhales on a dizzying adrenaline spike and dodges, darting around Kirk's desk. He could've stopped her, but he just watches, his smirk tilted sideways and his eyes alight with laughter. "But--" As Collinson lumbers after her, grinning and unhurried, Leah feels herself gasping, her heart racing. "What the blazes happened to no one ever touching me?" "Without my permission," Kirk explains with amused patience, his arms folded, the all-important padd dangling from his careless fingertips. "Sulu made a bid for Collinson's position, so I thought I'd show my security chief how I value him." Said hulking security chief paces forward, slowly backing Leah against the wall as her fingers twitch towards her one hidden weapon. "What's that got to do with me?" Leah hoists her fists, right higher than left, and Collinson laughs; Leah has large hands for a woman her height, steady as a doctor's need to be, but she's no kind of fighter and everyone onboard knows it. "I didn't support Sulu! I don't care how your gang of thugs sort out their pecking order!" Waving her right fist to draw Collinson's attention, pushing thought through the din of panic, Leah's too busy to halt her mouth and it keeps running. "What do you want from me, Kirk?" She forgot to call him 'Sir,' too. She knows on a fresh surge of fear he didn't miss her omission, but he just laughs, watching Collinson grab at her; she lets those thick fingers clamp around her right wrist as she snatches the hypo of sedative from her left pocket and swings it up-- Collinson bats it from her grip, grabs her left wrist too and jerks her in, spinning her and folding her into a perverse hug. He smells like a horse. "Gotcha, Doc," he blows hot through her hair. "She's a live one, Sir!" He pulls her in tighter as she thrashes, a slab of hard meat against her back, his erection denting her ass. "Didn't know she had it in her." Leah stomps on his toes and he doesn't even budge, just grunts and lifts her off her feet, arms crushingly tight across her chest. "Cupcake my friend, you're in for a wild ride," Kirk purrs, stepping out of the way as Collinson hauls Leah back into the middle of the room. She's been too busy fighting to speak, but that really does it. "He can ride you off to Hell, you sadistic bastard," she shrieks, too high, too breathless, much too honest, but she's trying to bang her heels into Collinson's knees and can't quite aim right. "I'm not gonna gratify your favorite goddamn brute, so get him offa me!" Collinson drops Leah in front of Kirk. She completely intends to shove herself to her feet and march out, until she looks up into his hot blue eyes, until he waves the padd at the edge of her vision and she remembers why she's here. "Bones," he says, his voice so infuriatingly warm, "you know what I want? To watch Collinson fuck you." She flinches, and he just smiles wider. "Now behave and take off your clothes." Leah's eyes burn, but she presses her mouth shut, holds her chest rigid against a furious sob. She's played this wrong. Men like these enjoy getting reactions, so she's not giving them anything more if she can help it. Turning her gaze down to the carpet, forcing herself to breathe slowly -- out for a count of four, in for a count of four -- Leah pulls her shirt off, then her undershirt, folding each. As she unhooks her bra, Collinson puffs over her like the animal he is, and she feels Kirk watching her with that smirk and those hot blue eyes, but neither of them speak. While she pulls off one boot she thinks about how she could swing it up and back, and maybe hurt Collinson badly enough to keep him from fucking anything for at least a week. She pulls off the other, judging its weight and balance in her hand, and Kirk says, "Bones," in the gentle scolding voice he uses on a misbehaving Joanna, and God, she can't think of her baby girl now, not in the middle of this. "Get on with it." She should say, 'Yes, Sir.' She wants to shout every curse she knows. She just grits her teeth until her jaw creaks and shimmies out of her pants. "Where's her agonizer?" Collinson asks with lunkish curiosity. Kirk snorts dismissively. "That would be boring." He leans in on Leah's right, offering her a hand. She pointedly pushes up with her left, avoiding his help. "Panties too, Bones." She peels them down her thighs and steps out of them, folding her arms as she stands there naked and hot-faced, glaring at Kirk's shiny black boots as he breathes a pleased noise and Collinson's whistle behind her brushes her nape. "I don't see why you call her Bones, Sir," Collinson says, like she can't hear him. Maybe he's used to sexual congress with partners too stupid or unconscious to understand speech. "Can I?" At least she has that warning before his hand lands heavily, wide and damp on the middle of her back. "I thought she'd be skinny under all those clothes, but..." He drags it down her skin, sense-memory like trails of slime prickling in its wake. "You got good taste in girls." His hand veers off her spine to squeeze hard on the swell of her ass, and she tamps down on the quiver, doesn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her twitch. "Glad you approve." Kirk steps away from Leah, and she actually almost looks up, has to crimp her arms tighter to keep from reaching for him. "Carry on, then." She hears the rustle as he sits, probably on his desk rather than behind it, and curses herself for wanting to call out to him as Collinson chuckles and wraps his other arm around her chest, pulling her back against himself. Or, no, it makes a kind of sense, Kirk is at least familiar. She knows professionally what's happening to her head, and tries to drag up something useful, but dim memories of lectures and screens of text fall away under Collinson's groping fingers. She shudders and he snickers, hot and damp on her neck, curling his hand around her breast. "What a waste of clothes," he says, her guts churning as his other hand spreads over her belly. "If you were my woman I wouldn't even let you wear the girls' uniform." "I'm not your woman," Leah says, trying for cold, at least achieving angry. "Get on with--" Her nipple twinges between his fingers, and her voice hitches. "Dammit, just do it." "Do what?" Collinson draws out the words as he tweaks her nipple again. Leah's shoulder twitches with the thought of driving her elbow backwards into his diaphragm, but she can't shift it, he's got her pinned too well. "Get a move on," Kirk says from behind them. "Right turn, Cupcake. Bones, face him." Collinson grabs Leah up off her feet as he complies, startling a noise out of her despite everything, an additional fillip of searing humiliation. "Put me down, you lummox," she snaps, twisting out of his grip. Kirk snorts with amusement. She'd glare at him but Collinson pulls her back in, meaty hands spread over her spine, and she pushes against his chest uselessly before she can stop herself. He's frowning at least, she didn't think he'd even know what 'lummox' meant. But then he grins, and when her fists ball up involuntarily he gathers both her wrists in one big hand, pinning them without concern over his heart. "This lummox is gonna fuck you through the floor, Girl Doc," he says, leering. "You might as well just relax." Instead she spits right between his piggy eyes, and for good measure she laughs as saliva drips down his nose and his face crumples into rage, as fear spikes into exhilaration. His grip tightens, mashing a bruise into her waist and making her wrists creak, pain flaring across her back and up into her hands, and she gasps, "Can you even fuck anyone who's not trussed up or knocked out?" She's naked, she can't stop this, but she'll be damned if she's just going to shut up and surrender. Collinson looks like he's about to hit her, and if he hurts her too much Kirk might stop him, maybe. But Kirk laughs, and Collinson's eyes flick sideways to him. Leah looks away, towards the distant door. "I love the banter, really, and you two look so sexy together, but I don't think you've got the balance to fuck on your feet, Cupcake. Wipe your face and get on the floor. You too, Bones." Collinson lets go of her wrists to swipe his face dry, dragging her down with him as he kneels. She thumps down off-balance, bouncing with a startled squeak, and Collinson snickers as he pushes her back on the scratchy industrial carpet. Leah wants to kick him more than she wants to breathe, but she grudgingly has to agree with Kirk that they need to get this over with. The sooner she pleases this slab of musclebound cretinism and the blue-eyed sadist who captains this ship, the sooner Kirk will enter that code and she can go autoclave herself in the shower. "Careful, you lummox, if I wanted her hurt she'd be in the agony booth." Startled by the insult, Leah glances at Kirk, and he motions them on with a little two-fingered whirl. "Kiss her already." Leah tenses to snarl as Collinson leans over her, that this isn't that kind of dance and the last thing she'll do is act like it's anything she remotely wants, but he hesitates, looking up at Kirk. "Sir, permission to speak freely?" Kirk nods negligently. "She's gonna bite me." Leah's laugh rips painfully from her throat. "Oh, look, he's got one functioning brain cell!" But Kirk exhales with ominous impatience. "McCoy," he says, low and commanding, and she hates herself because she can't defy that voice, "I order you not to bite Collinson." Leah looks up at him, his tight mouth, his blazing eyes. "Bones." "Sir," she answers, bitterly obedient. "Yes, Sir." She doesn't look at whatever smirky triumph is on Collinson's face; she closes her eyes, blows out a slow breath, and goes limp on the floor. Another lesson, this one from Jake. She couldn't always make herself do this, more often than not her innate stubbornness would straighten her spine and keep her yelling despite how much harder Jake would hit her for it. But sometimes she just went limp, just stopped resisting, and Jake would give up in disgust, leave her and stalk away, slam the door and not return for hours. It doesn't work as well with Kirk, he gets under her skin in ways Jake never thought of. But it works sometimes, when he's so exhausted even he can't just brazen through it, when he doesn't have all the time he wants to torment her, and right now Kirk isn't the one on the floor with her. Collinson's meaty hand is tentative on her face, and she can't help shuddering but she doesn't try to dodge. Carpet thin and scratchy beneath her, metal decking chill under that, and Collinson's exactly as bad at this as she expected, slablike lips and raspy beard. "That," Kirk comments, "is a seriously unsexy kiss." Collinson growls and gives up, and Leah pushes down the desperate urge to wipe her face; he paws over her breast and arm and shoulder, and she presses her fists against the floor and doesn't let herself try to twist away. But then he grabs her hair and it's all she can do not to gasp at the burn through her scalp, as his hot open mouth smears across her collarbones and up her throat. "That's better," she hears from Kirk through the rising buzz in her head, but if she lets herself curse she might just scream. All she can do, as Collinson tugs her hair until her neck arches and scratchily tries to hickey her, is grit her teeth and hold herself still. "You still awake there, Bones?" Kirk asks, his mild tone sliding deeper under her skin than Collinson's teeth can press. "Not bored, are you?" Leah tells herself to let silence answer, tells herself not to flip him off, not to talk, not to move, and on the next breath croaks, "Fuck you." Kirk inhales expectantly. "Sir." He exhales a laugh, and Leah actually sees red flicker behind her scrunched eyelids. "Yeah, we might as well get to that. Cupcake, catch." Collinson drags his mouth off her neck and she hears something small sail through the air and smack into his hand. "What's this for?" "Heh," says Kirk, like he's holding back some damn joke, and, "I don't want her damaged. Lube up." Leah worries the inside of her bottom lip between her teeth, pressing her tongue to the protein-and-metal taste of the bruise. She can get through this, like she used to make it through Jake's beatings, like she can sometimes manage to endure Kirk. Collinson may fuck her but he can't move her. The wet slick noise crackles down her jangling nerves but she doesn't let the shudder surface. When Collinson touches her she can't keep from jerking visibly as his big slippery fingers push her open, but she concentrates on the rasp of carpet under her hands and her back, the bright throb of her teeth sunk in her lip, and doesn't move and doesn't move. "She always this quiet?" Collinson slides a meaty hand along the back of her leg, pushing it up, and a whimper flutters in the back of Leah's throat but she swallows it down. Even when he leans closer, breathing hot over her forehead, "Bet I can make her scream." "Easy, there," Kirk admonishes, "this isn't an interrogation." "Yes, Sir." Collinson nudges in alongside his fingers, blunt and hot, and Leah's shaking, shaking hard, but she barely feels it. It's like she's sitting across the room, watching herself flat on the floor with Collinson over her and Kirk observing from his desk. "C'mere," Collinson mutters as he grips her waist and drags her closer, her leg over his chest, and he shoves in and she breathes out. She can get through this. Sweat runs icy down her skin and Collinson grunts as he thrusts, a heavy intrusive thumping and a rhythmic bruising stretch, but she keeps thinking of how this will be over soon, of a scalding shower and a dermal regenerator, that she can get through this. Under the awful smack of flesh colliding she hears Kirk breathe an appreciative noise, and doesn't turn her head, not towards him, not away. "I want to see those tits bounce," he calls, and Collinson knocks a whimper out of her before she can clamp down on it. Her aching eyes overflow, two hot streams of tears down the sides of her face, but she's not sobbing. Her lip oozes between her tight-clenched teeth, blood and rank sweat all she tastes in the back of her throat, but she's not screaming. Something clinks on Kirk's desk, and the smell of alcohol cuts through Collinson's reek. Wonderful, Kirk's drinking, which is against her standard instructions, and why does she care if he incapacitates himself with that crazy Scott's moonshine while he lets his pet goon fuck her on the floor of his quarters? The thought makes her thrash like she could dislodge it, loosening her grip enough that Collinson knocks a high noise out of her, and he grunts a nasty laugh and a sob shakes her chest. But it doesn't escape aloud. Leah hangs onto herself, even when Kirk says, "You should see yourself, Bones." He sips, and Collinson ruts, and Leah curls her fists up so tightly her hands ache to match her eyes. "You look so fucking hot, you know, with this strapping specimen of manhood giving you all he's got." She stares at the darkness behind her eyelids and shoves the images away. "It's something else to watch you jiggling so nicely without being distracted by the feel." If he says they should do this again she doesn't know how she'll hold back the scream, but he doesn't. He just drinks and watches, and asks instead, "What's running through your head, during that whole lie back routine you've got going? What sweet little thoughts?" She thinks of the little daughter she's trying to keep safe, the code she's trying to earn, and shatters into struggle, arching on a gasp of pain. "No," she cries at Kirk, and tries to throw her hand across her own mouth, but Collinson leans forward to catch and pin her wrists as Kirk just chuckles. "No, no, oh, God..." The angle shifts, equally uncomfortable but sharper, deeper, and panic buffets her and she can't breathe, her chest seizing up on sobs. No, damn it all, no, she thinks, crying too hard to even speak. Through Collinson's smacking and grunting, through her own noise and her blood roaring in her ears, Leah hears Kirk's smug, "I knew you could do better, Bones. Cupcake, stop." Collinson groans incredulously, shuddering to a halt, pulls out and lets go, and Leah kicks and squirms as far as a breath's fighting will take her before the sobs crumple her up and she slumps facedown, pressing her slicked thighs together, hiding her head under her arms. Collinson pants over her, his bulk suspended on arms and thighs like a cage around her body, and eventually he gasps plaintively, "Sir? I was--" "You'll get your rocks off, don't worry," Kirk says. "Bones, look at me." Still shuddering, she wraps her arms tighter over her head as if she can physically hold herself back from obeying him. "Look at me," Kirk repeats, slower and silkier, and she hates every individual muscle in her neck as it bends, hates her arms for sliding off her head, hates herself for it, but she looks up. He's standing right in front of them, tall and dangerous and smiling; he barely winces as he crouches, and his hand cupping her cheek pulls a worse sob out of her than Collinson ever managed. "There's my girl," he says, thumb smearing down a tear-track, and she can't even deny it. "Hands and knees." She's shaking and coughing, breath hitching, but she does it, as Kirk's fingers smooth with horrible gentleness over her wet face, as he holds her blurry gaze. "There you go." He beckons over her shoulder. "Back in, but don't thrust, not yet." Leah tries to drop her head but Kirk pushes it up. With a big damp hand clamped on her thigh and an exasperated groan, Collinson shoves into her again, and she winces, shutting out Kirk's eyes by shutting hers, her gasp too close to a cry. "Look at me," Kirk orders, pushing his thumbpad wet along her bottom lip, and she tries to shut her mouth but whimpers uncontrollably, shaking too hard around Collinson sunk into her and under Kirk's hand. "Don't make me tell you again." Somewhere between them, in her battered heart, Leah finds a scrap of defiance. "Or what?" She shouldn't, she knows she shouldn't, Kirk can always make it worse, but right now she can't even imagine how, can't think of anything beyond this. Kirk just smiles, wide and amused. "Such a pretty mouth." She tries to twist her head away and he catches her face between both hands. "You know why I didn't make you blow him with this luscious mouth?" She doesn't, she doesn't want to, she doesn't want him to taunt her with how much longer he can drag this torment out. "I wanted to watch your face. These eyes, this mouth." Her stupid, transparent reactions. Collinson shifts impatiently, kneeing Leah's legs that much further apart, and Kirk flashes a grin at him, sunny and cheerful and all the more awful. "Sorry, Cupcake. You've put on a hell of a show, but I'm just a hands-on kind of guy." Kirk pushes Leah's shoulders up as she barely manages to scrabble at his arms, until her carpet-burned back stings against Collinson's sweaty chest. "Hold her up?" Gathering her wrists in one hand, he pulls them up over her head, and Collinson grabs them as Kirk sits back, admiring the effect. Leah glares at Kirk through the fallen tendrils of her hair, dangling from Collinson's thick fingers and spitted on him and even more humiliatingly displayed than just being stark naked. After a moment, Kirk pulls out her hairpin, and the rest of her hair tumbles down around her face. "There," he says with satisfaction. "As you were." But he doesn't back off. Leah's teeth almost meet through her top lip as Collinson grunts, "Thank you, Sir!" and bounces her, and she feels him in the back of her fucking throat but she manages not to make any noise. Kirk's eyebrows pull in a bit as he strokes her cheek again, and her guts squirm, her scraped-out throat tightening with dread. Her hair flares out all over, her breasts jiggle ridiculously, Collinson's huffing in her ear and Kirk's watching her with challenge in his eyes. Leah swears she'll make him work for it, but that crashes almost immediately when he leans in with one hand braced on Collinson's shoulder and his lips by her ear. "Now where's my lively Bones?" he murmurs, his fingers skimming knowingly down her body, and panic wells up like an internal bleed. She shakes her head uselessly, unable to keep still as his hand traces her carotid and flickers over her collarbones; his fingers draw a circle around her nipple, tightening sensitive skin, raising sparks of unwelcome pleasure. "No," she gasps, and worse noises push up her throat thrust by thrust, trying to spill out. "No, stop, please," and her voice tilts high and breaks as he pets over her ribs, nerves lighting under his hand and Collinson jostling her over and over. "No, no, no," as Kirk's tongue slickly traces the curves of her ear, as he strokes her belly like a devastating kiss. Something twists beneath his hand as he slides it lower, and she thrashes her head away from his mouth and wrenches her wrists in Collinson's grip but she can't get away from either of them. "No!" is all that falls out of her mouth, over and over, and when Kirk brushes her clit with one deadly fingertip she screams it. "I think yeah," Kirk whispers, pinning her head to Collinson's sweat-slick shoulder, his arm a hard bandolier of muscle across her, relentlessly stroking her exactly how he knows she likes until her clit absolutely buzzes under his fingers. Fire climbs her nerves and she sobs, tears running down her chin, and Collinson grunts something she can't even hear under her own noise and Kirk's eager breath in her ear and the buzz ricocheting up her spine into her brain. She twists and struggles and they pin her between them, trapped and pounded and invaded; her body flutters around Collinson and he groans in satisfaction, she slams her head back and screams and comes like a seizure, pulses of sensation crushing her from the inside out. Collinson is shouting or cursing or something, Leah doesn't even know, her ears are ringing and her diaphragm's in spasm and she can't breathe, she can't breathe. Collinson lets her go and she slumps to the floor, his fingers press hot dents into her hips and he slams his final strokes into her and comes in a sticky, shuddering gush. Beside them, Kirk applauds, groaning, "I want to fuck you so much right now." Panting, Collinson peels Leah off like an aching glove, slaps her ass and leaves her there. Her nipples burn against the rough carpet until she drags one arm under them and the other around her rolling belly, sick and sore and shaken with deep heaves as she hauls her legs together, curling into a tight sobbing knot of misery. Somewhere over her, Kirk is giving Collinson a drink, the two of them are laughing. She should get herself off the goddamn floor, she knows; she can picture herself limping into Kirk's shower, examining and scrubbing herself, pulling her clothes on again and somehow some dignity too. She thinks of ordering Collinson to learn how to treat his own injuries because he'd better never set foot in her Sickbay. But she can't uncurl, she can't stop shivering, she can't move. The door opens and shuts, Collinson is gone and Kirk is sipping and breathing and watching her, and she still can't move. Minutes or moments or hours later, Kirk's dagger clinks on his desk, and she hears him mutter a curse of pain as he kneels beside her. "Hey, look up." For once he sounds no older than he actually is, not much more than an overgrown boy. Leah opens her sore eyes and sees mostly her own hair, tumbled over her head and stuck to her wet face; Kirk strokes it back, his leer so disgustingly pleased she thinks a litany of curses and breaks out in a fresh round of gut-twisting sobs. "Bones," Kirk says, stroking her tear-raw cheek, "I can't show you if you don't look." Her eyes still blurred and streaming, she gulps air, tips her head up and focuses on the padd he holds. He types quickly and hits 'enter' with a flourish, and she hears the little three-tone 'whirr' that means Joanna's chip's been disarmed for another week. Leah tries to be relieved, and just feels numb and shredded, pressed dry and hollowed out, emptied of tears and sunk to sniffling. Kirk brushes his hand through her hair, setting off a quiver of revulsion that makes her teeth chatter but doesn't translate into actually dragging herself away. After a couple more strokes she manages to jerk her head, at least. "Leave me the hell alone," she mutters into the floor. "Bones, honey," Kirk croons, as if she's being unreasonable, as if she's not in her right mind, and she's not because he just used his head goon to violate her. "I can't pick you up, it's medically contraindicated, remember?" He tucks his hands around her shoulders and tugs, and she flails pathetically at his arm but slumps against his leg, her head lolling on his thigh. "There you go, I got you." Petting her hair all the while, he pulls out his communicator . "Kirk to Security Chief Sulu." Her head throbs, her sinuses are raw, her throat is sore from screaming, and that's where she gives up the self-inventory and just lets herself shiver. "Collinson's on the way from my quarters, probably reached Corridor B-18 by now. I softened him up for you with a bit of sedative. Put him out an airlock and his job's officially yours." It takes Leah some hazy moments to comprehend what she just heard. She startles and looks up of her own will, and finds Kirk watching her. He shrugs, and she has nothing to say. Decompression is a terrible death... and after what Collinson just did to her she'll never have to see him again, never have to wonder who he's bragged to. Tonight will just be one more torment Kirk's inflicted on her because he can, because she's his. Kirk just strokes her hair, and Leah lies on the hard floor with her head on his hard thigh. In four minutes his communicator will chirp with Sulu's report of success. In fifteen she'll haul herself to her feet and stumble towards Kirk's shower; when he reaches to help her she'll smack his hands away, and he'll smirk as he lets her. In forty minutes she'll be drunk on Kirk's bottle of rotgut moonshine, in ninety she'll fall fitfully asleep in his bed, dressed but for her boots. In seven hours he'll order her off duty for the day and she'll spend it sneaking communiques with Chapel and playing with a delighted Joanna. In twenty-two hours she'll put her daughter to bed with a new story sent by the Captain, and in twenty-four she'll be crying again, silently as she watches Joanna sleep. But right now, Leah's mind is blank and dark. She lies on the floor of Kirk's quarters as he runs his fingers through her hair, and when he startles her to awareness by asking her if she's all right, she finds the strength to snort derisively and tell him, "I hate you." "I know," Kirk replies, and keeps on stroking Leah's hair.

It was Yuletide evening. Jim Kirk wanted to know if he was going to have to choke a bitch, and, if so, which one. Pity Marlena wasn't around any longer; she'd have been good for that. She'd been so ludicrously, arrogantly thrilled when she'd been made the captain's woman, his official and publicly claimed favourite. For someone who schemed as much as Marlena did, though, she didn't have the brains to think anything through. Five months into Jim's captaincy, Admiral Komack had dropped by on a routine inspection and promptly taken Jim's "favourite" for himself, exactly as Jim had known he would. And Marlena had looked so shocked when Jim had laughed in her face after she demanded he challenge Komack for her. Jim wasn't an idiot. He had seen the look in Marlena's eyes the moment he met her: not the usual calculation or boot-licking capitulation a superior officer was due, but an intense, half-manic hunger for power that promised to go far beyond a normal person's abstract but ultimately toothless craving. Jim had learned about that look in the gladiator pit on Tarsus, and he'd never forgotten it. His method for dealing with people who turned their eyes on him like that was the same as it always had been. Slouched back in his chair, he kicked his heels up on his desk and braced his hands against the arms of the chair for a spine-cracking stretch that brought his entire body into a taut arch for several long seconds. His left elbow momentarily threatened to give under the weight of his body. In a worse mood than before, Jim flopped back down into the chair. If he couldn't even hold a bridge for three seconds, he was going to find a knife between his ribs far sooner than he'd ever planned on. Looked like he was going to have to pay Bones a little visit soon, then, and ask exactly what it was about those "just scars" left over from the latest injury that was weakening his arm. Maybe while he was down there, he'd claim his Yuletide present from Chapel. Other men could say what they liked about a woman with an eye patch, but Jim liked the way he could sneak up on someone missing half her peripheral vision. Bones would be furious, of course, but he knew better than to say no and Chapel understood politics very comfortably for a woman who had lost an eye due to them. His door buzzed. "Enter," Jim snapped irritably. He didn't bother to reach for the shirt sitting abandoned on the corner of his desk, two feet away. He put a little smile on his mouth to ensure that whoever it was would be in fear for their health before they even entered the room. The door whooshed open, and who should it reveal but the one person who could never fail to make Jim's day a little worse... Spock. Jim's smile got a little meaner. Spock strode in and presented himself before the desk, arms folded behind his back, heels snapping together neatly. His dark eyes were fixed unflinchingly on Jim's face. "Captain." Sprawled out at his desk, Jim didn't move except to raise his eyebrows insolently. "Commander," he replied, so that Spock knew he was being mocked. "What brings you here tonight? Another discipline issue in the labs? Need the big bad captain to come and spank your staff?" Something about Spock's glacial face became even colder. "I have never had a discipline issue among my staff that I could not resolve immediately, Captain." No doubt true, seeing as the first military note on Spock's Starfleet record was that of an incident in which a sixteen year-old Vulcan studying in Shi'kahr had dared to disprove the life's work of the Starfleet-approved physics instructor-- at a high profile scientific convention, no less-- and the second note was of an incident in which that same student had, two days later, killed the instructor in front of the rest of his horrified class. The part of those notes Jim found particularly enlightening was that the student, who had promptly been made the school's new physics instructor, had had freshly cracked ribs, evidence of a recently dislocated shoulder and two blackened eyes that the Starfleet inspector had dated to approximately a day before the convention. You could push Spock, but unlike other Vulcans, who would just spread and take it until the very end, you could only push him so far. Obviously it was his human blood and the influence of Amanda Grayson in his upbringing that had finally, finally produced a Vulcan that lived even halfway up to the promise of their gloriously violent past, before they had gone all lame and peaceful. "Well, what is it then?" Jim demanded. "I haven't got all night, Spock. Don't you have moss to go poke?" "Negative, Captain. My experiments have all been put on hold for the night." Jim's eyes narrowed when he saw the slight twitch of Spock's jaw tightening. "It is the evening of Yuletide." "Give the boy a cookie," drawled Jim poisonously. He swung his boots down from the desk and got to his feet, reaching for his shirt. "I was just about to go get my present from Chapel, actually, so if you don't mind..." Spock didn't move. His dark, alien eyes bored into Jim, not blinking nearly enough. "I have come to realise that as an officer and citizen of the Terran Empire, it is my duty to obey the Empire's customs," he said stiffly, as if each word hurt. At the realisation that he was seeing his stubborn, enormously proud first officer actually voluntarily abasing himself, Jim couldn't help the swell of glee inside him, however wildly unexpected the situation was. "Therefore," Spock continued, "it is my intention to give you the gift you are owed, Captain." But that had come from nowhere, and for a moment Jim wasn't sure he'd just heard Spock right. Without thinking, his hand went instantly to the knife in his sash. He'd heard too many attempted assassinations start with a line like that. Spock, however, did not move. "Is that right," said Jim after a wary moment, sneering. "Just what kind of gift is it, then?" "Myself, Captain," Spock said very quietly. "I intend to present you with myself, for whatever use you should see necessary this evening." Jim opened his mouth, closed it with a snap, and then started to laugh. Anyone else would have missed it, but oh, no, not Jim. He saw Spock flinch back from the mockery, knew Spock well enough to see something in his eyes go shuttered and dead at the rejection of whatever pathetic offer he thought he was making. Jim sat down on the edge of his desk with a thud, still whooping raucously. He was overdoing it, he knew, but he just couldn't help it. He knew Spock would never give him another chance like it, not after how Jim was reacting. But really, what had Spock expected, putting himself out there like that? Gradually, Jim calmed. Perched on the edge of the desk, he hunched over with his elbows on his knees and grinned carnivorously at his rigid first officer. Spock hadn't moved an inch, but his jaw was so tight Jim could see the muscles straining in it. "No, see, Spock, that's not how it works," he taunted, thoroughly enjoying every ounce of humiliation he could grind out of the Vulcan. Oh, Jim had Spock's number now, and Spock was never going to live it down. Who'd have thought a Vulcan would ever do something so monumentally stupid? "You don't get to tell me when I can have you. You're mine, and I can have you whenever and however I want. I've already had you, in point of fact. I'll do it again in the future." Jim slid off the desk and prowled towards Spock, naked to the waist and smiling ferally. Beneath the long sleeves of the blue uniform Spock obviously liked to believe gave him any real power at all, Jim could see Spock's forearms flex as he tightened the fists behind his back. Viciously, Jim continued, "There's nothing you can do about it. You don't get a choice-- you especially don't get a choice, Spock of Vulcan." The expression in Spock's eyes was fucking glorious. They had gone molten with rage, brimming with whatever force had once driven the formerly pacifistic son of a pacifistic species to castrate, disembowel and partially skin alive the brutal physics instructor that had struck him one too many times. Jim fucking lived for the moments that force came out to play. Every fibre in his body responded to the expression like iron filings to a magnet. He could feel his breath shortening with anticipation. His entire being tuned and tightened and honed in on Spock, ready to throw the first punch at a second's notice, the taunt of come on, come on, give it to me on the tip of his tongue. And then Spock-- relaxed. The rage went out of his eyes as quickly as it had come, no more than a brief flash that left him even more calm and controlled in its wake. Jim wanted to scream with frustration, and he knew it showed as something ugly on his face. "No, Captain," Spock said, as infuriatingly unafraid as ever. "I am afraid you have misunderstood me. I am not attempting to pre-empt or forestall the next occasion on which you should choose to assert your rank over me." Jim's lip curled. Assert his rank, was that what Spock called it? He opened his mouth, only to be stopped dead by Spock's next words. "I am presenting myself to you because I wish to." Astonished, Jim could only stare. "I will submit willingly and without protest," Spock continued, not meek but so peaceful about it that Jim wanted to shake him. "I will not attempt to fight any treatment you should desire to subject me to." But that-- that was new. Slowly, Jim took a step back from Spock to study him better. Spock gazed back at him, blinking calmly every now and again. Eyes narrowed in thought, Jim circled Spock once and then again, examining him from every angle possible and watching for a single flicker of unease, anything to suggest that Spock didn't quite mean what he'd said. But... nothing. Spock didn't even try to follow Jim with his eyes. Spock had never even been good at obedient, let alone submissive. He questioned Jim's orders on the bridge and took all the punishment for it without a flinch, never learning the actual lesson, which told Jim that Amanda Grayson probably had the same ideas about child rearing that Winona did. Spock heeded the letter of Jim's commands and not the spirit. He could exploit every loophole in existence to get out of following orders, which was great when Jim needed a way to duck around the admiralty but fucking annoying when Spock decided to do the same to Jim. That meant that when Jim decided to take Spock to bed, Spock fought him every step of the way. Jim had to jolt him with an agoniser, kick him to the floor, bind his arms and cut off his uniform just to get what he should have been given. Nothing in the world (that Jim had yet tested) could stop Spock from randomly jerking or twisting his body to try to dislodge Jim in a moment of instability. When it was over, Spock simply picked up the remains of his uniform and went to his quarters through their shared bathroom without a word, or used the hall if Jim was in a particularly bad mood and made him. The first time, Jim had done it to make sure the Vulcan golden boy knew that things weren't going to be any different under Jim than Pike, and that nobody gave a damn who his alien daddy was. After that, Jim had realised that it wasn't a matter of establishing dominance just once: it was all he could do to keep a hold of Spock no matter how many times he repeated the lesson. He had taken hold of the bull's horns without realising that Pike's definition of submissive-- or, rather, Pike's methods of ensuring submission-- and everybody else's were drastically, massively different. "Anything I want to do to you," Jim repeated, keeping his voice cold. He didn't believe Spock for a-- No. He shouldn't have believed Spock for a second, Vulcans do not lie bullshit or not. But there was half a heartbeat, hidden deep beneath everything else, in which Jim didn't think twice about whether Spock was telling him the truth. "Affirmative." "And you won't fight it. Not at all," he added sharply. "No loopholes, no prevarication, no passive-aggressive resistance bullshit. You'll do what I want, whatever I want." If Spock was unsettled by the way Jim was pushing into his precious personal space, he didn't show it. All he said, without hesitation, was, "Affirmative." Jim still didn't buy it. For once, he needed to buy time to think, to out think his opponent, and damn Spock for being the only person in the world who could do that to him. "Anything," he said again, flatly. "Yes, Captain." Yes, Captain; no, Captain; myself, Captain, and all in that even, matter of fact tone where anybody else would have been trying to play Jim's well-known weakness for the title against him. Really, though, was that a surprise? Of all the people on the Enterprise, Spock was the one Jim could count on not to try to sleep his way into favour. He'd be shit at it, for starters, and Spock had a realistic grasp of his own abilities. And he didn't have the balls to try for a captaincy of his own, anyway. Didn't have balls at all, actually. That clinched it, then. It was a bluff. Spock had to be the world's worst poker player to think Jim wouldn't call it, and call it all the way. "Take off your clothes." Jim had seen a lot of talented people strip for him, some of them good enough to get him hard in the time it took to remove a bra and a pair of panties. But as he sat on his desk and watched his lanky, humourless, bowl-cut science officer start pulling off his uniform one pragmatic piece at a time, Jim was sure he'd never seen anything hotter. Because it was Spock-- Spock, who never gave even a farce of consent, who defied Jim at every possible turn, who, guaranteed, had never done this for anyone before. Ever. Who was doing it because he claimed he wanted to, for some fucking reason, and yeah, better believe Jim was going to pry the answer for that one out of him. Unsurprisingly, Spock started to fold his science blues until Jim jerked his head sharply. "Drop it," Jim ordered, halfway expecting to be ignored. But the shirt landed on the deck immediately, followed several seconds later by Spock's blacks. Jim let his grin grow wider, wolfish, at the sight of the Vulcan's broad, hirsute chest and arms. The silver bracelets around Spock's wrists glistened in the 50% lighting. They were the reason Spock had opted for the long-sleeved uniform option, and were normally hidden from sight. Spock had even developed a compulsion of tugging down his cuffs when he was very, very stressed. "Turn around," Jim ordered, just because he could. Stone-faced, Spock did so in the unsexiest way possible. Jim rolled his eyes but took the opportunity to study the weirdly recessed ridge of Spock's spinal cord, something he had only ever seen before while trying to pin Spock down on the mattress. He was pleased to note that Spock hadn't managed to get rid of the burn scar from Cirrus II, either. "Pants, now." "Would it not be more efficient to remove my boots first?" "No. Shut up and drop 'em." And, still facing away from Jim, he did. Jim nearly started bouncing in glee. This was the best fucking Yuletide present he'd ever gotten. Whenever Spock reached the limits of how far he was willing to go for this stupid game of his, it was just going to make it that much easier for Jim to get him pinned and teach him why it was a phenomenally stupid idea to play Bait The Captain. "Bend over. Boots." The leer carried into Jim's voice when he added, "Take your time." In addition to the mandatory Starfleet repertoire of fighting styles, Spock practised some obscure and dying form of pacifistic, defensive Vulcan martial arts. Jim had seen him doing stretches in the gym that were not quite humanly possible, so he knew it was no problem for Spock to touch his toes to get his boot clasps. For that matter, it was probably no problem for Spock to fold himself in half and suck his own dick. Huh-- mental note for later. But at the moment, Jim was more engrossed by the hard muscle of Spock's ass flexing and dimpling under the sleek, skin-tight standard issue briefs. Anybody who wasn't in good enough shape to look good in them wasn't fit for Starfleet. Spock happened to look fantastic with the shiny black material clinging to his asscheeks, and that was without even considering the fact that he was bent over with his pants around his ankles. "Fuck yeah, baby," Jim purred, intending to milk the chance for all it was worth. "Work it, come on..." Spock pulled his boots off and set them aside. "May I also remove my socks, Captain?" he inquired, the silkiest edge of insolence in his voice. "Shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you. And yes, take them off, fuck. Socks are not sexy, Spock. Do I have to tell you everything?" Jim couldn't see Spock's face when he replied, "I only wish to provide you with the most satisfactory gift experience possible." Jim snorted. "Yeah, right. Stand up, turn around." Boots and socks set aside, Spock turned to face him once more. There was a very faint green flush on his face. Jim knew better than to think it was anything but gravity having dragged the blood to his head. Still, the magnification of Spock's alien skin tone made his cock perk up a little more. Jim jumped lightly off the desk and strolled around behind Spock. "Spread 'em, shoulder width." Before Spock had time to react, he was already kicking Spock's legs farther apart, insinuating his knee between them and pressing in with his thigh. Plastering himself right up against the Vulcan's back without so much as a warning, Jim reached around Spock's body and slid a hand down the hard plane of his stomach. Spock had gone tense before Jim's fingers were even low enough to curl inwards and press through the fabric of his underwear at the small opening behind Spock's flat pubic bone. Jim kept the pressure just shy of painful and smiled against Spock's shoulder so that the Vulcan could feel it. "No wonder you haven't tried to take the captaincy from me," he whispered into Spock's ear. "A real man would." Jim could just imagine that the Academy had been hell for an alien who looked like he had a third hole to fuck, except that it was physically far, far too small. He imagined that wouldn't have stopped some people from trying, either. Spock had always before defended himself against such insults, claiming that there was absolutely nothing unmasculine about his sheathed genitals, which were completely normal for Vulcan males. This time, he tensed but said nothing. "Geeze. Did I break you or something?" Jim pressed his fingers a little harder, and-- ah. Spock rose up onto his toes just slightly. "Negative, Captain," Spock replied, his voice infuriatingly neutral. Jim grabbed the waistband of Spock's briefs, jerked them down, and struck him with the palm and back of his hand in quick succession. The crack of his hand meeting flesh was very loud in the empty room. Bright green marks appeared a moment later. "Take those off and get on the bed," Jim ordered harshly. "Face down." Fight me, fight me, fight-- Silently, Spock let the briefs fall the rest of the way down his gangly legs and stepped out of them. Jim didn't realise he was holding his breath until he found himself staring dumbly at the Vulcan laying still and face down in the centre of his bed, head turned to face the wall, arms straight by his sides. Fuck. Spock actually wasn't kidding. For whatever stupid reason, he was going to go through with it for real. He was actually going to let Jim-- And suddenly, Jim wasn't sure he wanted to push Spock any more. There was something very wrong about the idea of his first officer just capitulating, let alone out of the blue like this. Every warning sense Jim had was jangling like an alarm bell. People, even if they were Spock, didn't just turn about face and bow down without getting something out of it. The next moment, Jim's knees were digging hard into Spock back and his knife was at Spock's throat. "What's this about, Spock?" he demanded, an uncontrolled tremor of rage in his voice. Spock-- Spock betraying him-- "And let me tell you, whatever you come up with, it better be good and it better be fast." Spock's voice was slightly muffled by the pillow Jim's free hand was pushing his head into. Nonetheless, he lay very, very still. "It is Yuletide, Captain." "Bullshit. You didn't care at Saturnalia." Jim paused for a moment, then asked incredulously, "Is that what this is about? Making up for that debacle?" "You may assume so, yes." In a heartbeat Jim's knife was pressing against Spock's throat even harder. "That's not a yes," he snarled. "Who else is in this with you?" "Nobody, Captain. This is not an assassination attempt. I have already explained to you that I have no desire to captain the Enterprise. It would significantly reduce the amount of time I have to attend the science laboratories." Jim's whole body was buzzing with tension. Crouched on Spock's back like some kind of wild cat, he bared his teeth and felt the absurd desire for a set of claws he could sink into the muscle of Spock's shoulder, sheathing them in Spock's skin over and over until he had wrung some answers out of the Vulcan. "Then why?" he hissed, and with a jerk of his wrist there was a dark green line of blood running down the blade of his knife. Spock's voice was, if anything, even more perfectly controlled. "It is Yuletide, Captain." With the sound of his own breath panting loudly in his ears, Jim experienced a moment of ringing clarity. He was kneeling over a prone and submissive Spock, in bed, with his cock fully hard in his pants and not doing anything about it. He was Jim fucking Kirk. What was a bit of risk to him? Like he'd ever stopped himself from fucking a potential assassin before, whether prior to, after or goddamn during the attempt. Plus-- Spock. Submissive. Anything. It took a bit of effort to unlock the fist he had been gripping Spock's hair with. Aware that his grin was more than a touch manic, Jim bounced back off the bed and let Spock up. "Turn over." Blood was still running bright from the hair-thin cut over Spock's jugular, but the Vulcan was as bland-faced as ever. On his back, he looked up at Jim and pressed the metal bands on his wrists together with a clink, offering them up. Jim gestured with the knife, backing up two steps further. "No. Hands on your chest." Spock's eyebrows dipped slightly in confusion, but he placed his palms flat on either side of his ribs. "Run 'em down," Jim said, rough voiced. He was transfixed as much by the slide of Spock's over-sensitive fingers down his stomach as by the fact that Spock was still obeying him. "Up again. Yeah, touch yourself." Spock's fingers stalled for a moment, then went on to make vague motions at his pectorals. "No. Grab your nipples, Spock. Pinch them. Harder. You like that?" "Not particularly." "Run your hands down yourself again, Spock. Lower, you bastard. You know what I want. Your nipples, the other ones. Run your fingers around 'em. Like you mean it, Spock." Not removing his eyes from the picture laid out before him, Jim sat down on the foot of the bed. "Yeah, baby. Make it feel so good. I know you like that." The nipples on Spock's abdomen were smaller and darker than the ones on his pectorals, and there were six of them, three each in a line on either side of his navel. The DNA for them might have been eliminated from his genome by a good geneticist, the kind Sarek of Vulcan could afford, but it had been a little too late for that after a very disgraced Sarek had spent his pon farr locked in a room with the daughter of a senator in current disfavour with the Emperor. By the time Sarek had been permitted to flee back to Vulcan with his tail between his legs and remind the Elders all about what happened to misbehaving Vulcans, Amanda's pregnancy had been confirmed and thus their automatic marriage, by Vulcan law, had been in place for two weeks. Nobody had been happy about that one, least of all Amanda, but to the world's surprise Sarek and Lady Amanda had gone on to make themselves the most ruthless couple in Vulcan politics, and in a number of Terran circles too. Jim's mother had lost two hundred credits betting that Amanda would have an abortion and a knife between Sarek's eyes within three weeks. When Jim had discovered that Spock had inherited that particular Vulcan characteristic from his father (men that nursed the babies, what the fuck) he had made security forcibly incapacitate Spock and drag him down to sickbay in the middle of alpha shift to have Bones surgically remove the layer of bioplast Spock had had grafted over his abdomen. After over twenty years hidden beneath the bioplast, his teats were sensitive. Spock was starting to look faintly uncomfortable, but better yet was the green stain rising in his eartips. Still, his body was about as wooden as a board and his technique frankly wasn't much better. Jim decided to show Spock how it was done before his dick decided it wasn't interested in a compliant fuck after all. "Spread 'em. Against the headboard." The expression in Spock's eyes was almost relief, which just wouldn't do. Jim would correct him of that judgement error soon enough. The moment Spock had touched the bracelets against the metal bars of the headboard, Jim pressed the single button on a tiny device clipped to his sash. Powerful magnets in the bracelets kicked in instantly, sending a jolt down Spock's arms. The bands had been locked around Spock's wrists about five seconds after he had signed the Starfleet contract seven years ago, and they hadn't come off since. After all, Starfleet was interested in Spock precisely because he had proven to be so volatile. What was the sense in putting a superhumanly strong alien on the bridge of a starship-- in a senior position, no less-- without some kind of safeguard measure in place? Without removing his sash, Jim unbuttoned his pants and shed them, kicking them off at the same time as his boots. His socks followed a moment later, leaving him naked but for the gold sash around his hips. There was a reason sashes, not belts, were part of the uniform. One word: versatility. It was an absolute bitch to try to hogtie someone with a polymer belt (though it could be done). Straps, in general, were the tools of specialists; for most other kinds of torture, an agoniser and knife worked just fine-- or, barring that, a phaser with a slightly jimmied focus lens that could be used to deliver more localised electric shocks. Agonisers, after all, were specifically designed so that it took a lot of work to kill somebody with one. Hacked electronics brought a whole new level of fear into the game. What to do with Spock, then. Contemplating his first officer, Jim absently brushed the dial on the hilt of his knife with his thumb. A slight backwash of heat struck his knuckles as the blood on the blade dried to dust and disintegrated away. Meanwhile, Jim was watching Spock, whose eyes had flown to the knife-- and who, despite that, hadn't drawn his legs up into a defensive position from which he could deliver a hell of a kick. Who just sat there. Fuck. He still wasn't sure he'd processed the idea yet. Spock. Submissive. Why? Who the fuck cared why? Thing was, Jim's dick liked the idea. Liked it so much, in fact, that he didn't even need to take a taste to know he'd want it again. And again. Maybe because this, whatever the fuck it was, wasn't something he could take by force. Spock had to... give it to him. Willingly. Which meant that Jim suddenly found himself faced with a treat he couldn't have whenever he wanted. A treat someone else had control over. A smile slid over Jim's face, tissue-paper thin, as he ambled towards Spock, his entire bearing suddenly easy-going and relaxed. He would have to be, in order to pull this off. If this was what happened when Spock wanted to be there, then Jim wouldn't just give him something he'd want more of. He would give Spock something he'd love. His eyes hooded and smouldering like those of a sleepy tiger, Jim practically oozed onto the bed, slinging a leg across Spock's hips and straddling him expertly. He placed his hands on Spock's chest so that the left one was directly over the thrumming Vulcan heart and lowered himself down, spine curving sinuously until they were pressed chest to chest, his hands trapped between them. Mere inches separating their faces, Jim looked into Spock's ink-black eyes and smiled a smile that had once made Gary's knees actually buckle (right before Jim stabbed him in the throat). "You and me," he whispered hotly, "we're gonna have some fun." Delicately, Jim nuzzled the tip of his nose against the fine, razor-cut hairs behind Spock's ear. His tongue darted out to taste the sensitive flesh-- just a lick; easy, Jim. "Feel free to scream." He didn't give Spock a chance to reply, quickly sealing his lips over Spock's in a heated kiss. His tongue had barely touched Spock's lips before Jim realised he had overdone it. Spock had gone rigid beneath him, expecting... well, the usual, duh. But, against the voice inside that urged him to bite down and savage Spock's mouth, Jim gentled, drawing back until they were connected only by the lightest press of mouths. Exhaling warmly against Spock's mouth and trying to pretend that he wanted nothing more than to be there, doing what he was doing, Jim did nothing more than nip very gently at Spock's lower lip a few times and then pull back. Baffled. Now that was a good look on the Vulcan. Not wanting Spock to see the triumph in his eyes, Jim leaned in again, licking and leaving little lipping kisses along Spock's jaw. Spock's sleek goatee scraped against his cheek, but nowhere near as roughly as human hair should have. More of that textureless, smooth, easily-ventilated Vulcan hair, then? Fucking bizarre. He'd never been close enough to Spock's mouth before-- when it wasn't trying to bite him, that was-- to notice it. Beneath him, Spock's muscles were still as rigid and unmoved as tritanium. Undeterred, Jim made a little humming sound in the back of his throat and started to work his way down Spock's neck, kissing and nuzzling. Slowly, his palms started to stroke gentle circles on the Vulcan's chest, fingertips caressing every dip and bump of his ribs. Easy. Easy. At least his cock hadn't yet got the message about how uninteresting this was. Pressed up against the hot flesh of Spock's belly, it seemed happy enough to stay hard and ready. Jim determinedly shoved away the vague, shuddery questions about what exactly that might say about him. Spock had never made a secret of the fact that he didn't get off on pain, giving or receiving. All the times Jim had fucked him before, inflicting pain had been the fastest and easiest way to get a good, furious writhe out of him. If anything, torture bothered Spock an indecent amount for an officer of the Empire. He couldn't even objectively respect the delivery of a particularly nice knife wound. Half human or not, there was something seriously wrong with Spock. So all the ways Jim would have entertained a normal partner were out the window. Spock was Vulcan. Spock was... peaceful and shit. Jim was faintly disgusted by trying to imagine all the timid, tedious sex Spock must have had with his pacifistic Vulcan fiancée before signing on with Starfleet. Spock had a fiancée, right? He must, all Vulcans did. Arranging marriages from birth, what horseshit. A person's political status could have crashed and burned by the time it was consummated. But they had the set up for when pon farr kicked in, because they couldn't even man up enough to take what they needed when their lives depended on it, which-- wow. Just wow. Jim hadn't made up his mind whether or not he was going to let Spock go back to his whore on Vulcan when the time came. There would always be some dumb young ensign that needed punishing. Decisions, decisions. Later. If Spock wanted boring, then he was going to get the boring vanilla fuck of his life. With almost painful slowness, Jim worked his way down Spock's body, mouth and hands trailing across everything he could reach. It wasn't even a process he could just rush though and have done with. He was patience fucking personified. He sucked where he would have normally bitten, stroked where he would have scratched, caressed where he would have bruised... and, bit by bit, Spock melted. By the time Jim's mouth had reached his navel and Jim's hands slipped underneath to massage Spock's muscular asscheeks (and shit, how hard was it to resist the temptation to suddenly shove two fingers up there and give the bastard the shock of his life-- the look on his face, it would be wet-dream material), Spock was full-out flushed. Fifteen long, wet, relentless minutes later, as Jim left his teats swollen and dripping with saliva and started to work his way back up, the Vulcan had been reduced to gasping with open-mouthed fervour. Straddling Spock's thighs, Jim sat up to observe his work. He was shocked that it had worked so fast-- without him even laying a hand on Spock's dick!-- but he liked what he saw spread out before him like some kind of obscene banquet. Anybody could be laid out on his bed, especially with the restraints in place. Very few people had ever sprawled on it, let alone in lax pleasure. Jim tried not to look too openly satisfied, as Spock had managed to fight his eyes open far enough to stare up at Jim with evident shock. "I... do not understand," he said-- panted, more like. Jim was hard pressed not to wriggle with delight. "Do you not intend to-- satisfy yourself with--" Smiling with every ounce of seductive charm he could, Jim laid a single finger across Spock's lips. The Vulcan stilled and went silent immediately. Alien biology, gotta love it. "You dirty, kinky fuck," Jim said, and the unexpectedly nasty edge to it made Spock's eyes widen. "All that bullshit about how a touch telepath needs his precious personal space, can't be pawed at, noooo, and you get off on it. You like being touched." Something flickered in Spock's eyes, a defensive shield trying to drag itself above the arousal. Jim swooped in and stifled it with a long, slow suck on the pinna of Spock's left ear, moaning pornographically in the back of his throat. A shudder ran the length of Spock's entire body and he went limp again. God, that was fucked up. On second thought, maybe Amanda Grayson hadn't raised her son so well after all. What had she done to him that he thought having someone's hands all over him was... nice? Never mind. He would play Spock's sick little kink. "Don't even worry about it," he purred. "Just lay back and let me steer you 'round the curves. You're in good hands." The line was atrocious, but he figured it would work, since nobody ever bothered wasting pick-up lines on a Vulcan. His face was starting to hurt from all the smiling he'd done. Taking care to rub against Spock's swollen teats on the way past, Jim shimmied up his body and seated himself on Spock's chest so that he could lean down to get at Spock's hands. At the first touch of his mouth on a curled thumb, Spock drew a sharp breath. Jim braced himself on the headboard and took two long fingers into his mouth. Ludicrously careful with his teeth, he sealed his lips around them and suckled hard, pressed them against the roof of his mouth, rolled his tongue against them and fucked it between them in short, stabbing strokes. Recalling a cheap Orion porn holo he'd seen once, he let a huge gob of drool drip from his mouth and watched it run slowly across Spock's trembling, twitching palm and down his rust-veined wrist. Spock shut his eyes tightly and moaned. "S'that good for you?" Jim asked, a little breathless despite himself. "This what you need, Spock? Poor baby. How long's it been since anybody took such good care of you, huh?" Spock was shaking his head very faintly. "Never, is that it?" prodded Jim in delight, smearing the saliva across Spock's palm and gaining another muffled moan for it. He was absolutely astounded at the level of vulnerability he could pry from the Vulcan. "Never? M'gonna take care of you, Spock. Gonna make it so good for you." Mumbling vague promises beneath his breath, he went down on Spock's other hand. It was as filthy, wet and enthusiastic a blow job as he had ever given anything. Hell, from what he knew about Vulcan physiology (though in a capacity related to torture, not sex), it should have had Spock coming in his pants, were he wearing any. He could feel the muscles of Spock's arms shaking helplessly. Good, that was good. Jim reached back behind himself for Spock's erection, thinking that from the way he was gasping, it probably wouldn't take more than a stroke or two to finish him. Vulcans could come multiple times in a row; he would get Spock off once to loosen him up nicely before fucking him so that maybe Jim could have at least a little fun with-- Jim bolted up straight, his eyes blazing. Utterly infuriated, he exploded, "What is this?" In his hand, the Vulcan's cock lay limp and half hard, only partially extended from its sheath. There was barely a smear of fluid on it, let alone the sopping deluge Jim had imagined. Lubricant production was equivalent to arousal, he remembered that much. Abandoning all pretence of sweetness, Jim glowered down at Spock. "Seriously, Spock, what the hell. If you're impotent or some shit, now would be a better time to tell me you're just too disgusted by me to get it up, instead." "Somehow I cannot picture that calming your temper," Spock said, still somewhat breathlessly. "No, but I'd go to Bones for drugs instead of cutting this useless thing off," snarled Jim. He gave Spock's dick a jerk far more painful than pleasurable. "What do I have to do to make you happy, Spock? Cuddle you and coo love songs in your ear?" "That would be illogical." Jim felt himself shaking with frustration, and was too far gone to care how weak that lack of control looked. All that work-- all that time he'd just spent-- for nothing? Showed just how useful it was to do something nice for somebody, even if it was partly so he could get something out of it, too. Of course Jim wanted something out of it; he wasn't mentally ill. But there was the easy way and the hard way of getting things, and he'd picked he easy way for Spock, humiliated himself in doing so, and now it turned out he might as well have not bothered, because trying to treat Spock like that was doing fuck-all for Jim and Spock didn't even care. "What," he demanded, humiliated and angry beyond belief, "is your problem, Spock? What does it take to get you off?" Beneath him, the Vulcan's body shifting as he spread his legs wider, obviously trying to draw Jim's attention. "Captain, I do not understand why you are concerned with my enjoyment of this process. My lack of arousal has never been an obstacle for you before." "Answer the question," Jim growled. "Is this because I altered the balance of our relationship by attempting to initiate a sexual encounter myself?" "We don't have a relationship." "We relate to one another on a daily basis; there is a relationship." "Answer the goddamn question, Commander!" "I cannot." Jim's white-knuckled fist was already halfway through the swing when Spock's hurried voice stopped him dead: "I cannot physically become aroused at this point." "At this point," Jim repeated slowly, without lowering his fist. "Normally, you could." The green flush in Spock's cheeks was as bright as ever. Humiliated as he was, Jim couldn't even enjoy Spock's obvious discomfort. "Could and would be. I-- did not expect you to be... this considerate." "Then why not?" Spock's lips made a thin, tight line before he replied quietly. "I injected myself with a four-hour dose of general anaesthetic before coming here. The stimulus perception of my dermal nervous tissue has been dulled by 86.4 percent." And Jim-- Jim, who had built his career on being the fastest, most opportunistic person to exploit weakness in his peers and rivals-- was speechless. Not about the drugs, no; that was practically common sense, and a good sight more deceptive than Spock had ever shown signs of being. "You mean you-- you couldn't even feel what I was doing to you?" "Largely, no." Spock had the gall to lift his chin and look Jim straight in the eye. "Based on our previous encounters, I have concluded that you gain a great deal of your sexual satisfaction from the infliction of pain coupled with the assertion of your dominance over others. I saw no reason I should suffer unnecessarily when giving you this gift. You, however, failed to act according to logical parameters." Jim scoffed. "And this surprises you how?" Spock twitched an eyebrow disdainfully. "True. It was an error in my thinking to assume you would react in a reasonable or sane manner." Jim buried his fist in the pillow inches from Spock's ear, leaning down to hiss, "You're one to talk about sane-- you, bringing your sicko touch kink and your 'gift' to me like it's nothing out of the ordinary. What's the logic behind that?" Utterly unruffled, Spock said, "It is Yuletide. I wished to make you... 'happy'." He met Jim's sneer with the cold, ruthlessly calculating eyes that reminded Jim, yet again, just why this Vulcan in particular had made it so far in the Empire. "I have calculated that you are 6.7 times more likely to take my observations into consideration when in a good mood. Your reaction of what one might almost deem care or compassion, however, begs for an explanation." Shit. Of course Spock wouldn't let that slide. Jim smiled with too many teeth and stroked a hand down Spock's chest in a mockery of affection. "I wanted to make you happy," he mocked in return. "I always knew all you needed was one good lay to show you how a real human fucks. You'd have come running back to me begging for more." Spock's dark eyes were glinting. "Did you enjoy my voluntary submission, Captain? Perhaps you find yourself less able to enforce submission in your partners these days... or perhaps it was my willingness which aroused you." Jim dug his fingernails deep into Spock's pectoral, infuriated by the insinuation. "I wasn't the one moaning for a kiss, Spock. Did you enjoy me not hurting you?" he snarled, shoving his face in close to Spock's. Almost nose to nose, they held out a simmering stare for several long, dangerous moments. Jim was almost-- almost-- certain it had to end in blood. When the tension finally eased, however, it wasn't because one of them had backed down. They were the captain and executive officer of the Terran Empire's imperial flagship, the ISS Enterprise. They were two of the most powerful men in Starfleet and scions of their respective planets. They understood just how to reach a mutually beneficial agreement when it was staring them in the face. "I'm not like Chekov, Spock," Jim said. Very gently, he trailed his fingertips through the dark hair on Spock's chest. "I don't like cutting people open just to see the muscles twitch." He leaned down to breathe in Spock's ear. "When I cut you, I want to know you're feeling every second of it, and have you twisting and straining in useless fury underneath me." To the casual observer, Spock's voice was positively disinterested. To Jim, his Vulcan-- his fucking Vulcan-- was hot with lust and frigid with brutal political savvy at the same time. "I accept the continuation of your sexual proclivities as inevitable and will react to them in whatever manner you desire, provided my own desires are also met in an equally satisfactory manner, at the time and place I choose. You will, of course, treat my affairs with the utmost of discretion in order to compensate for the much lower frequency of occasions on which my desires are attended." "Like I want anybody knowing I'd go so soft as to... cuddle you." Jim sniffed and changed the subject. "Four hour dose, huh?" he said, unwinding down onto Spock's chest once more. "Well, it's only seventeen-hundred. Three hours left of Yuletide after that. Since, you know-- this is a gift." His tone made very clear just what he thought of that. Professionally motivated or not, there was something soppy and sentimental about providing complete submission as a Yuletide gift. And yet... Jim knew with horrible certainty that he wouldn't have betrayed Spock's moment of vulnerability to anybody even if their deal hadn't prevented it. Because it was leverage, of course. There was no reason to share that leverage with others, none. It was a hand to hold over his Vulcan and nobody got to do that but Jim. "Thirty-eight minutes have elapsed since I took the injection," Spock said. "Based on the anaesthesia's rate of action so far, I estimate a full recovery time of no more than two hours and fifty-six minutes." "Great, fine, whatever," muttered Jim, suddenly moody. Some time during their conversation, his cock had finally ceased to be interested in the proceedings, though Spock's was still at a determined half-mast. He rolled off of Spock and made himself comfortable on the mattress beside the Vulcan. Then, on second thought, Jim slung a leg over Spock's and arranged himself halfway on top of the Vulcan's chest. Muscle and hair and bones and hot, hot skin... Because no way in hell did Jim intend to let Spock out of those restraints before he'd been fucked good and hard. Who knew if Spock would change his mind in the interim? And part of the deal still involved Spock wanting to come back voluntarily. Their happiness, it seemed, was to be mutual if it was to be at all. "Captain?" Spock said, sounding nothing short of astonished. "Do you intend to... co-sleep?" Jim shifted restlessly, offended by the insinuation that he was some kind of pervert like Spock. "I'm taking a nap," he snapped. "You just happen to be in my bed. Deal with it." Spock's voice was suspiciously bland when he agreed, "Of course, Captain." For one horrible moment, Jim wondered what Spock knew. Then he shook himself and forced the vulnerability away. "Computer: lights to ten percent," he called, settling himself more comfortably against the Vulcan's freakishly hot body. It wasn't possible that Spock was using telepathy on Jim, not even with both of them naked and touching skin everywhere. Vulcans were conditioned from childhood to never, ever dare to attempt mental contact with a human unless they were ordered to, a compulsion that was so strong Jim had seen the handful of pathetic rebels Vulcan turned out attempt to physically torture information out of a captive rather than using a mind meld. No, Jim decided. There was no way Spock knew he was the only person Jim would ever consider co-sleeping with, even for only a few hours. "Yuletide blessings, Captain," Spock said quietly, his voice disembodied in the dark. "Bless me again when I'm through with you," Jim muttered back, and pulled the covers over them both. "I shall," Spock murmured, sounding positively smug. Beneath Jim's cheek, something in Spock's broad chest rumbled, low and steady. A purr? Was he purring? For one short moment, Jim wanted to be outraged. Pride and professionalism demanded that he get up and show his goddamn first officer just what dealing with James T. Kirk really meant. Then pride and professionalism took a back seat to comfort and security and the shocking revelation that Spock's purr was possibly the most soothing thing Jim had ever experienced. Wide-eyed in the dark, Jim pressed his cheek more closely to Spock's ribcage and lay very, very still as the vibration and warmth of the sound sank in right down to his bones. Some people said that wishes made on Yuletide came true within the next year. Jim had scoffed at the idea for over a decade. But last year-- last year when he'd been drunk and on pain meds and too full of stab wounds to walk, he'd finally given in and wished for the first stupid thing that had come to mind: to finally find out what co-sleeping was like... to see if the reality lived up to the vague concept that put a sweet, sick ache in Jim's chest whenever he thought about it. There were seven hours of Yuletide left. He might have to spend some time thinking about this year's wish.

Title: Ambigrams and Inversions (Ouran High School Host Club) Author: jedishampoo Pairing: Kyouya/Haruhi (Tamaki/Haruhi & other implied pairing in the background) Rating: NC-l7; hetsmut, language, misogyny Summary: Set five years post-series: Kyouya thinks he knows what he wants; Haruhi believes she knows what he needs. About 7000 words. Author’s Notes: A gift for figure-painter and fanfic-reader extraordinaire minidrag33. I hope you enjoy it! It is not my OTP and was therefore tough to write, but a little bird told me you liked this pairing. And I relished the chance to create in this adorable fandom. Though please be warned: I left a lot of sweetness at the door. Thank you to my dear sharpeslass for the beta! It really wasn’t a bad party, despite being held at an all-but-public university. Kyouya had tried the truffle canapés and they were passable. Suzuki had obviously paid through the nose for those and the heart-shaped melons, and for the carver who patiently scooped out the heart-shaped, pink chunks and etched guests’ sweethearts’ initials on them as if they were souvenirs and not something to be gobbled up moments later by the cooing and giggling recipients. Suzuki was Jyouto University’s chancellor’s son, and this was his birthday party. The board of Jyouto University was hoping to add to its burgeoning medical school. They wanted to add a state-of-the-art hospital, as a matter of fact. Thus Kyouya’s reason for attending the party in question. He rarely socialized anymore, when it wasn’t required. The path he’d chosen made his high-school days of running the host club seem halcyon in hindsight. He and Tamaki hadn’t been working; they’d been playing. Kyouya popped a piece of melon inscribed with the characters for his own name into his mouth. It was surprisingly sweet and juicy for a novelty-melon. He’d already greeted the host-- yes, his father was very well; no, he hadn’t brought his girlfriend; no, he didn’t need to meet any other cute girls. Yes, he would like a personally-escorted tour of the campus tomorrow to see the proposed site, this lowly one thanks you for your kindness. Once the war of humble speech was over and the melon was only a sweet memory on his tongue, Kyouya went looking for a drink. Suzuki’s bar made an even better impression than his appetizers: the wine was so good that Kyouya drained two glasses before switching to some excellent sake. He was contemplating the pleasures of switching back again versus a sure headache in the morning when he spotted a familiar set of shoulders. They were attached to a familiar head-tilt, and a familiar air of bored female proletarian. And there, Kyouya felt his own breath catch for a moment as he looked around automatically for someone who could not be here. It was annoying, having emotions that were predictable and yet inescapable. He could pretend he hadn’t seen her. It would be unacceptably cowardly, but talking to her would make his evening a little more interesting than he’d planned. Still, it was better to be overly interested than a coward. He walked up behind her. “All this social-climbing is sure to help your career, Fujioka-san,” he said as he neared. He raised his glass when she turned to stare at him. “Kyouya-sen-- Kyouya! Hi!” Haruhi’s giant brown eyes were as expressive as ever. They evidenced clear surprise, then genuine pleasure, then suspicion. “Wait. Why so formal?” “To be polite in front of your friends, of course, Haruhi,” Kyouya told her, gesturing with an elegant pinky toward the pair of trendily-dressed girls staring at him from over Haruhi’s shoulders. She’d been chatting with them when he’d approached. “Except it wasn’t that polite. This is Kurakawa Saniko, and Shinatoro Mariko,” Haruhi said, waving first at a plainish girl with brown hair in a blue dress, and then a slightly prettier girl with lighter brown hair, also in a blue dress. Haruhi was in her signature pink. “This is Ootori Kyouya.” The prettier of the -Kos widened her eyes at him. “As in, the Ootori Group?” Haruhi blew out a pained-sounding sigh while Kyouya nodded at them politely. “Why yes, as a matter of fact.” The girl shot Haruhi a hard and significant stare. Haruhi rolled her eyes and turned her back on her friends. “Hey. Give me a few minutes to catch up, and I’ll find you later.” “Oh, fine. Nice to meet you, Ootori-san.” The girls walked off amid a cloud of giggling and a few backwards glances at Haruhi. “All my social climbing is by accident. One of the drawbacks of being a Suou fiancée,” Haruhi told him, and drained the glass of fruity-looking liquid she’d been holding. She stared at the syrupy dregs of as if grumpy with them for being gone. “I was invited. I didn’t want to come, but my friends begged me to bring them because they thought rich guys would be here. And you had to show up and prove them right. It’s annoying. How are you?” “I’m well. It’s good to see you,” Kyouya told her. Haruhi looked very fine. She’d let her hair grow a little longer than she’d kept it in high school, and a bit of natural curl flipped at the bottoms. And was that lip-gloss? Being a-- female-- college student suited her, as much as much as her pink dress suited her. It was a fine-quality dress, well-fitted. Kyouya suspected Tamaki’s hand in its choosing. He was suddenly more pleased than pained at her familiar presence, and he smiled at her. “What are you doing here?” she asked with her wide-eyed, direct stare, the one he’d always found rather interesting in a person who professed such boredom with most of the people she met. “Are you still at the Ouran college? “Of course. Do you wonder why I’m slumming? Let’s get another drink and I’ll tell you,” Kyouya said, directing her towards the bar with two gentle fingers on her elbow. “I go here, you know,” she mumbled, but walked with him. “Suzuki’s father wishes to build a new hospital to make Jyouto University more attractive to medical faculty and students.” Kyouya paused to signal the bartender for two glasses of the red wine, the better-than-expected wine that he was planning to drink quite a lot of after all. “My father’s board of directors may be interested in an involvement. Jyouto could use the improvement, and the Ootori Group can always use the money.” “It’s a good school,” Haruhi said, still defensive. She held up her wineglass and swirled the red within it, looking unimpressed by the fine film that coated the glass’s sides. She probably missed her idiotic, fruity cocktail. “An excellent school for pre-law, yes. Only “good” for medicine. It would be a children’s hospital, you know.” “That sounds worthy, at least.” Haruhi took a sip of her wine, and then raised her expressive eyes at him in a bit of awe. “This is really good. Even I can tell.” “Your tastes have improved.” “Another side-effect of being a Suou fiancée.” Her face turned suddenly bleak and she opened her mouth, then shut it, then opened it again, then shut it. “Yes?” “Kyouya. Tamaki’s in America.” “I know.” Kyouya tipped the contents of his wine-glass into his mouth, a healthier gulp than such a fine vintage deserved. It went down smoothly nonetheless. “Learning languages in Manta Ray. California.” “Spanish and English in Monterey. There’s a very good aquarium there.” “I’ve heard that,” she said. Probably she’d been invited multiple times, as had Kyouya-- Tamaki holding out the aquarium as a typically foolish lure. “I miss him.” Of course she did. Kyouya found himself becoming slightly irritated with her. “Why didn’t you go? He’s only going to be there six months; you could have easily won a scholarship for the overseas semester.” Haruhi sighed, stared at her glass, then began gulping it almost as deeply as Kyouya was doing with his own. She made a tiny wine-face at the sudden quantity. “It was too late to apply. If I’d gone, Tamaki would have had to pay for my travel and tuition. And he would have. But I’d like to do some things on my own.” Kyouya signaled the bartender for a couple more glasses. “I received a lengthy e-mail from him when he arrived in America. It was dripping with electronic despondency.” “Huh. He was all smiles when he left. I was annoyed. And he keeps sending me perky, encouraging notes, telling me to do well on my tests.” “I’m sure he was-- and is-- trying very hard.” Kyouya wondered if Haruhi was going through denial. Again. In his head he could divine the situation he’d not been present for; watch with his mind’s eye as Tamaki smiled at Haruhi at the airport as he said goodbye, despair warring with his desire to make sure Haruhi had her independence. To make sure she was happy, being selfishly common. Going against his own nature so as not to crowd her, lest she run away. Did she even appreciate that? “Crap,” Haruhi sighed. Kyouya handed her another glass of wine to replace the empty she held. “And here I’d have thought you’d have grown out of sulking, Haruhi. Don’t slump your shoulders. It’s unattractive and makes you look shorter.” “I am short,” she said, but straightened instantly. Her eyes went wide in that way they had. And slightly accusing. “You never said anything before.” “Well it didn’t matter when you were pretending to be a boy,” Haruhi half-glared at him for a moment or two out of the corners of her eyes. “You drink a lot more than I’d have thought you would.” And there it began, the way it always began: when they weren’t talking about Tamaki, the one thing they had in common, they poked at each other, looking for a reaction, or information, or whatever it was that made each others’ company most bearable. Interesting. Even exciting. Kyouya pushed his glasses up to sit just so on the bridge of his nose. “Ah. But you see, this is training. Every good businessman should learn, early on, how to drink and to drink well. Have you said hello to your host?” “I haven’t talked to him yet.” “How rude. He was only a little drunk when I spoke with him.” Haruhi looked around. “Mariko and Saniko have got him. Wow.” Kyouya let his gaze follow the direction of hers, and he saw the –Kos, blue and lighter blue, on either side of the sweaty, pink-cheeked Suzuki. They were finding great amusement in whatever they were doing, which appeared to be holding Suzuki upright. “They really do have him.” “Tag-team. Those tramps. Hee,” Haruhi giggled uncharacteristically. Her eyes widened in embarrassment and she put three fingers over her lips in a gesture that was just feminine enough to be attractive without being too silly. Kyouya had always known what Tamaki saw in her. “Wow. This wine is really good.” Kyouya took her elbow in his fingers again. “Why don’t we sit down?” “Good idea.” Haruhi let him direct her through the crowd to a couch along the wall. There was a little table in front of the couch; she grinned at him when he took her glass of wine and visibly extended his pinky as he set it on the table. Her grin was so cute that he hardly felt silly doing it. Sitting side-by-side on the couch, backs to the wall, they had a good view of the entire room. In the few minutes they’d been chatting, the party had become a bit more crowded and rowdy as everyone sampled the liquor and then went back for more. And more. Kyouya spotted a couple of young men he hadn’t seen on his first circuit through the room, mentally comparing them to some photos on file in his head. Connections of connections. He dug his palm pilot out of his pocket and scratched a couple of notes across the glossy screen. If he was in the mood, later, he’d probably introduce himself. When he looked back at Haruhi, her expression could not quite be classified under eye-roll, but definitely counted as wry. “What? I told you this was a business engagement for me.” “Nothing.” She looked down at her chest and fiddled with some of the pink flowers at the bodice of her dress. “You and Tamaki go to the same school, but I never see you, anymore.” “I see him. When he is in Japan, at least.” He and Tamaki didn’t share any classes, but sometimes they met for dinner or even smallish parties on the rare weekends Tamaki wasn’t off visiting Haruhi. “I see him, too. He flirts with all the girls in my apartment building.” Still she fiddled. Something on the front of her dress was fascinating her, though Kyouya couldn’t quite see what it was. Perhaps she was stymied at the slight cleavage the well-cut dress had given her? At least her chest was no longer concave. Kyouya mentally bit his tongue to keep from mentioning that fact aloud. “Are you jealous?” “No.” She stood a little shakily, chin still planted on her chest. She grabbed her glass of wine. “Hey, excuse me for a minute, would you? I need to find the restroom. And maybe I should get some water.” “Go powder your nose,” Kyouya told her. “I’ll get the water.” While she was gone Kyouya fetched a couple bottles of water as well as another glass of the red wine-- he might as well make full use of it while he was there. Then he ran into one of the fellows he’d seen earlier, one Fujishiya Tezo, second son of those Fujishiyas, and he took just a moment to introduce himself. It was a few minutes before he returned to the couch and discovered that Haruhi hadn’t yet found her way back. He sat and took alternate sips of wine and water and heard a small commotion in the already-noisy room. “Fujioka! You cutie. I heard you dumped your boyfriend,” a loud, lusty voice slurred. “That’s stupid. Let me go.” Haruhi sounded calm but annoyed. Kyouya stood and found a little scene playing out only a few steps away. The other young gentleman he’d tried to identify in his own brain earlier-- one of the Gakuiin family of Kyoto, he believed-- had Haruhi in a sort of half-friendly-hug, half-attempt to rub himself all over her. The grin plastered on his shiny face was wide and sloppy. “Betcha I’m better in the sack than he was. Smart girl like you, you know it, right? You look hot tonight, you know? Cutie,” he repeated. “Not hardly,” Haruhi said, and looked as if she was about to do something unthinkable with her refilled glass of excellent wine. Kyouya stood and called over to her. “Haruhi. Am I to I take it this overly familiar behavior is unwelcome?” “Yes. But I can take care of it.” Kyouya ignored her. “You heard her, I believe?” he said to the enthusiastic suitor-groper. The guy watched Kyouya’s approach somewhat blearily. “New date? Sorry, Fujioka-san, didn’t know.” He released Haruhi and stepped back for a quick bow. “I’m Gakuiin.” “Ootori,” Kyouya said with a lovely smile, and nodded. He dropped his arm across Haruhi’s shoulders. Why waste time explaining that he was not her date, and that he was in fact rescuing him from Haruhi’s unfeminine wrath? Let Gakuiin think that he, Kyouya, was sleeping with her. Improving one’s status in the eyes of one’s colleagues wasn’t all about business acumen. Life and work were the same thing, after all. “Oh, hell.” Gakuiin bowed and backed away. “Excuse me.” “Thanks,” Haruhi told him as they sat back on the couch. “But I could have gotten rid of him.” “Used to it, I suppose?” Kyouya asked. The room was warm; he was warm. His arm tingled. That had been fun. Was fun. Overly interesting, as always. “I see you haven’t lost your touch.” “I don’t do anything, I swear. It’s just, in college, they’re a lot less polite. And more drunk.” As if rejecting that lifestyle, Haruhi pushed away her wine and picked up the untouched bottle of water. “Remember what I said about good businessmen? The poor boys are just learning now that they’ll hardly have any other joy in their puny lives.” “Sounds like the Shadow King is bitter.” Kyouya was watching the crowd but he could feel Haruhi’s gaze turned up to stare at him. It would be that wide-eyed, direct stare, too. It was too bad he’d never slept with her before she’d become off-limits. It might have been fun. Life and work, fun and business, exploring one’s options. Only Tamaki had ever given Kyouya something for Kyouya. Her boyfriend. Her fun. Truly, she’d always been off-limits for Kyouya. “No, I’m not at all.” Kyouya finished off his wine and decided that he actually felt pretty good. Bitterness belonged to everyone else; puny lives, boring lives, lonely lives. “Are you and Tamaki sleeping together?” She jerked a little as if startled, but ignored the question. “You miss Tamaki, don’t you?” “Not really.” “You can take your arm off me, now.” Ah. No wonder he’d been so warm and tingly; he was still snuggling on her, caressing her bare shoulder at the straps of her dress. Her warm skin made a nice contrast on his fingertips to the little nubbed fabric flowers stitched into the strap. He released her, but it was too late. He couldn’t get the question or the idea out of his head: Haruhi and Tamaki, fucking like bunnies. “Well, are you?” “Geez, Kyouya. Why do you care?” “I suppose that answers my question.” Prurience? He always sought information. Some information was just more interesting than other information. “Nnnnn...” she moaned. She was sulking again, but caught him looking sideways at her and straightened against the couch. He noticed that she hadn’t asked him to move his thigh from where it rubbed against the side of hers. “We’ve been engaged for two years…” “And will be until you finish law school?” “No, probably undergrad at least. He’s got the company to come back to. It’s a long time, no matter how you look at it.” Kyouya adjusted his glasses again and turned to look directly at her. It was hot in the room and she had a slight shine of sweat at her temples and below her ears. Interesting. Exciting. “I wasn’t making any judgments about what you two do when you’re alone. Though you should be careful, of course.” “We are. I am. Argh! Why are you making me talk about this?” Haruhi tilted her head back and gulped down half the water in her bottle. Her lack of an Adam’s apple was completely evident when her neck was all stretched out like that, slender and feminine. How had anyone, for an instant, believed that Haruhi was a boy? Kyouya believed that most people were stupid, but usually people’s gonads knew more than their brains. “I’m not. I just asked a question.” Haruhi re-capped her bottled water and looked directly at him again, wide eyes deliberately un-calculating. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?” “Yes, for now.” Kyouya turned to examine a loud noise in the corner of the room-- Haruhi’s tramp friends and their host, screeching in laughter. Suzuki was not long for the party, but then the booze and food and beautiful people had all been provided; parties like this could continue long after their hosts had passed out or found more private pursuits. “For now. You’re so cynical. What’s she like?” “She’s suitable in every way that matters.” Sachie was rich, educated, and well-bred. She bored him sexually, but his father liked her father. What more was there to say? He wasn’t in the mood to talk about Sachie. He hadn’t decided if he was going to marry her. Why should he marry or even date if he didn’t wish to? “Do you love her?” “No. Not really.” “That’s too bad.” Haruhi sounded sad. Kyouya glanced at her and she was staring down again, this time at her fingers tapping in her lap rather than at her own cleavage. One, two, threefourfive, six, seven, eightnineten pale-pink, painted, short fingernails. The fingernails of an honor student. Fingers that were slim and efficient and that knew all sorts of things. Very basic things that he did not. Whatever occupied her thoughts in those moments was interrupted by the commotion, which had moved over to stand directly in front of them. Kyouya didn’t have to shift his head at all to see the two blue dresses and a black suit in the middle, sweaty face and sloppy grin intact. “Ha- Ha- Haruhi,” Plainer–Ko stutter-giggled over the general background giggling of the other two drunks. “We’re going to help Suzuki-chan here back to his room. If we miss you tonight, I’ll stop by tomorrow, ‘k? “Go on,” Haruhi waved the water-bottle at them. She nodded politely at Suzuki. “I’ll probably leave soon.” “You’re not join-joining us, Fujioka-san?” Suzuki mumbled. One of his legs wobbled and the other -Ko caught him, giggling. “Next time, Suzu-chi,” Prettier-Ko said, and patted him on the shoulder. “Bye, Haruhi.” “Later.” Haruhi downed the rest of her water and shook the empty bottle at Kyouya. “I think I’m done here for the night.” “Next time?” Kyouya asked, finger poised on the bridge of his glasses in a significant pause. Haruhi rolled her eyes and mumbled something that might have been “men,” and may have been mumbled in a disgusted tone. Surely she wasn’t lumping him in with the rest the idiot male population? When she didn’t respond further, Kyouya gave his glasses one last twitch. “Have you learned martial arts yet, or shall I at least walk you back to your dormitory?” “Apartment.” Haruhi looked up at him tilting her head just the slightest bit, narrowing her eyes. “Are you drunk? Your face is a little flushed.” “Are you afraid of me?” “No,” Haruhi said. Definitive, blunt, as if the idea was ridiculous. She had somehow become possible, real again, as so few people ever had, yet he was no threat whatsoever. “I was just asking.” “No, I’m not drunk.” Kyouya had very good locks on his psyche. A few drinks weren’t going to break them. “I’m not, either, but I’m a little tipsy. Uh. I’m glad I ran into you tonight. Will you walk back with me?” “Of course.” They stood. Kyouya didn’t touch her until they passed Gakuiin, whereupon he celebrated the occasion by slinging his forearm over her shoulder again. Gakuiin nodded at them with downcast eyes when they passed. “You can be so funny sometimes. When you want to, Kyouya.” He was funny. She had slightly sticky shoulders, soft skin and that tight dress, and he was funny. Still, she didn’t ask him to remove his arm as they left the Suzuki mansion and walked out into the comfortable fall night. It was not too warm, not too cool, merely perfect for a Saturday-at-university evening out. They were both quiet as they walked the tree-lined sidewalks. The soft sound of music from other parties blended to form a background accompaniment. “My apartment is only a couple blocks away,” Haruhi said, breaking the silence. She grinned up at Kyouya. She was so oblivious to her own feminine power, the strength of her giant, gleaming eyes, her slightly parted lips. Kyouya wondered who’d started it: her, or Tamaki? Had all the flirting with her dorm-mates made her say, touch me if you like? Why hadn’t she gone to America? Surely she’d not always been that selfish of her own time and means. “All right,” Kyouya said. “Is your girlfriend pretty? Tamaki says he’s never met her.” “She’s exceptionally pretty.” A cool breeze ruffled Haruhi’s wispy hair over his bare wrist. “A little boring.” “You should find someone who’s more exciting to you, then. One thing I’ll say for Tamaki is that he’s never, ever boring.” “Hmm.” Did Haruhi even know how close her candor came to the heart, sometimes? How close she’d always come whenever she chose to examine him, to make him most bearable to her? Except that once: you won’t do it, she’d said. Oh, wouldn’t he have? He hadn’t meant to, no, but anything had been possible in those days. Because they’d known nothing. She turned up the walkway of a large, bricked building, and they climbed the steps to its wood-and-glass doors. Kyouya looked up: the building’s architecture had arches and nooks, some bit of style over function. Decent-looking student housing, he could report to his father. Haruhi didn’t step out of the circle of his arm, didn’t turn and say, well this is it, I guess, G’night! She just tapped a code into the keypad set into the brick next to the door. It clicked open. “Do you want to see?” she asked. “Why not?” Did she even have a clue how suggestive that was? Did she know the sensual tilt of her own chin, or the way she’d bumped closer into him every three or four steps? Did she know how easy it would be to break his best friend’s heart when he wasn’t there to walk her home himself? Kyouya slid his arm from her shoulder to hold the door open for her. “Down the hall. I’m glad I’m on the first floor. The elevators are really old.” She walked, he followed. Haruhi stopped in front of a door that looked like all the others except for the number on the tiny, bronze plate nailed into its center. Another code punched into a keypad, another click. Another threshold without the expected coy goodnights. Kyouya crossed it behind her. Haruhi slapped the wall inside and a light blinked on to illuminate a small stove. They stood in a kitchenette. A tiny table and two chairs were shoved against one wall. A partially-open door led off into a darkened room. “You did say apartments,” Kyouya murmured. Not dormitories. “Not bad.” “Another side-effect of being a Suou fiancée. Or perk, I guess I should say. It’s all mine.” Haruhi put her hands on her hips and looked about the kitchenette, turning her upper body slowly from side to side as if stretching. “The benefit of privacy?” “You could say that.” She stared at him, her eyes an unwavering gleam in the half-dark. “The kitchen lights are burned out, though.” Déjà vu. Kyouya wordlessly took hold of her shoulders and turned her, then shoved gently but firmly until her back was pressed against the wall next to the light-switch. She didn’t resist or say a word, just stared up at him. “So. Have you considered cheating on my friend?” “No, why should I? I love him. He’s great in bed, too. Uh. Perfect.” “Hmm.” Kyouya shoved his lips against hers and kissed her. When she didn’t protest or push him away, only clenched his shoulders and kissed him back, he pressed more closely and slid his tongue between her parted lips. He’d been trying to be rough but she was so casual and unresisting that he slowed down and took his time. She would. She would. She would totally break Tamaki’s heart, and not know how she did it-- Kyouya kissed her until his heart was thumping in his ears and under her fingertips at his jaw. He pulled away an inch or two to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her lips wet and shining to match the sweat-sheen of her skin, her chest moving up and down visibly with her breaths. Kyouya was more breathless himself than he’d intended to be. “Is he?” he whispered, pressing forward slightly with his hips. “Yes,” she said, her warm breath puffing against his face. Her hips moved forward, back, forth, outpacing him. The knobbly flowers on her dress rubbed his thighs through the thin fabric of his light suit, scratching uneven lines onto his tender skin. “Um. Hot. Do you want to know how?” “N-- No.” Maybe. With every word and every hitch of her breath and her hips the blood rushed more furiously under his skin, tightening his belly and making him feel light-headed, less in control. No. He knew what he was doing. Testing Haruhi. To shut her up he bent over until he could push his tongue into the soft skin just under her jawline. Too easy, she was too easy. She released his jaw and laid her palms against his sides under his jacket. Not pushing him away, just touching, the very tips of her fingers lightly exploring his ribs. “Are you sure about-- hah!” Kyouya felt Haruhi’s gasp when he slid one hand into the front of her dress. There was not a lot there but the soft flesh under his fingers was all her, no padding, nothing unnatural, there had never been anything unnatural about her. She spoke again, her almost normally-blunt tone softened to a whisper. “Do you want to-- I mean, did you really, then?” “Does it matter?” It didn’t to him, not anymore. He wanted her now. Her nipple was hard against his palm, bits of her were digging into his thighs, and her skin tasted like sweat and good perfume. “None of us knew anything then.” “It was so easy. Oh, wow!” Haruhi gasped again when he pressed his erection into her stomach, showing her how much he wanted her. “Um. Not in the kitchen.” Kyouya yanked his hand out of her dress and backed off a step or two, shrugging off his suit-jacket as he did so. He watched Haruhi kick off her shoes and walk to the partially-open door. Just over the threshold she turned and looked back at him. For a moment there was a crease between her brows, a slight downturn in her lips, a glint of something unreadable in her eyes. Guilt? Kyouya just watched her watching him. He loosened his tie. As if in decision, she straightened her shoulders. Ah, guilt overcome. Kyouya dropped his tie and jacket over the back of one of her kitchen-chairs. Perhaps he was a little drunk, because his own guilt was minimal. Still, it was her job to say No, and she’d said Yes. Easy. He kissed her first and kicked off his shoes second, then toppled both of them onto the futon spread across the high, tatami-matted floor. Did she leave the damned thing out all day? When Tamaki visited, did they even bother to say hello before they stumbled in here and started grabbing each other everywhere at once? “Ah!” Kyouya mumbled, realizing that being splayed on top of her slender little body and aching into her felt great, but that simply shoving his hand up her dress and between her thighs-- no matter how much she squirmed-- was not going to get the job done. It also displayed a lack of finesse. He almost didn’t care. “Wait, swee-- Kyouya. Sit up for a second, would you?” “Yes,” Kyouya mumbled and sat up, light-headed again. There was an order to this and he wasn’t following it. In the scant light from the door he could see a night-stand, and he removed his glasses and set them on it. Then he propped himself on his hands over her. She was close enough that she was only a little blurry. He groped behind her for the fastening to her dress, and she arched her back to help as he unzipped her, pressing her thigh between his legs and rubbing it against his cock until it throbbed and ached, the protruding fabric flowers each an acute contact of their own on his hot skin. “Ta-- Uh, Tamaki bought me this dress…” she said. Strangely, it sounded like a question. Guilt again? “I know. Ah. I can tell,” Kyouya told her. “Oh. Okay.” She sounded… relieved? Kyouya hooked his index fingers under the straps of her dress and smoothed them down her arms, over her fingers, down her stomach. She was braless underneath. Slender, tender, all female. He’d never been deluded, not for a minute. She wriggled, helping him yank the pink dress down over her pale hips. When she lay back and stretched out, mostly naked, she stared at the ceiling as if embarrassed, her eyes huge in the dark. She whispered something that sounded like heywhite. Hey why? Yay wine? A while? Kyouya didn’t care. He leaned down to kiss her breastbone, and there was sweat and perfume there and her tiny breasts were adorable, not his, maybe, but adorable. He didn’t even unbutton his shirt, just pulled it over his head and kissed her again, losing thought in the feel of her warm, wet little mouth and tongue and her moans humming against his lips. Her hands on his back were half-hesitant, half-sure, her little nails, one, two, threefourfive, six, seven, eightnineten of them digging into his shoulder-blades when he slid his palm down her belly and under the hem of her silky panties. “Ah!” Haruhi gasped. “You always. Took care of us, too.” “I suppose. Yes,” Kyouya said, wondering what she was talking about. She was so tight and wet around his finger. He curled it up inside her, felt her muscles clench everywhere she touched him. “In your own way.” “Mmm.” Why was she talking to him? Rationalization of some kind? He hooked her panties down over her ass and past her thighs. She did a little acrobatic knee-bend, kicking them away while he unbuttoned his pants to get them off before he came inside them instead of her. She clenched her knees against his ribs on either side and he loved how she didn’t stare at the ceiling like get on with it but grabbed his hips and rubbed his skin hard and screw it, having his pants at his knees was fine-- Haruhi was giggling. “You’re not wearing underwear.” Still talking, too. “You have discovered my secret,” he said, and shoved her knees to her chest and shoved his cock inside and she was all slick and clenchy and not his and God, it had been too long since he’d been with someone who kept his dick hard and who didn’t make him want to fall asleep mid-fuck and who knew him. Haruhi was gasping and he was gasping and he just rocked in and out and she was too tiny and too skinny and tight and perfect: Kyouya had gotten used to pretending that he was fucking other people. Yes, he’d wanted to, five years ago. He’d wanted to screw her into the mattress in Nekozawa’s guestroom and show her that she was a girl and he was not and that naivete and bravado were not her weapons but that the grip of her cunt was, and that she’d made his life more interesting and more difficult by being there. “That’s… That’s…” she moaned, and he moaned back into her sweaty hair, breathing perfume that he’d not chosen for her but would have. Maybe he was grabbing her knees a little too hard as he pounded into her but they were slippery with sweat and he was going to lose his grip if he didn’t. So he dug his toes into the bamboo mat for purchase and she yanked his hair with both hands, pulling his head up and staring right at him with her huge eyes and he shoved into her so hard and fast that his testicles slapped against her little ass and she pulled his hair harder and he gasp-laughed into her mouth. Pain for pain; it was only fair. There was no way he could pretend she was anyone else. And he’d wanted to screw Tamaki’s mother, too, God, she’d looked just like him and fuck, he was going to come; every inch of him was stretched thin and throbbing, sensitive to the point of hurting, his gut and his balls tensed and tight, even his ears and lips as Haruhi gasped short, sharp ahs into them. It was terrible and exquisite to screw someone who couldn’t pretend to save her life. Couldn’t she just pretend she wasn’t enjoying it? He let go one of her knees to jam his hand between them, down between her thighs where their mingled sweat stung a cut on his finger and there, her whole body jerked again. “Ah!” Kyouya coughed, feeling every movement everywhere. Why didn’t she pretend she wasn’t enjoying it? The tiny world was her skin and his, and he almost didn’t know where he stood, where he was going. “So… do you-- ah-- love me?” “Ungh-- N… No,” she moaned at him, high-pitched and tight like the rush of blood through his entire body-- “Ah. Hah, I’m--” he said, and his ass seized up and shot forward and over the edge, and his muscles went sluggish all at once but he managed to rock in a couple more thrusts. Better in than out, she was built for it… “I’m. Ah!” In his mind’s eye he could see the picture even as he did and felt it, him poised above her for a few heart-stopping seconds before release; then the pounding of his blood resumed and flowed and he could breathe. Kyouya flopped down on top of her and shoved his face into the pillow while his body untwanged. He didn’t want to look at her. He felt her fingers, all ten of them, combing through his hair in slow strokes. “I’m so sorry,” Haruhi whispered after a minute or so and kissed his forehead. “Why are you sorry now?” Kyouya asked, idly, when he had breath and strength again to push himself up and off her. He rolled onto his back and arched his hips, pulling his pants up and fastening them over his sticky stomach. His shirt was somewhere around here. She’d failed the test, and he was breathless and his chest ached and he wanted to find his shirt. “I’m sorry that I don’t love you,” Haruhi whispered from somewhere in the blurry dark behind him. “I’m sorry that you’re unhappy.” “Hmm.” Kyouya found his glasses first and slid them on, listening to her steady breathing as it slowed. The room focused a little. He had to lean half-over her to grab his shirt from where it was crumpled above her head, white against the white sheets. She was staring at the ceiling but caught his eye when he glanced at her. “I can take care of myself, “ he told her. “Yes,” she said, sounding frustratingly unconvinced. Kyouya wished he’d brought a bottle of water with him. His throat was dry. Maybe Haruhi had one in her refrigerator. He crawled to the door and climbed out of the room. The fridge was sparsely stocked with cheap, easy food. Common food. Was she determined to be selfishly common forever? At least she had a couple bottles of water. Kyouya grabbed one and unscrewed the top with a single, hard twist and guzzled half of it in one go. It was so cold that he soon had a tight headache to match the tightness under his breastbone. The door creaked behind him and Haruhi climbed out. She scraped out the chair that didn’t have Kyouya’s jacket and tie draped over it and plopped down with a sigh. She’d scrambled into an old t-shirt and shorts and looked so like her old, comfortable self that Kyouya became unguarded for a moment. “So now I have more than one secret to keep from Tamaki,” he said to her. But the droop and shine of her eyes was so pitying that his comfort edged into comfortable anger. “Though I do owe him enough to hurt him now if it protects him, ultimately.” “I’ll tell him,” Haruhi said. She tapped her fingers on the table. “He won’t be completely… happy about it. But he’ll understand.” Kyouya stared at her, unable to move for a moment. The comfortable anger edged into a much more uncomfortable uncertainty. “Understand that you have considered cheating on him?” he said, echoing the words he’d said to her earlier in this very room. “No. I do love him,” Haruhi said in a low voice. She propped her elbow on the table and leaned her chin into her hand. “And he cares about you. So he’ll know.” “Know what?” Uncertainty, suspicion; Kyouya found none of it comfortable. He waited for her answer. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d know,” she said. Kyouya stared at her for another moment or two or three or five. Her words earlier… Nearly everything she’d said. How had he been so blind? She'd pitied him. Guile from the guileless. He supposed someone in that relationship needed it. Absolute honesty at all times was dangerous. It was painful. “Dammit,” he spat. He shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed his jacket and tie and yanked open the door and stomped out. “Kyouya-- wait!" Haruhi called behind him. “Good night, Haruhi.” Another door, another click behind him. He walked. The comfortable night was a little too hot after all. He wished he didn’t smell like her, he wished he didn’t know what her perfume tasted like, he wished he’d been a coward. Tomorrow, when Suzuki asked him in that humbly coy way that men had if he’d had a good night talking with Fujioka-san, Kyouya would smile in the same humbly coy way and say yes and he’d wish inside that he hadn’t. But life and business were too much the same thing. He wished that he didn’t know that Tamaki would understand. Dammit. *** End. Thank you for reading! Concrit, comments, all are appreciated very much. * Note: Title from sharpeslass, thank you, dahling. It has something to do with two people looking at the same work/word and seeing completely different things in it. Awesome!

Danny hung up on Casey and sighed. She was a definite force of nature. Some other guys had been freaked out when they learned she was his ex-girlfriend so, with the Jerk, he'd decided to just say she was his sister. They certainly acted enough like siblings to pull it off. Like now, with the phone call. Offering to buy them dinner was a red flag. Casey wasn't nice for no reason. She could be the sweetest girl in the world, sure, but it always came with a caveat attached. He didn't want to waste his whole day trying to figure out what her game was. So he put the call out of his mind and focused on his work. Or tried to, anyway. Casey's call had made him start thinking about the Jerk and their relationship. It had started right here in this store, when the Jerk came in to look for a new phone. Danny had almost trampled Joseph getting across the store to help the new customer, not even caring about the bonus he would get if he talked the Jerk into an upgrade. To be honest, the Jerk didn't even look like a serious customer. He did, however, look like he'd walked right out of Danny's dreams. Danny had demonstrated all the best phones, not caring how long it took because it meant more time with this scruffy Adonis. Well, Adonis was pushing it. The Jerk wasn't exactly everyone's cup of tea. But to Danny, he looked like a diamond in the rough. Long shaggy hair, unshaven, wearing at least two layers of wrinkled and faded clothing. He looked like a movie star between roles, just hanging out and waiting to unveil his shining good looks. Technically he was still waiting for that unveiling. But that was fine. He could be patient. And in the interim, he'd really come to love the Jerk. And thanks to their relationship, Danny had learned how to be a little less rigid in his hygiene. Wait, that sounded horrible. He'd realized that it wasn't the end of the world if he didn't shower twice a day. If his hair wasn't perfectly styled, he didn't have to find a comb before he went out. He was still a long way from a slob, but he was more comfortable in his skin. He'd spent a half hour following the Jerk around the store that day. When he was showing him the new Android phone, he'd stepped close enough that their arms touched. He had casually put his hand on the Jerk's back and, when he didn't pull away, moved his hand lower. A quick purchase (of a really cheap phone), an exchange of phone numbers, and four hours later Danny was coming in the Jerk's mouth. It was a whirlwind romance. And that first night, when the Jerk had sat on the edge of Danny's couch and whipped out his cock, lust had cemented into "I think this guy might be the one." His cock was glorious. Long and thin, but not too thin. Sometimes Danny thought he loved it more than he loved the Jerk. That wasn't fair. He loved the Jerk a lot, but that cock was something to write home about. Just thinking about it was making him hard. The store was mostly empty, so he asked Isaak to cover his register and went out for a "smoke." That was the catch-all term for whatever they did on their breaks outside the store. Sometimes the Jerk would come by and they would have sex in the back room. Isaak and Jaime knew about it, and Danny knew when Jaime was really giving Isaak a blow job in the stock room. It was a good give and take relationship. Danny went out to his car and climbed behind the wheel. They were allowed to park at the back of the lot, out of sight of the customers, so he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. He took out his cell phone and dialed the Jerk's number. He leaned back against the headrest, stroking his cock through his underwear as he listened to the phone ring. After an unbelievable amount of time, the Jerk answered. "Dan?" "Hey. Wanted to say I was sorry for this morning." "What?" "When I woke up and you were hard. I should have done something about it." His eyes were closed, and he wondered what the hell he'd been thinking. Most guys - well, the gay ones - would kill to wake up with someone lying next to them, horny and ready. And Danny had jumped up and headed into the bathroom. He must be mental. "Don't worry about it. I got it taken care of." "Oh, yeah?" "You know the landlady? Mrs. Lawrence?" Danny laughed. "Did she make you use her dildo?" The Jerk sounded relieved. "She got you, too?" "Hell no. I told her I wasn't interested." He opened his eyes and smiled. "Did you?" The Jerk hesitated. "Well, I started. But then I had to leave. So I just came downstairs and took care of myself in bed." Danny closed his eyes again, still rubbing the cotton of his underwear against his swelling hard-on. "What did you think about?" "Uh, you know. There was a really hot delivery girl. I thought about those shorts they wear." "Did you think about me?" "Indirectly. Where are you?" "I'm in my car, on a break. I was thinking about you and suddenly I had something I needed to take care of. So you wanna help me out, sweets?" The Jerk chuckled. "I'll see what I can do. Wish I was there to see you. Wish you'd been doing that when we met. Just a customer looking for a phone and I see you, all cut and polished, sitting in your car with your dick out. Is it out?" Danny tugged the waistband down and took his cock in his hand. "Yeah, now it is." "I wouldn't have known what to do, so I probably would have just stood there until you opened your eyes and caught me." "Then I would have motioned for you to get in the passenger side of the car. And I would have leaned back and asked if you would give me a hand." "Once I saw your cock, I wouldn't have been able to say no. But I wouldn't have given you a hand. I would have bent down and licked up one side and down the other before I took you into my mouth and started sucking. I would have used my hands on your balls. Squeezing them and rolling them with my fingers while you fucked my face that gentle way you do." Danny put one hand in the air over his lap, pretending it was the Jerk's head. He stroked, mimicking passes of the Jerk's tongue. "Mm, I'm already pretty close, baby. Would you let me come in your mouth?" "Oh, yeah. I love how you taste. Come in my mouth and I'd swallow it all up." He cupped his palm over the head of his cock and arched his back, pulsing and shooting his come into the bowl his hand made. When he was done, he found a Handi Wipe in the glove compartment and cleaned himself up. "Thanks, babe." "No problem. Want to try the real thing when you get home?" "Can't. Casey wants to take us out for dinner tonight." There was a pause. "You there?" "Uh, yeah. Casey wants to take us both out for dinner? D-did she say why?" Danny raised an eyebrow. "No. It was weird to me, too. But hey, if a girl can't buy a meal for her brother and the guy he's fucking, then what kind of world are we living in?" The Jerk chuckled nervously. "Okay. Uh, is she taking us somewhere fancy? Did she get a raise or something?" Tell the Jerk that dressing up means no underwear. "She just said dress up. So, you know, something you've washed in the past month would be awesome." "I might have to take something out of your closet." "Go ahead. Talk to you at dinner." He hung up, tucked his cock back into his chinos and made sure he hadn't made any unfortunate drips. He was safe, so he zipped up and climbed out of the car. He smoothed his hands down the front of his polo shirt and headed back into the store. Isaak was helping a customer, and Jaime was speaking on the phone behind the counter at the back. Danny went back to his station and tried to think about why Casey was suddenly Ms. Generous. The Jerk seemed to know something about it. Maybe they had planned something together while he was in the shower that morning. Casey had seemed a little weird, now that he thought about it. He'd originally just put it up to the fact that she was sitting in a room with his naked boyfriend, but maybe he'd interrupted a conversation about... what? A birthday party? His birthday wasn't until October. Maybe it was Casey's birthday. Or, no, that was in February. And the Jerk's birthday had just passed. That was why they did that thing in bed that Danny didn't particularly like. It was a mystery. But he figured he would find out soon enough. Another customer came in and Danny offered a smile as she approached his section. He helped her buy a new phone and helped her activate it. He killed a little more time in the store, helping customers pay their bills and answering the phone, until finally it was time to go home. He helped Isaak lock up, waved to Jaime as they crossed paths on the way to their cars, and drove back to the basement apartment he shared with the Jerk. On the way, he called Casey. "Hey. I'm off, so dinner can be whenever you want." "Okey-dokey. Hey, you know my roommates? Surge?" "George and Suzanne, right? The squares." "Yeah. You think they peg? Like Suzanne does George with a strap-on, calls him bitch?" "If they did, they'd find a way to make it vanilla." Casey laughed. "God, that's sad. But true. Okay. I'm going to dress up and I'll meet you at Branlette's in about an hour." "Okay, see you there." The Jerk was actually out of bed and dressed, sitting on the couch and watching X-Men for what had to be the thirtieth time. Danny bent down as he passed and kissed the Jerk on top of the head. "Hey. We're going to Branlette's in about an hour. Think you should start getting ready?" "I am ready." Danny turned and examined his outfit. "An old Tremors T-shirt and faded jeans does not constitute dressing up." "What? They're clean." He sniffed the T-shirt. Danny shook his head. "Something that buttons. With a real collar. Keep fighting and I'll make you wear a tie and a blazer." "Then how will Casey recognize me?" "She'll recognize me and she'll think I finally traded up for a new boy toy. Hurry up and get ready, please." He took a nice shirt and tie out of his closet and went into the bathroom to change. He undressed and took a quick shower to get the day off of him, applied a nice lather of body wash, soaped up twice, and cupped his cock to wash off any residue from his earlier masturbation. His cock, the traitor, reacted to his touch and he closed his eyes. One soapy hand traveled along the underside, the other cupping his balls. He moved his feet apart and began thrusting with his hips. Then... he stopped. He let his cock, hard and thick, hang between his legs as he finished bathing and stepped out of the shower. His cock wouldn't go back to fully flaccid, he knew from experience, and later that night he would release all the pent-up energy with the Jerk. It was a way to make up for not helping him out that morning. He was already tingling from anticipation. Danny shaved and splashed on some cologne. He brushed his teeth and glanced at the clock. Only thirty-five minutes that time. He was getting better at hurrying. When he left the bathroom, the Jerk had changed into a button-down type shirt and slacks. His hair was sloppy but combed. "Well? Verdict?" "Very, very fuckable." He leaned down and kissed the Jerk's lips. "If you're good, I'll prove it when we get home. Come on, let's go. I want to get there early." They turned everything off and Danny locked the door when they left. He put his arm around the Jerk as they left the apartment and went out to the car. Mrs. Lawrence was just starting up the driveway when they approached Danny's car, and she wagged a finger at the Jerk. "You didn't put away your toys when you were done, young man." She winked and waved goodbye as she went back up to the house. Danny looked at the Jerk, who was blushing bright red. "So you weren't kidding." "I wish I was. But hey, I got us fifty bucks off next months rent. For masturbating." "Awesome. Maybe if we let her watch us we'll get a free month." The Jerk said, "Don't say that where she can hear you. She might not know you're joking." "Who's joking?" He blew a kiss at the Jerk over the top of the car and got behind the wheel. The drive to Branlette's took them twenty minutes. Casey was waiting outside the restaurant, wearing an olive drab safari shirt and trousers that flared around her legs. Danny was suspicious as soon as he saw her; the Jerk was the biggest slob he'd ever seen, but Casey ran him a close second. He though she'd even done her hair for the occasion. Something was definitely up. He parked and walked with the Jerk to the front of the restaurant. Casey saw them coming and hurried over. "Hey, studs. You guys look hot." She pointed at the Jerk. "Did you take him shopping or something?" "No, they just look knew because they've never been worn." "If we're done with the roast portion of the evening, can we please go inside and get something to eat?" Casey stepped between them and laced her arms around theirs. They walked into the restaurant together and Casey asked for a table for three. The hostess led them through the restaurant and they took a table in the far corner of the restaurant. Danny sat with his back to the main dining room, facing Casey with the Jerk sitting between them. There was a fogged-glass lantern in the center of the table and the dim lights in the corner made for a very intimate dining experience. The waitress took their drink orders and hurried off to fill them. Danny leaned back and looked suspiciously at Casey. "Well, here we are. I suppose you're going to tell us that you burned down the record store. Or maybe that you're moving to France to study mime. Hey, that would actually be good. Be nice to have some peace and quiet for a little bit." "Hardy-har. I have no news to convey." She seemed to reconsider it. "Well, except for... you know Marcia from work?" They nodded. "I'm pretty sure I'm going over to her place tomorrow and we're going to fuck." The Jerk choked on his complimentary water. The waitress, who had just returned with their drinks, froze by Danny's right shoulder. Casey smiled beatifically at her. "What's the matter, honey? Never heard of lesbians? Or do you just want to join us?" The waitress quickly delivered their drinks and fled with a mumbled promise to be back to take their order. "Well done, Casey." She performed a mock bow without getting out of her seat. She was slouched, and Danny was about to tell her to sit up straight when he suddenly felt her foot running along the inside of his leg. His eyes widened and he shook his head rapidly at her. She grinned and shrugged as if she didn't know what he was talking about. Danny glanced at the Jerk, who remained oblivious to what was going on due to his examination of the menu. Casey ended up with her foot between Danny's thighs, the arch pressed against his once-again hard cock. Of all the nights to give myself a head start... He remembered past evenings ruined by Casey's 'impulsiveness.' Apparently women could only give head under a restaurant table in the movies; in real life it tended to attract far too much attention and get the participants kicked out before completion. She pressed harder against him, sliding lower in the seat and biting her bottom lip as she rubbed. "So, Jerk. How have things been going with you?" "Pretty good." He was scanning the menu. "Had an insane morning, but the afternoon was pretty quiet. How was the store?" "You know. Masturbated while Marcia watched me, then we fingered each other after we closed the store. I kissed her. It was great." She kept her eyes locked on Danny as she spoke, her foot still moving against his crotch. She knew that he had a foot fetish; it was like kryptonite to him. The one part of a woman's body that he truly found erotic was the foot. Kissing the arch, sucking the big toe... he closed his eyes as Casey's foot moved across the bulge in his trousers. It was like she'd burned away the material of his pants and underwear, like her sock wasn't even there. Danny knew he was blushing like a madman, so he folded his menu and took a drink of water. "I need to visit the bathroom. Be right back." Casey pulled out her cell phone as he left the table and, a few seconds later, he heard the Jerk's cell phone ring with the specific tone he'd assigned to Casey. He wasn't surprised; Casey had a bad habit of texting people she was sitting right next to. It was the new whisper, a way to say something without everyone in the room overhearing. He found the bathroom in a small corridor off the kitchen. He pushed through the door, already unzipping his pants as he went around the brick partition between the door and the actual bathroom. "Don't stop..." He froze and backed up a step, bending at the waist to see two pairs of legs in one of the stalls. "Someone came in." "I don't care. I'm close... don't stop." Danny moved toward the stall as quietly as possible. He put one hand into the fly of his trousers and squeezed his cock as he leaned in and peered through the crack of the door. There were two men, a platinum blonde and a younger dark-haired man. The older man had his back to the door, his pants sagging. The younger man was kneeling in front of him. He put his hand on his lover's hip, and the blonde man started thrusting his hips. He rolled his head back and groaned, and Danny's eyes widened as he backed away from the door. A few seconds later, the stall door opened and both men stepped out. The blonde man straightened the collar of his shirt and nodded casually at Danny. The younger man, a waiter judging by his outfit, sheepishly followed and went to the sink. Both men washed their hands quickly and splashed their faces. The blonde man left first, and the waiter glanced at the bulge in Danny's trousers. "I still have ten minutes on my break--" "No. Thanks, though." The waiter shrugged, wiped his hands on a paper towel, and left Danny alone. Danny exhaled and splashed his face, trying hard not to think about what he had just witnessed. Of course... if he wanted inspiration for an amazing night with the Jerk, he had it in spades. And Casey's foot, well, that could just help keep the fire stoked until he was able to do something about it. He wiped his face with a paper towel and left the bathroom. Casey was laughing when he returned to the table, and the Jerk was staring blankly at a spot on the wall in front of him. He looked extremely red, his eyes wide, and his lips hanging slightly parted as he held the cell phone to his ear. Casey was having a grand old time, chuckling helplessly as she watched him. Danny sat down and stared at his boyfriend. "What the hell did you do to him?" Casey plucked the phone from the Jerk's hand. He protested quietly and watched as the phone was passed to Danny. Danny put the phone to his ear and heard Casey speaking. "--wish we could have done it right this morning. You and me laying side by side in bed, stroking while we could touch each other. I'd squeeze your balls while you stroked. Maybe pinch your nipples. And then while we were playing with each other, maybe Danny could come in and watch a bit. Cause you know what? Danny's... not... my... brother." Danny's eyes widened just like the Jerk's had, but the blood drained from his face. Casey grinned. "This is his third time listening to it." "She's not your sister?" The Jerk had finally found his voice. Casey rested her chin on her fist. "We watched each other jerk off this morning. Only he didn't get any satisfaction because, tsk, I kind of ruined it for him. So I thought that if he knew the truth, then maybe the three of us could have a little fun tonight." There was a wicked gleam in her eye. "What do you say, Danny-boy? You, me and the Jerk? Sexing it up good tonight?" "What do you... I-I mean, what's..." He looked between Casey and the Jerk. "She's not your sister." The Jerk was still repeating it. "The plan is that you guys get busy while I watch. And if you want, and he wants, then me and the Jerk can have some fun while you're doing him." She shrugged. "Everybody wins. You said that if you ever had a bisexual boyfriend that we could share." "That was a joke!" Danny was surprised at how shrill his voice sounded. The Jerk waved his hands. "Wait. So you guys have had sex?" "Oh, yeah." Danny said, "A long time ago." Casey said, "Look, it's not that big a deal, right? I've seen both of your cocks. You've both seen me mostly naked. If this doesn't work out, we can forget it ever happened. If it does work out, well, our Saturdays will get a hell of a lot more interesting." Danny looked at the Jerk and saw neutrality. He was willing to go along with whatever Danny decided on the situation with no hard feelings either way. He thought about everything he'd been through with Casey. The time before he came out and she'd walked in on him sucking one of her dildos, the way she had taken his sexuality in stride when he announced it. The random blow job she'd given him on one birthday when he was single, telling him that people needed love on their birthday even if the gender was wrong. If any relationship could survive this experiment, it was theirs. As for the Jerk... he was bisexual. He knew that he got hot watching women in porn. But he was in a relationship with a guy. Were there things he missed about being with a girl? Maybe this was the perfect way for the Jerk to get the best of both worlds. And, again, if he was going to invite anybody into his relationship, it would be Casey. She would understand where the lines were and she would never try to push them or cross them. Maybe it was the hard-on talking, but the idea wasn't all that crazy. He lifted his hand for the waitress. "Check, please." He paid for their drinks and they left the restaurant together. Casey said she would follow them in her car and practically skipped across the parking lot. Danny looked at the Jerk as they walked back to their car. "You okay with this?" "Uh, yeah. She's... really not your sister?" "No, she's not. Here, you drive." He handed over the keys and went to the passenger side of the car. They got inside and the Jerk pulled out of the spot. Danny cupped his hard cock, wondering if he'd woken up inside of a porno. That would certainly explain a lot of what had happened today. He watched Casey's car pull up behind them and she flashed the lights to let them know she was there. Danny cleared his throat. "What was Casey talking about? This morning." Even in the light of the console, he could tell the Jerk was blushing. "When you so lovingly shouted that I had been masturbating, Casey demanded to watch. She wanted to watch a guy jack off. And I've always thought she was hot, so I... showed her. After you left, we tried masturbating together. She got off, but I didn't. Because she's your sister." "Damn." He reached over and ran his hand through the Jerk's hair. "You should have told me. I could have called in to work and we could have had a very nice day." The Jerk shuddered and looked down at Danny's lap. "Take it out. Let me see how hard you are." His hands tightened on the steering wheel. Danny unzipped his pants and tugged his underwear down. He guided his cock out of the fly and let it stand at attention. The Jerk glanced down, swallowed hard, and said, "You gotta keep it up until we get home. Stroke it a little. So... you and Casey, huh?" "Yeah. For a while. She was my last girlfriend before I realized why I kept going through girlfriends like they were tissues." He licked his lips as he stroked. "So you and Casey, huh? That's not going to be weird?" "Well, I'm not going to have to watch you two do anything. Right? I mean, I'd watch. But I don't think you--" "No. But I'll, uh... I'll put on a show for her. And then you and she--" He smiled. "I never thought about that, but damn. Damn, I really want to see it." The Jerk smiled as he pulled onto their street. Danny started to put his cock back into his pants, but the Jerk shook his head. "Don't. Leave it out." "Mrs. Lawrence might be--" "Too bad." Danny groaned. "You're evil." They parked in the driveway, and Casey parked in the street to avoid blocking them in. When they got out, Casey was already hurrying up the lawn. Her eyes were drawn to the sight sticking out of Danny's pants and she stooped to address it directly. "Oh, I remember you. Hey there, sparky. You're gonna have some fun tonight." She grabbed it, making Danny grunt, and used it as a lead to guide him to the basement entrance. The Jerk followed. Casey looked over her shoulder as Danny used trembling fingers to unlock the door. "Hey, Jerk. You're okay with this, right? The whole not-siblings thing?" "Sure. Now it's just like role play. Sexy role play." Casey laughed as the door got opened. She pushed Danny inside, let the Jerk join him, and closed the door as she followed. She shut and locked the door, and then she leaned against the door and stared at the two boys. Danny and the Jerk looked at each other, and then at her. "What do we do, just...?" Casey pointed at Danny. "Jerk. Kiss him. If you do a good job, I'll take off my shirt." The Jerk stepped closer, obviously nervous about having an audience. Danny turned toward him and leaned in. The Jerk put one hand on the back of Danny's head, the other on his hip, and they kissed. It was awkward at first but they quickly forgot that Casey was there and just kissed normally. The Jerk parted his lips and Danny swept his tongue across them. The Jerk moved his hand from Danny's hip and took his cock reverently in his hand, gently stroking it in the same rhythm he was using to suck Danny's tongue. Before he could get lost in the kiss, the Jerk pulled back and looked at Casey. She had her shirt halfway unbuttoned to reveal a lacy black bra, along with her flat stomach. She smiled and bit her lip as she pulled the shirt off her shoulders. "Good boys," she said softly. There was no playing in her voice now. She tossed the shirt toward the table and moved closer to them. She turned around and looked at the Jerk over her shoulder. "Undo my bra, please?" The Jerk glanced at Danny, who nodded that it was okay. He let go of Danny's cock and reached up to unhook her bra. She pulled it away and crossed her arms over her breasts before she turned to face them again. "Daniel, be a dear and undo my pants for me." Danny stroked the Jerk's face, and then reached down to stroke Casey's smooth stomach. He popped the button on her trousers and they collapsed like a tent, billowing as they passed over her legs. She was wearing tiny black underwear, the most girlish pair he'd ever seen her in, and he looked at the Jerk. He seemed mesmerized. Danny put a finger on his chin and made him look up. "Focus, babe." "Yeah. Sorry." They kissed again and the Jerk leaned in to him. Danny was aware of Casey moving around them, settling on the couch, but it was like something happening in another room. He moved his hands to the collar of the Jerk's shirt and began undoing the buttons slowly. The Jerk responded by stroking him, rubbing his thumb over the tip of his cock. Danny broke the kiss and the Jerk began kissing down his neck. Danny looked to the couch and saw-- --Casey was watching them. Two beautiful men making out inches away from her was one of her biggest fantasies coming true. She had originally covered her breasts as a tease, but now she had her left breast cupped in her hand so she could knead the nipple between her thumb and index finger. She was sitting against the arm of the chair, one leg lifted so she could be turned to watch the show. She had her other hand on her thigh, the fingers gently stroking higher and higher as she watched the boys undress each other. Danny pushed the Jerk's shirt off, revealing his chest again. She wondered why she had never noticed just how hot Danny's boyfriend was before that morning. Better late than never. She cleared her throat and the Jerk looked at her with a sort of lusty haze in his eyes. "I need to see some cocks, gentlemen." The Jerk let go of Danny's cock and moved his hand to the waistband of his own pants. They came undone, and Danny stepped back until the front of his left shoulder was pressed against the back of the Jerk's right. He pushed down the Jerk's underwear, revealing his thick, heavy cock, and he immediately wrapped his fingers around the shaft as the boxer shorts fell. The Jerk put his hand on Danny's cock and the two lovely young half-naked men began stroking each other for her. The Jerk was watching her, and Danny was watching the Jerk. She felt like some sort of queen with a performing harem. Her mind raced as she tried to think about what she wanted to see them do first. A blow job? Should they skip straight to the main event? Then she realized that this wasn't just about her. She locked eyes with the Jerk and smiled. "What do you want me to do?" "Let me see your breasts." Easy enough. She dropped her arms and arched her back to make her average-sized breasts look slightly bigger. The Jerk took a deep breath and then leaned back against Danny. They kissed, their arms moving in concert with each other. She watched them, unable to resist comparing their erections. The Jerk was bigger than Danny, just slightly. Danny had bigger balls, and they hung invitingly down between his legs. The Jerk broke the kiss and Danny kissed his earlobe. The Jerk nodded at Casey. "Take off your panties and touch yourself." His voice was forceful, and Casey found herself even more turned on. "Oh, yes, sir." She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and raised her lower body, sliding the panties down and off. She spread her legs and grinned, trying to hide how nervous she was as she used her fingers to spread her sex open. The Jerk's breath hitched and stuttered, and he swallowed hard as he began pumping Danny's cock harder. I can't believe this is really happening. I'm going to watch these boys fuck each other. They're going to put a show on just for me. Her heart was pounding. "I love you guys." The Jerk looked surprised, but Danny just smiled and nibbled on the Jerk's earlobe. "Love you too, sweetheart. Forgot how sweet you looked." "Coming from you, that's a huge compliment." She giggled nervously, took a deep breath, and licked her lips. "All right. To the bed. Get on the bed." They had to separate to move, and Casey stared at their cocks as they walked. They were fully erect and they bounced with each step. The Jerk bent down and gave her a lingering kiss as he passed, and then Danny kissed the corners of her mouth. She trembled at being kissed by two men in such quick succession. She stood up and sat on the arm of the couch as Danny sat on the bed, bracing himself on one arm as he looked up at his lover. The Jerk bent at the waist and cupped Danny's face, kissing him before standing up straight. "Wait, wait..." Casey slipped off the arm of the couch and moved toward the bed. She looked around for the best spot from which to view a blow job. She wanted front row seats for this. Hell, she wanted a camera phone. Eventually she pulled the pillows and blanket off the bed and made a little nest against the wall. She sat on the floor and put her feet flat, her knees bent, and put her hand over her center as she nodded for the boys to continue. Danny slid his hand up the inside of the Jerk's leg, kissing his stomach as he took the heavy ball sack into his palm. He kissed down, pressing his lips to the base of the Jerk's cock before using his free hand to lift it. Casey was finding it hard to catch her breath, watching as Danny's tongue slid along the side and down to the head. He opened his eyes and looked right at her as he took it into his mouth with a moan. Casey closed her eyes and began moving her fingers against herself. She wanted to last at least as long as they did. She opened her eyes, realizing that she was missing a great show. The Jerk was stroking Danny's hair, chin on his chest as he watched Danny go down on him. He pulled back and swirled his tongue around the tip, and Casey stared at the saliva shining on the rounded tip. This was what she had fantasized about since Danny came out to her. She gave him understanding and she was there for him, but a part of her ached to actually watch. It was such a kink of hers to watch two guys together. She had a couple of DVDs shamefully stashed in her bedroom that she only brought out when she was sure she would have a lot of time without George or Suzanne in the house. The real thing was different. So much better than she would ever have imagined. And the Jerk's cock! That magnificent specimen of a male penis! She had first seen it less than twenty-four hours ago and already she was in love with it. She wanted to send it flowers, take it on walks in the park, and write love poems to it. She was using two fingers on herself, moving slowly. The Jerk looked over at her, met her eyes and then down to her hand. She watched as Danny moved a hand to his own lap, stroking himself to keep his cock hard while he continued his blow job. She didn't know what to watch, switching from Danny's mouth to his hand and back again. She had her free hand on her breast, squeezing it gently and rolling the nipple again. The Jerk pushed Danny down onto the bed and kissed his chest, licking and sucking his nipples before going down to his stomach. He had his hand on Danny's cock, stroking it as he moved closer and closer to it. He guided it up and captured it with his mouth, sucking hard and hungrily as he teased Danny's balls and moved lower. He extended a finger and Danny's lower body arched off the bed. The Jerk moaned around his mouthful of Danny's cock, teasing him with a second finger now. "Can I play?" Casey asked. She hadn't meant to speak, worried about ruining the moment, but Danny motioned her over. She put her hand over her crotch and got up, taking two steps to kneel next to Danny on the bed. The Jerk lifted his head, Danny's hard cock resting against his wet lips as he looked at her. Casey took a mental snapshot of what she was seeing and then leaned in to kiss him. His lips were soft, his tongue gentle as it eased between her lips. Danny stroked her naked hip, and the Jerk put his hand on her left breast where she was sure he could feel her pounding heart. She leaned back and stretched across the bed as the Jerk took Danny's cock back into his mouth. She and Danny were side by side, their hips and arms touching. Casey stroked her pubic hair, keeping her fingers away from the most sensitive spots to make her pleasure last. She was starting to tremble. The Jerk was alternating between gaping at her body and staring up at Danny's. He put his hand on her thigh and she was almost undone. His other hand kneaded Danny's balls. "Remember what it tastes like?" Danny was watching her with half-lidded eyes. She could only nod. He looked down and said, "Why don't you help him out?" Casey's eyes widened. "I-I can't. You don't--" "You're different. Please. I want to feel you both..." Casey gulped. She shifted, her hand feeling permanently glued between her legs. She wasn't so arrogant now, and this was more than just a game. She kissed Danny's stomach and moved lower, lifting her head and watching the Jerk's lips move along the length of his dick. Right in front of her. She could smell them both, could feel the wash of the Jerk's breath as it plumed along Danny's lower body. She tilted her head, twisted on the mattress so she could rest her torso on Danny's hip, and kissed the base of his cock for the first time since they were in high school. She kissed her way up until she met the Jerk's mouth, and she followed him up and pressed a kiss to his cock head. The Jerk kissed it at the same time, their lips meeting with Danny's cock caught between their tongues. There was a drop of pre-come on the tip and she lapped it up, the memory of the taste coming back vividly. She remembered giving him his first blow job in the backseat of her car, desperately trying to keep him hard long enough so he could orgasm. She had almost been crying because she thought she was doing it wrong. But he'd stroked her hair and assured her it wasn't her fault. He finally came, eyes closed, when a Bon Jovi song came on the radio. She quickly figured out that a fantasy about Jon (or maybe Richie) had more to do with the orgasm than she did. But she savored her mouthful of come like a trophy before she forced herself to swallow it (not her favorite flavor ever). And here she was again. His boyfriend was doing the work and she was reaping the benefits. She had never, not once, gotten Danny this hard. She ran her tongue up and down his length while the Jerk sucked the tip. She took Danny's balls in her hands and felt his hand running up and down her back, down to her hip and up to her shoulder, and she trembled as his palm passed over her. The Jerk put his hand in her hair and she released Danny to touch the Jerk's chest and tease his nipples. The Jerk moved down and whispered in her ear. "Are you wet?" "Uh huh." Her voice was desperate. He swallowed loud enough that she could hear. He kissed her temple and then her neck, and she rolled her body to give him more room to move. Danny slipped out from underneath them and cleared his throat. "Okay... h-here. C'mere, Casey." She reluctantly pulled herself away from the Jerk. Danny directed her to lie down in the center of the bed as he pulled something out of the nightstand. His hands were on the mattress, his knees on the floor, a position made less awkward by the fact the mattress was also on the floor. The Jerk put his hand on her left thigh, while Danny touched her right. They parted her legs together and Danny made a quick, subtle motion with his head. The Jerk knelt between her legs and she couldn't stop herself from whimpering. He looked down at her. "Is this okay? We can stop--" "No! No, it's fine, it's fine. Please. I want you." The Jerk took a condom from Danny and ripped it open with his teeth. She watched, eyes wide and lips pressed together until they looked white, and reached out to take it from him. She took his cock in her hand, finally holding that magnificent erection, and rolled the condom onto it. She squeezed the base and he moved forward. He braced his hands on the mattress under her arms, and she smiled at him, trying to blink as little as possible. He put the tip of his cock against her and she put her hands on his hips. He kept his eyes on hers as he sank into her, and they both groaned. This was what she had really been fantasizing about all day. This was why she'd assaulted herself (and Marcia) so much. She had a thing for gay guys, as evidenced by the fact she had spent so long with Danny even after the obvious became clear, and the Jerk was the best of both worlds. A guy who liked guys and girls. And now, here it was, her fantasy was coming true. She held onto him, her toes curling in their sheets as the Jerk pushed all the way into her and-- --The Jerk moved carefully into Casey, stopping only when he was fully inside of her. She was tight, and he groaned as she squeezed his cock with well-trained muscles. He closed his eyes, knowing that he could come given very little provocation. He watched as Danny knelt beside the bed, his cock standing up like an anti-aircraft weapon watching the skies. The head was swollen and red, his balls tight underneath. The Jerk's mouth was dry and he looked down at Casey. She really was gorgeous. Perfect body, breasts just right for his hand to cup, and that face... she smiled at him, blushing deep red and obviously right on the verge. He returned the smile and looked over to see Danny had put on a condom and was lubing it up as he climbed back onto the bed. "Ready, babe?" Danny whispered as he kissed the Jerk's arm. "Y-yeah... hurry..." Danny knelt behind him. The Jerk relaxed and ran his hand down Casey's side. She shivered. The Jerk closed his eyes as he felt Danny press against him from behind. Danny ran the knuckle of his middle finger down the Jerk's back, and the Jerk's entire body arched like a cat being touched in the sweet spot. He relaxed and then, with gentle pressure, Danny was inside of him. They both groaned, and the movement forced the Jerk to press tighter against Casey. She rocked her hips forward to meet them. The Jerk held still, letting his body adjust to having Danny inside, and then he pushed back. His cock slipped from Casey a centimeter at a time, forcing Danny deeper at the same time. He'd thought about this, dreamed about this, masturbated about this, but he had never once thought it would ever happen in real life. Who would ever imagine he'd find two people as twisted as he was to pull it off? But he'd hit the gold mine with Danny and Casey. Casey lifted her right leg and rested it on the Jerk's shoulder. Danny smiled and kissed the arch of her foot, moving his lips up to kiss and suck her toes. Casey moaned, and the Jerk felt Danny's cock throb as he kissed the dainty foot. He smiled; Danny might be gay, but he loved a woman's foot. He turned his head and kissed her ankle before Casey dropped her leg, sacrificing Danny's fetish for her own leverage. Somehow they managed to figure out a rhythm without using words. Danny would thrust, pushing the Jerk into Casey as she pushed back. He felt like a cog in a machine, but in the greatest way possible. Casey squeezed him, her hands on his hips in an attempt to guide him, and Danny reached down and laced their fingers together. They both squeezed and he felt eight fingers and four thumbs on either side of his torso. Pressing into him, fingerprinting his skin, and he rolled his head back. Danny-- --leaned down and kissed the Jerk's neck, breathing deeply to inhale his scent. He looked down at Casey; lovely and beautiful and understanding Casey who had been there in good times and bad. She could have hated him, could have made him miserable, but she became his rock. She made it okay for him to be himself, and that had led to this. It led to the Jerk. He owed her for everything and he hoped this evening was a step toward thanking her. He also hoped it was the first night of many. He'd never imagined sharing the Jerk, sharing anyone he was with really, but this felt right. This felt like making up for so much lost time when he and Casey were pretending to be brother and sister. He'd thought he was meant to be with the Jerk, but that wasn't it. The three of them were meant to be with each other. As strange as it seemed, he had gotten his brain around it. He would have the Jerk, and the Jerk would have Casey, and she would have both of them. Casey was moaning now, rocking her shoulders against the mattress and grinding her hips against the Jerk's. Her upper chest was bright red, and her eyes were squeezed tightly shut. It was in that moment Danny realized that she had faked every orgasm she'd ever had with him, but it didn't matter. Okay, it mattered a little. But the important thing was that she wasn't faking now. Her thighs tightened around the Jerk's, her body bent until only her head and feet were in contact with the bed, and then she collapsed like a tranquilizer dart had hit her in the ass. Just down, limp, shuddering and gasping her release as she turned to press her cheek against her shoulder. The sight of her coming did him in. He pressed tight against the Jerk, whispering in his ear before pulling out. The Jerk pulled out as well, moving to position himself on Casey's left while Danny knelt on her right side. Casey grinned. "Oh, God, are you guys gonna do that porn thing?" They pulled off their condoms and Casey sat up. She guided Danny's cock to her mouth first, skimming her lips over the wide head as she pulled the Jerk closer. She rubbed their cock heads together and both men groaned as she wrapped her lips around them both. She stroked them both, and Danny pulled back and came in her mouth. The Jerk arched his back and spilled his come on her lips, chin, and on Danny. Casey licked up as much as she could, but she knew a fair amount had fallen on her chin and chest. Casey-- --collapsed back on the mattress, and the Jerk and Danny stretched out on either side of her. She stared at the ceiling as the Jerk stroked her hip, Danny reaching across her to stroke the Jerk's side. Her entire body was still sensitive, her thighs still quivering from her orgasm. "So is this going to be, like... I don't know, like..." "A regular thing?" The Jerk bent down to kiss her shoulder. "Yeah. I guess. Is it?" Danny shrugged and propped himself up on one elbow. "Well, the ice has been broken. If you keep coming over here like you own the place it would be awkward if we didn't fool around once in a while. If you can pull yourself away from our video games, that is." Casey laughed. "Trust me, this is much better than video games." She took their shrinking cocks in their hands, stopping them from becoming fully flaccid. "Better joysticks." The Jerk chuckled and bent down to kiss her lips, then stretched across her to kiss Danny. Casey pushed up toward the pillows, tucking her legs up and moving around the Jerk. Danny broke the kiss. "Hey, where do you think you're going?" "Unless one of you has a pee fetish, I need to go in the other room for a second." Danny wrinkled his nose. "You're so disgusting. Go, go." She climbed out of bed, which involved more contorting than she anticipated - getting her legs situated, planting her feet on the floor and then unfolding herself - and walked on the balls of her feet to the bathroom. She felt suddenly self-conscious about being naked in their apartment, but she wasn't going to let it get to her. Casey closed the bathroom door and ran the water in the sink. She did her ablutions, washing her face and chest before cleaning her thighs. She looked at herself in the mirror and smiled. She used the toilet, resisted the urge to wrap herself in a towel, and trotted back into the main room. Danny and the Jerk were lying together, kissing tenderly, idly stroking each other's bodies. They were hard again and Casey bit her lip as she leaned against the wall. She put a hand between her legs, the skin supple from her recent washing. Danny opened his eyes and saw her. She winked at him and he smiled. "Hey," she said, a thought suddenly occurring to her. "Can I still go over and fuck Marcia tomorrow?" "I may be gay, but I'm a red-blooded American male. I'm not going to stand in the way of girl on girl. Now get over here and get a front row seat." Casey smiled and walked over. "Wow. You guys are good to go again already?" The Jerk winked at her. "Call us inspired." She sat at the foot of the bed, her legs folded underneath her. She rubbed herself gently focusing on where the boys touched and the sounds they made. Danny kissed the Jerk's neck while the Jerk gently stroked Danny's cock. Casey didn't mean to, but she whimpered as she pressed her middle finger inside herself. She cupped her breast with the other hand, rocking against her fingers as she pinched her nipple, mimicking the Jerk's movements and responding to the thrust of Danny's hips. Casey dropped to the mattress, her head on the Jerk's hip. She reached up and teased Danny's balls, making him groan with pleasure. Her hand slid further, her other hand still moving between her legs as she teased Danny's ass. He arched his back and Casey moved her head as he came on the Jerk's hand. Casey blushed, grinned, and rolled over to lap it up. She tightened her thighs around her hand and came again. "Oh, yeah. Much better than video games." # The Jerk woke up with morning wood. He sighed and covered his face. "Not again..." A small hand wrapped around his cock, while another teased his balls. He froze, and then his lips slowly curled into a grin. It was shaping up to be a good day already.

Stage One: It's In His Kiss (That's Where It Is) The first time Chris kissed him, it was an autumn night and their first date was winding to its inevitable close. The inevitable part, in this case, being that Mike was going to go home with this guy, because he'd insisted on paying for dinner, he'd let Mike pay for the beers (thank God for all-ages clubs with bartenders who'll slip you a couple drinks on the sly, no matter how shitty your fake ID is) and he'd been making Mike laugh for the past three hours. They'd already missed the start of the movie, so they were headed – though they hadn't said, so Mike couldn't be absolutely certain – to Chris's place. It wasn't the first time he'd been kissed by a boy, but Drew Parkerson really didn't count. They'd been five years old and it was an accident involving kiss-chase and long hair, and both of them rolled their eyes and groaned if any of their friends ever brought it up again. So technically, Mike had been kissed by a boy before, but this was a whole different angle on the subject; the way Chris darted his head in quickly so their mouths met in the middle, the sound Chris made in his throat when Mike tried licking at his lip, the way he was getting hard really fast, the way Chris's hands in his hair felt simultaneously rough and gentle. Mike pushed their bodies against the nearest wall, Chris's back to it, forcing himself not to hump Chris's hip. It was quite a fucking effort. Chris was quite a fucking kisser. When Chris moaned, "Fuck," without even breaking the kiss, that was when Mike knew a team of wild horses couldn't stop him from going home with this dude. * There was no rocking motion, and from that Mike deduced that the van had stopped somewhere. His body woke up slowly, piece by piece – his thigh muscles registered their sleepy complaint again, the skin on his hands hummed to wakefulness, and his nostrils registered the familiar odour of used shirts and dust burning in amp speakers and all the other smells that come with four boys living in a cramped van – and he could hear, just enough out of earshot that he couldn't pick up any words, Nick's voice. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to open his eyes yet or not. He just lay there, breathing in and out, curled partly around a guitar case. He wondered what time it was, if he could go back to sleep should he decide to try, and why his back felt cold. There was the sound of the van door opening, and Nick's voice got marginally louder. Mike picked out the words "– should be back for your –" before the door shut again and muffled out the sound. Mike could smell coffee. He opened his eyes, clocking the writing on the ceiling, letting them drift over the piled-up equipment boxes, coming to rest eventually on Chris. "Hey," he said, holding out a cup. "I got you coffee." He was sipping his own. Mike sat up, with due protest from his thigh muscles. "Thanks." His voice sounded a little scratchy, even to him, and he noticed Chris wince slightly as he handed the cup over. "Don't sweat it, man," he smiled as he took a sip of the coffee. It was hot, and good, and he felt himself waking up further. "If you get a sore throat, I fucking swear," Chris said, settling back to sit next to him. Their arms brushed, easy. "Come on, it's not like you made me deep throat you," Mike rolled his eyes. He heard a snort coming from the front seat, and Tyson's head appeared over the back of it. "I didn't hear him complaining," Tyson observed, folding his arms over the seat back and resting his chin on them. He was grinning. "Sounds to me like he was having a good time." "I see you're still sleeping in the front seat," Mike said, pointedly. Tyson gave an exaggerated wince. "Ouch," he said, leaning back to place a hand over his heart. "That hurt, Kennerty. You wound me." "Nick still not talking to you?" Chris asked, one arm slinging around Mike's waist. "When he gets off the fucking phone, I'm gonna go talk to him." Tyson dropped his chin onto his folded arms again. "I should've remembered how touchy he gets around his folks." His voice was soft, and he was staring at his elbow. "It's harder for him, I think." Mike glanced at Chris, who was returning his look. Should we give him shit? Mike asked, silent communication. Chris's eyes flicked to Tyson and back. Save it for later, came the reply. "Where are we?" Chris asked, out loud. "Florida," Tyson answered, producing a map from somewhere. "We're about forty miles from the place we're playing tonight, we should get going again in about an hour. Crew're already there, I think Brian and Shaun switched out and drove all night." Mike took another few gulps of his coffee. He felt warmer, and he couldn't tell if it was the hot drink or Chris's proximity. Their sides jostled. Nick's voice stopped, outside the van, and the door opened. Nick climbed in over pieces of the drum kit. "Hey, you're up," he said to Mike. "Yeah." Mike held up his coffee cup. "Everything okay?" "Yeah, just – called my sister. It's her birthday a couple days after we hit Oklahoma, so." "Right." Mike nodded, deliberately not looking at the front seat. Tyson cleared his throat. "Uh Nick, I just – I'm sorry, man." Nick didn't look over. "I am still not talking to you," he said, hands curling and uncurling around his phone. "I had to talk for like, a half fucking hour just to repair the damage with Mom." Tyson was staring at his hands when Mike glanced over. "So," Chris said, leaning into Mike's neck, "wanna go get breakfast, Kennerty?" "Yeah, okay," Mike nodded, starting the crawl-climb to get to the back door (it was easier, what with everything strewn about everywhere, just to use the back door most times) and as he passed Nick, he whispered, "Make it up, okay? He's cut up about it." Nick just gave a tiny nod and the corner of a weak smile, and Mike patted his knee before he closed the door. "Think they'll be okay?" Chris asked, as the two of them made their way across the parking lot they were in. Mike looked around; seemed they'd stopped just by a strip mall. He spotted a Subway and headed for it. "It's Nick and Ty," he replied, Chris following his direction. "They'll be alright." "Yeah. I guess Nick kinda does have a hard time with it, with his folks?" It was phrased as a question, and the You've known them longer than I have wasn't voiced, but it was still there. Mike shrugged. "I don't think they'd disown him or turn him in or anything, it's just – dude, Ty practically went down on him while he was on the phone to his parents. I mean, I can see why Nick's mad, right?" "Yeah." Chris pushed the Subway door open. "You want to get one big sandwich and split it?" "Get extra cheese on my half," Mike nodded, looking around for napkin dispensers. They dawdled around when they'd finished eating, heading into Target mostly so Mike could look at the CDs, but when almost an hour had passed, Mike put the case in his hand down and Chris looked at him and said, "Shall we go?", and they went back to the van. They approached with caution. The front seat appeared to be empty, which at least meant Tyson was no longer banished to it; Mike opened the driver's door and slid in behind the wheel, Chris settling next to him. Mike turned around. Nick was pinning Tyson to the floor of the van, attacking his neck with his mouth. Tyson was emitting small whimpering sounds. "I guess you two made up then?" Chris called over. Nick held one thumb up and then circled his wrist in a Continue without us for a while motion. Mike laughed, turned back to face the windscreen, and fumbled around for the keys. "Uh – Ty? There aren't any keys here. You got them?" he called. Tyson wriggled underneath Nick and after a few moments of tangled limbs and what looked like pocket-digging done with a certain amount of difficulty, Tyson threw the keys over. They hit the back of the seat and fell into the foot wells for the (currently folded and pushed to the side) back seats. "Thanks," Chris said, twisting and diving to retrieve them. He dropped them into Mike's outstretched palm, and Mike got the engine going. * Stage Two: I – I – (Swallow, Honey) Mike woke up that first morning in Chris's bed with a stiff neck and no feeling in one arm. He shifted, yanking it out from under Chris's chest (he was lying face down, mouth open on the pillow and drooling very slightly; it was not the most attractive thing ever, but Mike still thought it was kinda cute) and pulling it into a position where blood could flow freely to it once more. He sat up, wincing as his arm decided to wake up all at once and rather forcefully, and looked around for a clock of some kind. Chris's apartment was basically one room, with a bathroom off it and a kitchen in one corner. There wasn't a clock on any of the walls. Mike had to pee anyway. There was, in fact, a clock in the bathroom; a small one set in the wall opposite the sink. He read the time backwards in the mirror as he washed his hands. He would be late for class, but he could make it if he hurried. He had math first on a Friday. He didn't particularly want to hurry. He pretended to weigh the options for a second – math or naked Chris, math or naked Chris, math or naked – and that was when he realised that his pants were tangled somewhere on the other side of the room. Shrugging, he just got back into bed. Chris shifted closer, eyes closed but now lying on his side. "Hey," he mumbled, sleep-quiet. "Thought you were gone." "Nope, just in the bathroom," Mike murmured. He wondered what the etiquette was with guys you'd fucked the night before; was there cuddling now? Should he kiss him? Should he give him his space? Ask for another date? Chris slung an arm over his waist and curled into his side, so he guessed snuggling was okay in this situation. He nuzzled closer, and risked a kiss to Chris's forehead. Chris smiled sleepily. "You're cute, Kennerty," he said, and then yawned. "What time is it?" "Ten after seven," Mike replied. "Do you have work?" "I don't have to be up for a half hour." His voice sounded more awake now, and his eyes opened. "Man, you're still hot first thing. How d'you do that?" Mike laughed. "Says the dude who is naked and way better than going to math class." "Oh god," Chris groaned, covering his face with a hand. His voice came out muffled as he said, "Please do not be reminding me how fucking young you are this early in the morning." "Still freaks you out, huh?" Mike smiled, because really, annoying and frustrating as the whole being seventeen thing was, Chris was kind of adorable when he freaked out about it. "I feel like that chick in that movie, Mrs Robinson," Chris sighed. Mike just laughed. "What the fuck, dude, you're like two years older than me, quit acting like I'm still a kid." "I'm not acting like you're still a kid, jesus." Chris uncovered his eyes. "If I thought you were still a kid, you would not be here right now, and I really would not be naked. As, in fact, are you, so shush with your accusations. I'm just, y'know. I'm not used to being the old one." Mike rolled his eyes. "The older one." "Whatever." Chris flicked him on the elbow. "Besides, I wasn't too young to fuck you in the ass last night," Mike pointed out. He wasn't even all that smug about it, but Chris still went to all the trouble of lifting his head and grabbing his pillow to hit Mike in the stomach with it. "Hey!" "Just don't go telling people at school about it. I don't want to get arrested or shit," Chris reminded him. "I'd get arrested too, you dope." Mike grabbed the pillow out of his hands and fwapped him on the arm with it. "We're wasting time, anyway. You have to get up in like, twenty minutes." Chris raised an eyebrow. "What, just because we've been on a date and had some sex, you think that entitles you to early-morning blowjobs and pancakes afterwards?" Mike's heart sank for a second, but then Chris continued, "Because you'd be completely right. Except about the pancakes," he added. "I can do you toast, though." Mike laughed, and it sounded a little like a bark somehow. "You're fucking crazy." "You know, I keep hearing that," Chris said, mock thoughtful, "and I have no idea what gives people that impression." Mike just carried on laughing, quieter. "I like you, Christopher Gaylor." "Coincidence. I kinda like you too. Lie on your back." Mike stopped laughing, though the smile was still there. He settled fully onto his back – he'd been half over on his side, facing Chris – and closed his eyes as Chris's mouth found his. Chris rolled over on top of him, pressing their bodies flush. He was hard, digging into Mike's hip before he shifted and their cocks aligned. Mike was almost as hard, and groaned as Chris rocked their hips together. "Fuck," he breathed, the friction sending shoots of pleasure all through his belly. Chris moved his mouth, kissing over Mike's jaw and dipping to lick at his neck. Mike arched it to give him better access, and lifted his hips almost off the bed. Chris whimpered against his skin. "You want me to?" he breathed, tongue flicking out against Mike's earlobe. "I," Mike tried very hard to process the question. "Oh. Um, maybe not – I mean, uh, not yet? I just." Chris stilled him with one hand on his chest. "It's okay," he said, and he was smiling. "We can take this as slow as you want." Mike nodded. "Okay. Yeah. Maybe um, I mean – soon, okay? Just not. Right now." He tried not to sound too apologetic, but it was just. Chris was still smiling, and he kissed him. "Don't worry," he murmured into his mouth, "I won't fuck you until you're okay for me to." Mike was intensely grateful he hadn't said until you want me to, because holy fuck did he ever want him to. Just, not yet. "Now," Chris kept murmuring, in between kisses, "how about that blowjob?" "Go out with me again," Mike blurted out, and instantly cursed himself for sounding exactly like he was a high school kid. But Chris just chuckled, and nodded. "Count on it," he said, and slithered down Mike's body until his head was level with Mike's hips. "Now then. Blowjob?" "Fuck," Mike whispered, and tangled his hands in Chris's hair. "I'll take that as a yes," Chris grinned, but before Mike could say anything else, he closed his mouth over Mike's cock and started sucking. * "I was thinking," Tyson said as he and Shaun hefted guitar cases from the van and lined them up in the parking lot, "we should all get a tattoo." Nick raised his eyebrows. "What like, all of us just get ourselves a tattoo, or all get the same one?" "Same one," Tyson said as they passed, bumping hips deliberately. Nick gave him one of those little smiles nobody else was really meant to see. Mike thunked an amp on top of the rest. "You know, like a band thing. We could get the logo, AAR." "Seems kind of," Chris spoke up from behind a couple of cymbals, "permanent, don't you think?" "This is kind of permanent," Tyson pointed out, and Mike thought, yeah – for Tyson and Nick, they've pretty much never done anything else. He'd have a hard time imagining them without The All-American Rejects in their life. "And I know," Tyson continued, and either he could read Mike's mind or there was some weird connectiveness going on, because he said, "I know this is like, all me and Nick have ever – I mean, Nick gave up college for this." "Well, that was just 'cos I missed you," Nick murmured, and Tyson stopped for a second. Their eyes did that thing where they'd meet and the whole world would shrink; Mike recognised that look, and he did what he always did when they got it – looked away. Usually at Chris, who was at that point looking thoughtful. He inclined his head towards the inside of the van, and Mike followed him in. There was no equipment left to unload, so they just sat with their backs against the front seat and Chris said, voice a quiet murmur, "I know this is." He stopped. "Mike, I've been in this band for two months. That's it, and I know we're really, y'know, we've got this good thing going on, and I like what it is and where it's –" "Hey." Mike splayed his hand on Chris's chest, stuttering his voice to a stop. "They want you. Okay? You were included in Ty's tattoo idea. Which, actually, yeah. I like the sound of that. Maybe when like, the record starts selling and we know for sure –" "That's what I was thinking," Tyson spoke up from the doorway. Mike looked up. "Sorry, didn't mean to – look." He crawled in and over to them. "Chris, you're a part of this band. For good, as far as I'm concerned. I'm not saying you have to get a tattoo for it, that's just an idea, I just thought it'd be nice. Kind of like a, a brotherhood thing." He rested a palm on Chris's knee. "You're our brother, Gaylor. But in a," he amended, "more in like, a sexy way than a brother way. None of us are like, brothers brothers. 'Cept maybe Shaun." Mike just looked at Chris. "Welcome to the Rejects." He leaned closer and stage whispered, "I told you." "Where would this tattoo be, anyway?" Chris asked, and now he was grinning. "I am not getting my penis done," Nick called from somewhere outside. "Do you have hearing like a fucking bat or something?" Mike yelled back. In answer, Nick slid the nearest door open and waved. "Oh. So Ty, since this is your idea, where were you thinking?" "Right over our hearts," Tyson beamed. "'Cos you guys," he beckoned Nick up and into the van, and then reached around to gather all their necks together and pull them towards his chest, "you are in my heart." "You're such a doofus," Nick rolled his eyes, face pressed against Mike's shoulder. "I love you too, sugar." Tyson planted a loud and sloppy kiss on Nick's forehead. "Are we getting any sleep tonight?" Mike hissed at Chris. "Probably not," Chris sighed. Nick punched Tyson in the arm, albeit gently, and the enforced group hug came to an end as Tyson retaliated by letting go of Mike and Chris and launching his entire body at Nick. Nick yelped, and they ended up pushed against the van wall, a tangle of limbs from which could be heard the sound of Nick laughing and Tyson whispering in between giggles. Chris looked at Mike. "Yeah, definitely not." Mike just leaned against him. "Well, since we'll already be up." He grinned. "Dude, we could never be in any other band. I mean, how often does this kind of shit happen?" He waved a hand to include the whole of the van, the writing on the ceiling, but mostly Nick and Tyson. "Damn straight," Tyson said, a hand emerging from the tangle to point at them. "That's what I'm saying. You're our boys now." "Hell yeah we are," Chris grinned, and crawled out of the van. He nudged the tangle with his foot as he passed. "Come on, we've got sound check." * Stage Three: In Some Places It Comes In Thirty-Two Flavours (But You Wouldn't Tell No One Your Favourite) Their first date was on a Thursday. When Mike finally showed up at school the next day, wearing the same clothes, Tom whistled and Ricky just slapped him on the back and asked when they'd get to meet her. Mike punched him on the arm and told him to fuck off, but he did it with a grin and people often told Ricky (affectionately, and otherwise) to fuck off, so Ricky just laughed. Mike knew he'd keep asking; he also knew he'd keep evading and using no pronouns whatsoever. If they figured it out on their own, well. He'd deal with that if it ever came up, is all. When he'd left Chris's apartment, Chris had said, "So I'll see you again soon, right?" and Mike had nodded and they'd had one last kiss, the kind where they just sort of licked at the corners of each other's mouths and Mike was left tingling all over for at least an hour afterward. It was hard to concentrate in class, so he and Joey sat at the back playing hangman quietly. Joey spelled out the word a-s-s-f-u-c-k-i-n-g and Mike wondered if he knew somehow, or if the world just hated him that much. After staring out the window and seeing two birds fluttering around each other, switching which one was behind the other and obviously doing things when he was six he thought they'd need a bee for, he figured even the fucking birds must be gay and, in fact, the world just hated him that much. "Did you see those gay birds?" Susie asked him at lunch, picking the crusts off her sandwich. "You were that bored too, huh?" Mike sighed, staring despondently at his place of unidentified meat and limp salad. At least the potatoes looked good. "I had chem," Susie said, by way of explanation, and Mike nodded. Also, the potatoes were not as good as they looked. At least they didn't taste like rubber. (He still had no idea where the school cafeteria had located lettuce that actually tasted like rubber. That such a thing existed was something he would never have believed if he hadn't tried it himself.) He stopped by Sylvia and Plethy's on the way home after school, and he kind of hoped Chris would be visiting his buddies in the apartment upstairs, but the place was silent so he figured not. Sylvia was five months pregnant and starting to show, which Mike thought was still intensely weird; she was only three years older than him. The fact, she said, that he was actually still coming round to see them meant she was more of a brother than Steven ever could be. Mike insisted that Steve was an okay kind of a guy, he'd had English with him sixth period. Sylvia just shook her head and asked why the hell Steve wasn't here too, and that was the point at which Mike held up his hands and said he was staying as far out of their family problems as he could. "I'm just here to deliver ice cream goodness," he nodded in the direction of the four tubs of Ben & Jerry's he'd stacked in the freezer. "For which," Plethy clapped him on the shoulder, "we are so grateful we'll probably ask you to be godfather." He leaned closer. "She's insufferable if she doesn't get her chocolate fix," he whispered loudly. Sylvia rolled her eyes. Mike got home just in time for dinner, which at least saved him from a lecture on staying out all night and making them wait so the food went cold and as long as he hadn't missed any school maybe he could get off with a warning; he got the condensed version when his mother just said, "Michael, are you going out tonight?" and eyed him warily. "Mom, I've got work," he reminded her. He kissed her cheek on the way out. "Goodnight, I'll be back late. See you tomorrow." "I never see you," she called back, though her voice held laughter. "You come in, you eat dinner, you go out –" "I gotta work, Ma," he called, front door open and half a foot on the other side. "Love you." "You too," she called back, and he pulled the door shut behind him. He was half way through his shift at Taco Bell when a bunch of people walked in. He was looking at the clock and didn't notice them at first, figuring he could ask for his break about now, but then he heard a familiar voice. "Hey," Chris said, "I didn't know you worked here." Mike's head snapped away from the clock and he blinked. "Chris? What are you doing here?" Chris pointed to the group of people sliding into a booth. "We came for food. Since this is what you do here, we figured it'd be the best place to go." Mike laughed. "I told you I work at Taco Bell, dumbass. What can I get you?" "Yeah, but you didn't say which one. And I will have four large Pepsis, three chalupa nacho cheeses and a steak quesadilla." "You want chicken or steak in the chalupas, or just beef?" He punched in the codes. "Just beef, please." Mike called the order to the kitchens behind, and selected four large cups to place under the Pepsi nozzle of the drinks dispenser. Chris leaned on the counter. "So … are you working tomorrow night?" Mike swallowed. "Actually, it's my night off." He switched out the cups, filling all four and arranging them on the tray in front of Chris's elbows. "Wanna see a show? A friend of mine's band are playing this club, I said I'd show. Some fairly decent music, some okay beers – wanna come?" "I'd like that." Mike turned around to collect the food and pressed a few buttons on the cash register. Chris counted out dollar bills and change. "Think I got that right," he said, brow furrowed. Mike did a quick re-count and nodded. "So I'll see you tomorrow then? Why don't you come by mine around eight, it'll be easier than me trying to give directions." He was grinning, and Mike's heart was doing an elaborate rain dance against his ribs. "Yeah, okay. See you then." He watched Chris take the tray and walk to the table and put it down, unable to shake the words I fucked that ass romping across his synapses. Then his next customer demanded his attention and he didn't ask for his break until the group over in the booth left, Chris waving at him on the way out the door. Mike's Saturday was a pretty normal one, for most of it. He woke up, he watched cartoons while eating cereal, he made conversation with his dad before both his parents did their usual weekend thing of going out to the garden; his dad to work in the outhouse, his mom to sit on the porch and read. Tom and Steve came over to see if he wanted to hang out, Mike gave Steve shit for not seeing his sister, Steve gave Mike shit for being a better brother to her, Tom mediated and suggested they go to the mall. Mike ended up eating lunch in the food court and heading to work from there. He worked the one-to-six shift he'd signed up for, and then left as Debbie clocked on. He tossed her his hat in the change-over and she caught it with a smile. When he got home, he still smelled like tacos, which was never an unpleasant side-effect of his job, but he decided he should shower anyway. He had a small but significant (at the time) crisis over which shirt to wear before remembering that it was just Chris, they were just going to some club to see some band, so it didn't really matter what shirt he wore because he looked fine in all of them. (But, a voice at the back of his head protested, it was Chris and he wanted to look so insanely hot the guy could barely talk. But then, it added, quieter, Chris was of the opinion that Mike looked hot first thing in the morning, so his choice of shirt maybe wasn't high on the list of Reasons Mike Is So Hot I Can Barely Speak, By Chris Gaylor and also, he looked better in black than he did in red, so go with the black one. Mike wondered if maybe that voice was his inner gayness, but had to concede that he definitely did look better in the black shirt, so whether it was gay or not didn't change the fact that it was right.) He got to Chris's place a little early, but really, he had nothing else to do, so it wasn't like he was over-eager or some lame shit. He just, happened to be there at forty after seven. Mostly because he'd already been ready for nearly an hour and it only took so long to get there. When Chris opened the door, Mike had to admit that choice of shirt notwithstanding (yellow was really more Chris's colour than brown, and god that voice at the back of his head was really kind of gay) Chris looked pretty amazingly hot. He swallowed, and noticed Chris's eyes flicking all over his body, up and down, and unless the lighting was shit in this hallway, Chris's pupils dilated as Mike stepped closer and shit but that was hot. "Hi," Mike said, voice sounding raspier than he'd expected. He cleared his throat. "Jesus, Mike," Chris blinked, "give a guy a break, okay? You can't be this hot all the time, it's just not fair play." Mike laughed, instantly relaxing. "Hey, you've seen me in my work uniform and you still think I'm way hot? You should get your eyes tested, man." "Please," Chris pffted, beckoning him inside. "Have you seen you lately?" Mike ducked his head, grinning. "Keep talking like that my ego'll be the size of Texas." "Yeah, no, you're right," Chris deadpanned. "I'm not wearing my glasses – oh, here," and he mimed putting glasses on and stepping back in horror. There was a cracking sound that, Mike realised after a second, Chris had made with his mouth. He took the mime glasses off and examined them. "Yeah, they broke. You ugly." "Shut up," Mike said, voice cracking with laughter. "We need to be at the show yet?" "Not for an hour, at least," Chris replied. He was looking mischievous. "And I didn't so much say I'd show as say I'd maybe show." "Gaylor, was this all just some plot to get me here?" Mike asked, eyes narrowing and jaw tilting in mock accusation. He added a pointing finger for emphasis. "Are you kidnapping me?" When Chris moved, it was quick, and he had Mike in a headlock. "I'm not gonna give you up until the ransom comes, so get comfy." Mike sort of broke the game by laughing and wriggling out of Chris's grip. "What if the ransom don't get paid?" "Then I get to keep you." This time, the movements were slower, and Chris just pulled him closer by the belt loops on his pants. Mike settled his thighs against Chris's, snug. He slung his arms over Chris's shoulders, one by one. "We gonna get to that club?" he murmured, leaning in to tug at Chris's ear with his teeth. Chris drew in a breath. "Keep going like that, it'll become a question," he exhaled, as Mike moved his mouth to just under Chris's earlobe. He hummed appreciatively against the skin and mentally checked his pockets for condoms. He'd brought three, he remembered now. Just in case. "Since we've got a couple hours," he murmured, flicking his tongue out to catch the edge of Chris's ear, following the curve of it up until he shivered, "I can think of something you can do to pass the time." He slid one knee, carefully, between Chris's thighs. Chris's eyes rolled up. "Yeah?" he breathed, gripping onto Mike's arms above the elbow, steadying. Mike licked another swipe up the curve of Chris's ear and murmured into it, "You know how I was saying soon, for fucking me?" Chris nodded. His breathing was increasingly irregular. "Well," Mike murmured, edging his thigh upwards until it connected with Chris's crotch – he was definitely, definitely hard. That makes two of us. "Now's soon." "Now is pretty soon," Chris agreed. His hands were shaking. "You want me to," he grunted, softly, as Mike's thigh rocked a little, "fuck, Mike." "Yes," Mike smiled, mouth back on Chris's neck. "That's pretty much exactly what I want." "Okay. Bed." Chris exhaled. "Before my brain dies, okay?" "You've got lube, right?" Mike asked, walking him backwards. Chris nodded. "Good. I've got condoms." "You're a good guy, Mike Kennerty," Chris said, breath hitching as Mike fumbled with the button and zip on his pants. "A really good guy," he added, Mike's hand reaching inside and wrapping around his cock. Chris bucked up into the touch. "Lube's in the – top drawer, over –" He waved an arm, vaguely in the direction of the bedside cabinet. Mike leaned over, not breaking the contact, and located the bottle. Chris kissed him, a desperate press of mouths, tongues and lips and a little teeth when he nibbled. Mike made an involuntary soft noise in his throat, and Chris turned them over and moved them up and got them basically settled. Mike felt a pillow under his head, and shifted when Chris's hands starting skating over his clothes, undoing buttons, unzipping zips. There was a confused few minutes as both tried simultaneously to rid the other of clothing while they were still kissing, but eventually they were both naked and keeping as much skin contact as possible. "Are you absolutely sure," Chris said as he was rolling a condom on, "that you're ready for this?" "For fuck's sake, just fuck me already," was Mike's answer. Chris took a deep and shaky breath and splayed one hand over Mike's chest. "No, I mean." He'd gone still. "We don't have to, you know – even now, I mean. It's never too late to tell me to stop, okay?" "Chris," Mike said, looking him squarely in the eye, strangling the urge to throw his hands up in frustration, "if I wanted you to stop, I'd tell you to fucking stop. Okay?" "I," Chris swallowed, squeezing lube onto his fingers. "I'm getting that. I just, you know. Wanted that out there." "It's out there," Mike said, pointedly, "so can we –" Chris gently but abruptly wiggled one finger into Mike's ass, and the resulting sensations made him arch his hips off the bed. "That okay?" Chris asked, watching his face. "Fuck," Mike exhaled. "Fuck, yes, that's okay." "Good." He slowly eased that one finger out, and then back in, and then out again, and Mike spread his legs further. Chris slid two fingers in that time, and it felt – still good, but he was pushing them apart and Mike was starting to feel himself stretch. It sort of burned. Chris added another finger after a few more strokes, and that felt more – it was definitely approaching hurting, but it was still on the good side of that; until Chris separated his fingers and stretched more and Mike didn't realise he was scrunching his face up and biting his lip until Chris murmured, "Hey," and he untwisted to open his eyes. "Sorry. Just, kinda burns? And uh." Chris leaned down and kissed him, one of the more gentle type of kisses. "I know. It gets worse, but then it gets better, so." "I'm ready," Mike nodded, and it took Chris a second to realise what he meant; he pulled his fingers out, slathered more lube onto his cock, and positioned their hips. "Relax," he breathed against Mike's temple, and began pushing in. Mike was pretty relaxed to start with, and as Chris buried himself deeper and deeper, inch by inch, Mike kept catching himself tensing a little and made his muscles go slack again. By the time he felt Chris's balls touch his skin, he was boneless. Tiny shockwaves of sharp pain shot from his ass, ricocheting around his body like a pinball machine, and forced their way out via winces. "You okay there?" Chris asked, quiet. Mike nodded. "Okay." The rhythm was slow, at first, almost leisurely, like no matter how fast Chris wanted to be going, he also wanted to savour this. His hand wrapped around Mike's cock and tugged softly, slowly. Mike felt slick, and amazing, and a little like he was dying, and maybe like his ass would never recover from this, because though Chris was going slow it still hurt like absolute fuck. But the sight of Chris, the sounds Chris was making, the tiny whispered "Fuck"s and "Mike, fuck this is"s and his answering "Yeah"s and "Fuck, Chris, holy fuck"s and the pace was fucking delicious and it all made it hard to care about the pain of it. It was just the right side of unbearable and Mike was shaking so hard he hoped the bedsprings wouldn't collapse. He wondered if it were possible to actually die from sheer sensory overload and the need to go faster and yet never leave this pace because holy awesome fuck it was sort of the best thing he had ever, ever experienced and as soon as his brain started functioning on the higher levels again he was totally going to have to come up with plans and ways and means to make Chris keep on doing this for, like, ever. Or at least a while. Just. Mike bent one knee and Chris's cock sort of hit this amazing place and first-time sex was not meant to be this good, it just wasn't, and it hadn't been before, but maybe first-time gay sex is always good, or maybe just sex with Chris is always good, because Mike was pretty fucking sure Chris was exceptionally amazing in bed, especially when he was hitting that fucking amazing place in Mike's ass and Mike could feel that tightness in the fizz of his belly and he threw his head back and let out a wordless moan when he came. He felt Chris shudder and heard a small whispered, "Oh holy fuck," and then he stilled. Mike winced again when Chris pulled out, and then he was reaching over to dispose of the condom and Mike was just sort of staring at the ceiling and trying to put himself back together. He wanted to sleep. Chris kissed his jaw. "You okay there?" "Um." Mike looked at him. "That was the most painful thing that's ever happened to me. But." Chris nodded. "It hurts less after the first time, I promise," he said, leaning in to kiss at his jaw again. "That is, you know, if you want to do that again," he added, a little quickly. "Oh fuck yes I do," Mike answered, breathing out in a rush. "I mean, it hurt like fuck, right, but it was also the best thing ever. I – seriously, you have skills. Ass skills." The tips of Chris's ears turned pink, which was so cute Mike couldn't suppress a fresh grin. "I do?" "Fuck yeah you do, now stop fishing for compliments. I gotta sleep." Chris settled beside him, laughing a little. "What about the show?" "Can't keep my eyes open," Mike said, yawning part way through. "Some dude just fucked me." "Oh yeah? I hear he was pretty awesome at it, though." Mike's eyes were already closed. "You're damn right he was," he murmured, feeling sleep finally pulling him down as Chris laughed somewhere above him. * The crowd was a little larger than most of the clubs they'd played on this tour. Mike peeked out at them ten minutes before show time and reported back, "Kinda big for us, but should be cool." Tyson just nodded and plucked a few notes on his bass. Nick was swigging from a beer bottle, and Chris was tapping a rhythm on his thighs. Mike sat next to him. "You okay?" he murmured. "Yeah." Chris threw him a tight smile. "I just want to get out there, now." "Fuck." Nick set the bottle down and paced back and forth a little bit. "Fuck." "Breathe," Tyson reminded him. "Right." Nick nodded, absent movement, and breathed in and out very deliberately. "Okay." He slumped against Tyson's side. "You know, Mom told me I should try yoga. She's all into it, says it's calming and shit." Tyson risked a kiss to his hair. "Sounds like a good idea." He paused. "Hey, you'd get bendy if you did that, right? Like." He raised his eyebrows. "Real bendy." Nick poked him in the side and stood up. "Show time. Come on." As they walked out towards the stage, Mike heard what sounded like Nick muttering, "And yeah, I'd get pretty bendy, I guess," in Tyson's direction. Tyson started the show grinning. Mike let the music wash over him, concentrating on playing his notes and chords right. The having a good time part just always happened, coming right from the getting the notes down bit. He kept looking over at Chris, locking eyes with him sometimes and just beaming. There wasn't much room to move around, but somehow Mike managed to end up on the other side of the stage without knocking Tyson over. He bumped into Nick as they passed, but Nick just grinned at him and they turned it into a simultaneous spin around a dual orbit, coming to rest facing each other from the pelvis. They played several chords like that, Nick making faces and Mike laughing, until it was time to find his microphone so he could sing the back-up part. As he moved past, during one of the solos Tyson had pointed out to the audience – as if, without his advance warnings, one of them might miss Nick waling on his guitar, and in Tyson's mind such an occurrence would be a tragedy – Mike noticed Tyson pressing up full-body to Nick's back, leaning over his shoulder and presumably making some kind of face. Five months of being in this band still left him wondering if they did this to try and make each other laugh or just because it seemed like the thing to do at the time. (And really, he thought as he passed again, with them, it could be either.) He looked over at Chris, who was shaking his head and smiling kind of fondly at Tyson's back, sticks flailing about his face. Mike caught his eye and watched his smile expand out. His chest felt sort of light, and he half hopped over to his side of the stage, feeling a little like if he really tried, he could float above the ground like he was weightless. "That," Nick was grinning when they came off the stage, "was awesome." Tyson wrapped both arms over Nick's waist from behind, smiling just as hard. Mike pulled Chris in by the shoulders, and the four of them headed to the bar, where Shaun was waiting with four beer bottles all lined up. He handed one to each of them – Tyson still had one arm around Nick's waist, the other raised in a toast – and they all five clinked bottle necks. "To a fucking good show," Shaun announced. It was greeted by cheers. "Drink up, but not too much," Brian told them. "You'll have to drive all night, boys, the next show's two states away and we've got sound check tomorrow afternoon." "Aw fuck." Tyson slumped against the bar. "I was looking forward to some hammerment." Chris snorted. "Hammerment? What the fuck?" "Getting hammered," Tyson explained, all eye roll and suddenly, for half a second, actually looking like an eighteen-year-old. Then he was just Ty again. Nick held out one hand. "Stop." He and Tyson chorused, "Hammered time." Mike hoped really, really hard that nobody was going to look at him, because he had already almost cracked a rib from trying not to laugh. There were a couple of seconds of silence, and then Brian, Shaun, Mike and Chris simultaneously cracked up in what sounded like a small explosion. Half the bar looked over, but Mike was too busy leaning against Shaun and wheezing to really notice. "You," he gasped out, "are the biggest fucking," he laughed harder, "nerds." "They've been doing that since," Brian was laughing so hard he could hardly get the words out, "since they were like, sixteen." He sagged against Mike's other side, weak from shaking. "We are childs of the eighties," Tyson said, decisively. "You have to embrace where you're from. Embrace it." "Hammered," Chris tried to say, but it was lost in a fresh burst of shoulder heaves. Nick glanced at Tyson. "We are totally never showing them the dances, dude," he said, and Mike didn't even care if he was serious or not, just the thought made him double over. "Stop, fuck, I can't breathe." He waved a hand in front of his face and tried hard to still himself for long enough to at least inhale. "Dances." Shaun was half way to the floor, pulling Mike along with him a little. "You are all," Tyson drew an invisible line around the four of them, still clutching at each other and trying to get their breath back, "assholes. All of you." "Yeah," Nick added. "Just for that you can drive, Mike." Mike, by this point, had regained control of himself enough to speak. "Fine by me." He hadn't even sipped his beer yet, so he just slid it across to Chris. "Drink this for me," he said, batting his eyelashes. "I'm staying awake tonight." Chris leered, but covered it by taking a swig from the bottle. "Uh huh." Mike punched him in the arm. "So," Nick said, twenty minutes later when he finally set down Tyson's beer bottle (Ty had slid it over to him without a word), "we should get going, right?" "Yes." Brian sounded almost grateful. "Yes, we should. Come on, Shaun, let's round up the other guys and get on the road." "You are I are driving again, my friend," Shaun replied, slinging an arm over his shoulders. (They'd both stuck to Cokes. For which Mike had already called them idiots, Dr Pepper was by far Coke's superior. Shaun would not be budged; Brian had privately disclosed that he did, at least, prefer Diet Dr Pepper to Diet Coke, at which point Mike had expressed due horror at the thought of anyone, let alone a dear and trusted friend, drinking Diet Dr Pepper and the conversation had sort of ended there.) "We've got like," Tyson muttered to Nick as they opened the back doors of the van, "I don't know how long, but it won't like. Hurt, if we pull over somewhere in a half hour, right? I'll drive us there," he said over his shoulder, to Mike. "Okay." Mike was already pulling Chris closer. Chris was breathing slightly damply against his neck, air flow skating over the skin. Tyson drove as Mike kissed Chris, Nick's voice a background burr from the front seat, Tyson's answering laugh breaking through for a second, but the rest of the time all Mike could hear was Chris's breathing, the way it had quickened, and the tiny sounds Chris made in his throat when Mike pressed his fingers just so, right above his elbows. Tyson pulled over after a while, and Mike looked up as the van halted. He saw Tyson unbuckle his seatbelt and launch himself at Nick, who was mid-sentence. A muffled "Tnnfmmm!" was followed by a low moan. Chris was looking over, too. "That'll get messy," he called, and Mike thought, oh, right, he's jacking Nick off. Tyson raised one wrist and wrote 'SO?' in the air with a fingertip. It must have looked backwards to him, Mike realised. He was sort of impressed. "So it's the front seat," Chris continued. "Someone has to drive tonight." Tyson pulled away from Nick's mouth and threw them a thoughtful look. "You have a point." Chris nudged at Mike's hip, and Mike caught on within a few seconds; they shifted and lay, nose to navel. Mike undid the pants buttons in front of him and heard a zip moving down. "You have the best ideas," Tyson called over. Mike couldn't see the front seat any more, but he heard the distinctive sounds of cloth sliding over skin and another low moan from Nick. "This'll be much less messy," Tyson's voice came, a soft murmur meant for just the guy whose waist his head was level with. "Oh fuck," Nick whispered, and just then Mike finally got Chris's underwear off and closed his mouth over his cock, feeling Chris do the same to him a few moments later, and then he just concentrated on sucking in the right rhythm while trying not to react in any way with his teeth when Chris flicked out with his tongue like that. * Stage Four: Took A Ride (Didn't Know What I Would Find There) "My sister made muffins," Mike said, holding up the box. It was the first time he'd just shown up at Chris's place after school, so he figured an excuse would be a good thing to have, should he need one. Chris just pretty much lit up and invited him in. "I have coffee," he added. "Coffee goes good with muffins." "That it does." Mike set the box down on the counter. "You don't have anywhere you have to be or anything, right?" Chris did something with a coffee maker, measuring out grains and pouring water, but his back was to Mike so the motions were mostly obscured. "No, I'm pretty much … doing nothing right now." He flipped a switch on the coffee maker and turned around, leaning against the counter. "A couple friends might come over later, I've got some stuff to give them, so. But they shouldn't stay too long. You can hang out, if you want." "Sounds good." Mike eyed him. "Friends of yours, huh?" "Yeah, just a couple buddies, is all. I …" Chris swallowed, eyes darting to the corner of the room. "They asked me to get something for them, and I did. So. They'll be over to pick it up." "You're a drug dealer," Mike noted. "Okay." "Well." Chris scratched at the back of his neck and didn't look Mike in the eye. "I guess you could, I mean. I'm not like, I don't sell to kids and shit, I just know where to get some things my friends want, so I get it for them. For a fee. It's a business, y'know, just a. Y'know." "Chris, it's totally cool," Mike said, reaching out to touch his arm. "I don't, y'know. I don't use drugs or whatever, but I'm not madly against it, I'm just." He shrugged. "I do other things." "Mostly I just smoke dope," Chris said, finally looking at him. The coffee maker burbled quietly. "The rest is what I know how to get, that's it. I don't take that shit." He paused, and finished, "Mostly." The kitchen suddenly got a lot quieter, and it took Mike a second to work out why. Chris grabbed two mugs and poured coffee out into each of them. Mike shrugged. "Your life. Just don't accidentally OD on me and we're fine." He nodded towards the TV. "You get Fox on there? They're running a Simpsons marathon today, could be fun. You like the Simpsons?" "Now that," Chris grinned, sitting on the couch, "is a show that is only bearably funny when you're not high. See, when you're high it's like. Dude, those people are yellow. Most of the funny shit goes over your head." He flung an arm over towards the kitchen. "Bring the muffins, okay?" It was as Chris was laughing at a line of Ralph's that Mike looked over at him, just glancing in that joyous, sharing-something-great way, and he noticed three things at once. Firstly, that the light made Chris's hair shine and it looked really nice on him. Secondly, that he even found the shape of Chris's nose attractive. And thirdly, that Chris had a muffin crumb at the corner of his mouth. Mike leaned over, meaning to say something, to wipe it away with a fingertip or maybe a thumb, but he got as far as touching Chris's jaw and then he just leaned over some more and flicked his tongue out, catching the crumb. Chris stopped mid-laugh, and looked at him. "You had a crumb," Mike said, licking his lips. His voice sounded surprisingly breathy, but then, he was feeling sort of breathy, really. "Oh," was all Chris said, and then they were kissing. It was slow, and soft, but not too soft, and Mike was vaguely aware of the rest of the episode – one he'd seen six times before and could remember the visuals just from the sound, so really, it was kind of like he was still watching it, only this was way better than just watching it because this way he got to make out with Chris at the same time and he might, Mike decided, have found a new favourite thing to do ever. (Watch The Simpsons on his eyelids while Chris lapped at his lower lip, languid. He saved that one in a sealed bubble, to be returned to in emergencies. Just in case.) There was some knocking at the door an indeterminable time later (they were still making out, though, and Mike's lips were starting to feel chapped, so maybe it had been a while but he couldn't be sure) and Chris got up to answer it, handed some people a small package, was handed a slightly larger package Mike guessed was probably the money, and closed the door after saying something about having company. When he came back to sit on the couch again, Mike noticed just how absolutely thoroughly kissed he was looking, what with his red mouth and his flushed cheeks and his hair awry where Mike's hands had been playing with it. Chris just smiled at him, slid their bodies into place again and murmured, "Now. Where were we?" The TV carried on without them. He didn't know how it had happened at first, but when he woke up it was dark and he had a crick in his neck. He had vague fuzzy recollections of kissing and kissing and touching and just kissing and then, something, Chris's mouth going a little slacker, his refusing to keep up the pace, and then. Then, he'd woken up. He looked around, his neck complaining. He rubbed it, seeing by the glowing numbers on the microwave (which Chris had finally acquired the week before) that it was four ten in the morning. He was still on the couch, limbs curled around Chris's. Chris was still asleep, and in the almost-light Mike just watched him for a minute, listening to his breathing. Then he settled more comfortably on his chest, closed his eyes, and drifted off again. * Bathrooms in truck stops are designed to be shitty, Mike decided. There was a little soap in this one, so he washed his hands, feeling like this should earn it three stars in the Michelin guide to truck stop bathrooms. Four, after it had been cleaned, but that hadn't happened in a little while. He stepped neatly over the piss on the floor and pulled the door open again. When he got back to the van, Tyson handed him a warm cup. "Got us some stay awake juice," he said, smiling. Tyson was certainly not the worst company in the middle of the night on a long drive. (That was Shaun.) "Thanks." Mike sipped the coffee. It wasn't the best he'd ever tasted, but it was drinkable and had caffeine in it, which was all he needed. He set it in the cup holder and got the engine started again. "They still asleep back there?" Tyson twisted around in his seat. "Yeah." He had that soft smile again, the one he rarely showed. "Nick looks so pretty when he's sleepin'." "You better keep your eyes on the fucking road when it's your turn to drive," Mike reminded him, even though he'd glanced twice at Chris in the rear-view mirror already. "I will." Tyson twisted back again and just, smiled. The freeway was relatively quiet this time of night. It had got to the stage where it felt like the street lights and Tyson were his only company, so Mike said, "You should sleep, man, we'll switch in a couple hours." Tyson shrugged. "I'm awake. I got coffee. I'll make it." "You don't have to." He'd risk the radio or something, but it'd wake Chris. "It's okay, really." Tyson sipped some more, and Mike followed suit. "You know, when we drove up to New York, Nick used to sleep up here when I was driving. It was kind of hard to watch the road all the time, you know." He twisted back in his seat to glance into the bulk of the van again. Mike had gone past surprised his neck wasn't fucked up by that point, since he'd been doing it twice every minute the whole way. "Do you ever feel like the sight of Nick won't make you be all," Mike took a hand off the steering wheel to gesture vaguely. Tyson just tipped him a sloping smile with half his mouth. "I hope not." And it was sort of fucking cute, really, though perhaps it should have been annoying. Mike took another gulp of coffee and discreetly watched the way the streetlights made shadows with Chris's eyelashes. "You're the same way with him, dude," Tyson jerked a thumb back into the van. Mike watched the road. "Hell, you've been together longer than Nick and I have. And you still get all – I've seen you, man." "Yeah. Well." Mike shrugged. "It's Chris. I mean, I." He stopped, and realised that he was still glancing back at him every opportunity he got; that he knew random shit about Chris no one else did, that he could make a breakfast tailored exactly how Chris liked it, that he could bring him off in three seconds or three hours if he just put his hands and his mouth in all the right places; that he instinctively ordered Chris's favourite coffee for him without ever being asked, that Chris sometimes passed him something he wanted before he even could open his mouth to say he wanted it; that they'd never exactly officially lived together before, but being in a van with him all the time was as natural as breathing and when they got back to Oklahoma they'd be going back to the Batcave and it was kind of their home now and that just felt like the best thing about life. "It's like." He was almost startled at the sound of his own voice, like he'd forgotten he had vocal chords and somebody was listening. "It's like, you can see your life out in front of you, like – like the road, right?" And it seemed for a second it was pinned to the freeway by the cat's-eyes in the middle, stretching out as he drove along it. "And I'm looking at it, and there's nothing there I can see where Chris isn't there too. Just." He shrugged. "You know?" Tyson twisted around again to look at Nick. "Yeah," he said, and he was smiling that particular smile. "Yeah, I do know."

Miss Supernatural I wasn’t ready to be out of the house really. Niall had given me an elixir to help with the physical injuries from my torture at the hands of Thing One and Thing Two, but inside – in my head – I was still very damaged. My confidence was at an all time low and I was in no mood to be summoned to Fangtasia by Felipe De Castro so I could help him with goodness knows what! Eric claimed to know just as much about the King’s reasons for the meeting as I did; he’d never lied to me about that kind of thing before and with our relationship finally settling into some semblance of routine, I doubted he’d start now. We pulled up behind the grey building and Eric ushered me into the bar through the employee entrance. Pam and Felipe (plus entourage, which unfortunately included Victor Madden) were already there, sipping distastefully at the Truebloods in their hands – I guess Eric didn’t offer beverages of the non-synthetic kind when Fangtasia was closed. A couple of tables had been pushed together and we slid into the two spare seats to find out why we, especially me, were here. “You may have heard I have decided to hold a beauty pageant.” Pam had told me about this idea but we both just laughed it off as a wicked rumour “In the planning of this event, we have received some ... letters, threatening to attack the contest in some way, explosive devices have been a recurring theme.” I put my hand up, like I was in class asking to go to the bathroom. De Castro raised an eyebrow at me before nodding, allowing me to interrupt. “So why go through with it? The Fellowship are just looking for another event like Rhodes, is it worth the risk?” Victor sighed and tutted, Eric growled at him and Pam sipped her drink emotionlessly. Felipe smiled, like I was a 3 year old who just asked why the sky was blue. “Miss Stackhouse or is it Mrs. Northman now?” I opened my mouth, Eric squeezed my hand and I closed it again “No matter. This event is open to all females of all supernatural races! It is a coup in uniting the Supe community within the three states I hold and will solidify my position as a progressive ruler. It is most definitely worth the risk.” “Okay. So I’m here because ...” “You will be entering of course!” Pam snorted and some Trueblood came out of her nose. “Uh ... me? Why?” “Because your talents will be most useful in finding out how close any threats are. We will have trackers, both Were and Vampire, ensuring the building is bomb free. However we will need someone to ensure that the contestants and other behind the scenes staff are ... on the level as you humans like to say.” “So you want me to enter a beauty pageant so I can read the minds of the other girls and staff and make sure that they aren’t planning to bomb the contest?” “Precisely!” I looked at Eric, he was almost pleading with his eyes for me to go along with this harebrained scheme. I guessed it would look bad for him if I refused, and if I did and something went wrong and people died - I don’t know if I could live with myself. I looked at Pam, she was grinning from ear to ear, obviously enjoying this far too much. “Okay I’ll do it.” Pam slapped the table and laughed, gasping out random words like ‘bathing beauty’ and ‘swimsuit edition’. “As Miss Stackhouse is your Maker’s bonded and wife, you will also enter the contest Pamela. She will need an ally close to hand.” Pam’s laughter abruptly ceased and a smile started to grace my own lips. ---xxx--- In the week leading up to the pageant, both Pam and I had tried to weasel out of actually competing and tried to find other jobs we could do. I even tried to pull the ‘I’m not actually a Supe’ card but Eric told me that even if I didn’t have Fae blood, my status as his bonded and wife made me eligible for it. Pam was having all too much fun waxing my various sensitive areas to ensure I looked good in my bikini. We spent far too much time watching movies with perky heroines we could emulate to try and blend in; so far my favorite had been ‘Drop Dead Gorgeous’. Tonight we were concentrating on the nuances of Elle Woods and her Legally Blonde friends. “Sookie, you’re not doing it right! You have to show more teeth!” “Pam I’ll need to dislocate my jaw to be able to smile that wide!” “That can be arranged ...” “Well your bathing beauty smile isn’t perfect either!” “I’m a vampire; I won’t be expected to smile as much.” “Argh! I hate this!” “Stop it! Perky Sookie! Perky!” “Look Pam, I don’t even need to try that hard, I’m guaranteed a place anyway!” I had been worried about remaining in the contest long enough to actually be around to read people, but Felipe has ensured that I would make it to the top 10. Eric said I would make it to the top 5 and even win whether Felipe intervened or not. “Sookie, where’s your ‘independent woman’ crap? Don’t you want to be in the top 5 because you have done your best not because a man put you there?” “Pam! That doesn’t even make sense in this situation.” “I know but you could at least be perky and positive about it!” ---xxx--- The pageant was being held in Arkansas, to attempt to draw some Supe tourism into the area, and arriving at the hotel was like diving into a bimbo convention. Pretty girls from Louisiana, Arkansas and Nevada were everywhere, cooing and throwing fake compliments at each other. Luckily Pam and I were sharing a room, so rather than having to sleep across from someone I didn’t know, I had to sleep across from someone who constantly flirted with me and offered to lick my neck on a daily basis. “Pam?” she scowled at me as she unpacked her bags “I thought Felipe was progressive. Don’t you find all of this a little ... 1970’s?” “Sookie, for a Vampire several hundred years old that is progressive!” I sighed and gathered my gown and shoes (courtesy of Eric’s business account – well it is business) and we went down to the changing area for our first foray onto the stage as pageant contestants. I was surprised to see so many of the Were contestants had their own Pageant consultants, Pam and I had decided to work as a team and do each other’s make-up and hair, check our outfits were okay and tell our Rhodes sob stories to the other contestants to gauge their reactions to the Fellowship. It was a perfect partnership, Pam could smell fear and hear increased heart rates and I could ‘read’ any deceptions from the humans and Weres. There were very few girls taking part off their own back. Most were either children of Vampires in positions of authority, daughters of pack masters, or bonded humans. Three girls had volunteered and they were all very young vampires looking to make their mark in the supernatural world. The Area Sherriff, Bruce Wilson, has specifically bonded to a glamour model two weeks before the pageant, hoping that if she won it would bring tourism to his area. After some time mingling, and not finding anything remotely suspicious, it was time for us to be introduced. We stood in line, Pam perfectly composed and me, sweaty and nervous, until the announcer (a fairly young and flamboyant vampire called Tredicino) called our names Contestant 14 – Pamela Ravenscroft, representing the Vampires of Shreveport. Pamela is the child of highly regarded Area Sherriff Eric Northman. There was a distinct oohing and ahhing at the mention of Eric’s name. I watched Pam stride out onto the runway and twirl and wave at the audience like she’d been pageant trained from birth. Contestant 15 – Sookie Stackhouse, famed telepath of Louisiana, Sookie is the bonded and pledged of Eric Northman. There was no oohing or ahhing at Eric’s name this time, there were gasps of surprise and a few hisses of discontentment. I locked down my shields and walked out, smiling broadly and waving regally. Eric was sitting at a table with Felipe and Victor. Eric looked very proud and it was radiating through the bond. After the introductions we had to change quickly for the swimsuit section. I rifled through the bag I had brought down with me but couldn’t find the suit I’d bought anywhere! “PAM!PAM!” “What is it sweet Sookie?” “Where’s my bikini?” I noticed Pam was already in her cut-away one piece; it looked very Barbarella but wouldn’t have suited me. “Oh that! I showed it to Eric and he replaced it with a more suitable alternative.” She went over to her robe and pulled a ball of red fabric. I shook it out to reveal a very understated one piece, well it was pretty ‘Baywatch’ but compared to what the others were wearing it was Victorian underwear. “Why would Eric want me to put this on?” “Do you think he wants all of the men in the audience seeing his bonded and pledged almost naked?” I guess that made sense. I put the suit on and Pam tousled my hair, I put a little more spray on her up-do and we went back out to join the merry conga line. I watched the other girls strut their stuff; a little annoyed that most of them seemed to give an extra wiggle towards the table where Eric sat. I swear that vampire would have Ellen DeGeneres gagging to cop a feel. Pam was called by Tredicino and I knew I was next. I watched my ... friend? Yes! Pam was my friend! I watched her work it, she looked good, well she didn’t look any different than she did any other day but... Contestant 15 – Sookie Stackhouse Oh crap! I tottered out on my heels, walking as fast as I could without falling flat on my face and posed on the circles. I sneaked a glance at Eric, who wasn’t caring who saw his fangs were extended. Unfortunately his 2 companions at the table had the same dental issues and lusty eyes – eww. I was exhausted when we got back to our room but Pam was on some kind of pageant high. “I’m so excited about tomorrow!” “Why? Isn’t it just the top 10 announcement and more swimsuit posing?” “No! It’s the talent section, then gowns and then top ten selection!” “WHAT?” “Sookie you knew this! We watched enough movies. Really did you not prepare something?” Oh no, no, no, no! This was not happening! I had nothing. I couldn’t sing or throw a baton or play an instrument or even do that weird thing with the water glasses that saved that chick who was the undercover FBI agent! I was so wrapped up in my panic I didn’t hear someone rapping at the door; I was swept up in a pair of strong arms. “Sookie, my Lover. I felt your distress but there doesn’t seem to be any danger here. What has you so worked up hmm?” Pam huffed “She has no talent Eric!” “Oh I wouldn’t say that!” He leered at me “I think making a 1,000 year old vampire scream in pleasure is quite the talent!” “Eric I can’t drag you onto the stage and have sex with you for my talent!” “We don’t have to have sex you could just do that thing with your tongue ...” “ERIC! Please can we just be serious here?” “He was being serious Sookie. This is a supernatural event, having public sex is pretty much expected.” “I’m still not doing it! There has to be something else I’m good at. What are you doing Pam?” “Speed embroidery.” “Uh ... that’s ... great! It doesn’t really point me any directions though.” “Sookie, do you remember a couple of weeks ago I came to your house earlier than expected?” “Mmmmmm ... wait, I already told you I’m not doing that!” “Not that Dear One, what you were doing when I arrived.” “Oh! I was dancing and cleaning! That’s it! I can do that!” “Well I know speed embroidery isn’t awfully exciting but cleaning Sookie?” “No Pam, I can dance! I just need ... uh ...” I grabbed the TV remote and searched desperately for a music channel, eventually finding one that was playing ‘Crazy In Love’ by Beyonce “That!” Eric and Pam were staring at the screen entranced while I tried to memorize as many of the dance moves as possible. I don’t know whether it was a quirk because of my telepathy but I was a very quick study when it came to learning dance moves and picking up new things. Eric put an arm around me and Pam looked at me warily. “Do you think you can really do that Sookie?” “I certainly do!” I looked at Eric “He can confirm my skills on the dance floor.” He was ... wistful for lack of a better word, obviously remembering me and Tara’s little show in Jackson and also the scene a couple of weeks ago when he caught me shimmying down the doorframe with a feather duster. I checked the options on the hotel TV and it turned out they had a channel you could select which music video you wanted to watch! I’d need to go shopping as soon as I woke up – there was no way this would work in the dresses I’d brought with me. ---xxx--- I woke up with a renewed sense of fun in the contest; grabbing my credit card I hit the stores of Little Rock with a vengeance. It took a while but I eventually found the perfect outfit, it was a short silver grey dress covered in silver sequins that clung to every curve. I raced back to the hotel to get ready. The sun was just starting to sink in the sky when I’d finished eating with the rest of the live contestants. I still wasn’t getting any vibes that something was going to go wrong. I started to think that maybe Felipe had just made up threatening letters so he could see Pam and me in a beauty contest. When I got to our room Pam was already dressed in a bubblegum pink latex cat suit, I guess it was a mix of her two distinct styles, and she was practicing furiously. There were piles of cotton and thread everywhere and I was very glad of the fact that my talent only required an outfit rather than any props. I packed my garment bag with everything I’d need and we went down to the dressing room. The place was buzzing, I wasn’t the only girl dancing, there was a Were called Mona doing a ballet homage to Creedence Clearwater Revival, Rita (bonded human) would be doing a cheer routine to the best chewing gum jingles ever written and a vampire, Keira, would be doing a post-modern dance memoriam to the Irish potato famine of 1740. Again we were called in the same order as the night before, so I knew once Pam was almost finishing up that I’d be next. She was bowing and thoroughly enjoying the applause she was getting for her speed embroidered portrait of William Shatner – it was scarily accurate. My name was called and the first bars of the song played as I strutted onto the stage swaying my hips to the rhythm. I made a show of walking up and down the runway turning and winking at Eric when I reached their table, I had it timed perfectly that I was back on the main stage when Jay-Z had finished his rap I look and stare so deep in your eyes I touch on you more and more every time when you leave I’m beggin you not to go call your name two, three times in a row I shook, shimmied, bounced and swayed. Raising my arms up and running my hands down my body, making sure I was looking at Eric when I used my hands to spread my knees apart when I dipped to the floor showing off the red sequin boy shorts I had bought to wear under the dress. Got me lookin so crazy right now Your love's got me lookin so crazy right now (your love) Got me lookin so crazy right now your touch's Got me lookin so crazy right now (your touch) At one point in the song it felt like my ass had taken on a mind of its own, when I checked back with my vampire it obviously wasn’t a bad thing as he was gripping the arms of the chair and Felipe had a hand on his chest to remind him to stay seated. When the last strains of Beyonce were fading, I spun around and dropped to one knee on the stage with my hands flat on the floor. Ladies and Gentlemen! Supes and humans! That was Sookie Stackhouse with her amazing dancing talents! The crowd went wild; I looked at Eric’s table to find he wasn’t there but Victor and Felipe were giving me a standing ovation in more ways than one – eww. I waved to the audience as I bounced/walked/ran backstage but before I could get there I was grabbed from behind and pulled into a closet. The cold hand over my mouth prevented me from screaming but once my head cleared from the endorphin rush of dancing on stage in front of an audience, I realized through the bond that it was Eric. “Lover, I’m not one to beg but if you don’t let me fuck you right now I may have to kill someone to relieve my tension.” He loosened the hand on my face and I licked it before being turned around and kissed like he’d never ever kiss me again. Our hands were everywhere, pulling at clothes and groping whatever flesh we could expose. I tugged and pulled at the belt Eric had on to no avail and gave him a light kick in the shin when he laughed at me and started to undo it himself. My hands were rubbing against the bulge in his pants, as if the friction would magically make them disappear, soon the covering was gone and I had his hard, gracious plenty in my hand. Eric groaned and spun me again so I was facing the door and yanked off my shorts, I gasped when the cool air breezed over my heated sex and fingers probed my readiness. A small whimper left my lips as his hand withdrew and my dress was pulled up over my head, it turned to a long drawn out moan when Eric ran his hands down the full length of my naked body until he reached my feet, which were still in 4” silver strappy sandals. I lifted my foot, expecting him to tug at the buckle. “No, we’re leaving those on My Little Dancing Queen.” Ungh! His hands moved slowly upwards at the front of my legs while his tongue followed their path over the back of my knee and up the inside of my thigh. Eric’s knees nudged my legs further apart and he buried his face in my wet warmth, teasing me with his mouth. “Eric, baby, we don’t have a lot of ...” He was fully sheathed in my velvet walls before I could finish what I was saying, then I didn’t know why I even needed to speak. Eric’s length pumped in and out of me at speeds no human man could ever hope to keep up with, I felt his hands wrap around me, one to my breast pinching my pebbled nipple and the other down to my swollen nub. It didn’t take much to make my muscles quiver around him, I was panting and we were both moaning, not caring about how loud we were. He rubbed tiny circles on my pearl as his movements became erratic, his fangs sank into the tender spot between my neck and shoulder and I cried out as felt my pleasure reach a crescendo and Eric howled with his completion at the same time. Eric cocked his head to one side and told me Pam was looking for me. I flapped and started throwing my clothes back on, the dress was back to front but I would be taking it back off soon anyway. I ran out of the closet and smacked into Pam at the dressing room door “Sookie! Where the hell ...” Her nostrils flared “Oh I see. Well, while you were playing hide the falukorv, I’ve been glamouring the lighting guys to see if they know anything about the threats.” “Did they?” “No and I can’t even drain them to make myself feel better but I did glamour them into fixing the lights to make that human with the plastic breasts look like she’s made of wax!” “Okaaaaay. How long until we’re on?” “Not long enough for you to wash the scent of sex and Eric off. You need to get changed like, five minutes ago. I’ll need to totally redo your hair. Do you want the fang marks showing?” Completely embarrassed by my behaviour, I skulked into the dressing room and peeled off my dress of shame. I had picked out a baby pink gown for tonight; I just hoped the flush on my skin cooled enough so the colour didn’t look off. Pam tut-tutted as she tried to rescue my hairstyle and fix my lipstick smeared chin. We just managed to squeeze into the line as they were calling contestant 10 - Jacquie Forbes, were-koala (they have fierce claws but are more likely to smother you to death by hugging your face). Tredicino called us one by one and remained on the stage, lining up at the back wall, so they could announce the top 10. Okay folks, here are the results you’ve been waiting all evening for! The ten Supernatural beauties who will be continuing the contest tomorrow night are: Contestant 6: Gypsy Violet – Bonded of Sherriff Bruce Wilson, Little Rock Contestant 9: Mona Bouvier – Were-Wolf from Reno Contestant 11: Keira Gorman – Vampire from Lake Charles Contestant 14: Pamela Ravenscroft – Vampire from Shreveport Contestant 15: Sookie Stackhouse – Telepath and bonded/pledged of Sherriff Eric Northman, Shreveport Contestant 17: Julietta Rocheforte – Vampire from Las Vegas Contestant 21: Millie Stevenson – Were-Jaguar from Jonesboro Contestant 25: Denise Allan – Bonded of Sherriff Thomas Beckett, Carson City Contestant 29: Mandy Brown – Were-lion from Battle Mountain Contestant 34: Louise Cunningham – Vampire from Baton Rouge There was a lot of support for all of the contestants who made it through to the next round. I watched the girls called before me bounce, jump and fan their faces with manicured fingers to convey their shock and copied them, hoping that no-one noticed I wasn’t really that shocked. Pam was, it took her a few seconds to realize that her name had been called but she nodded and waved. I wasn’t the only girl not in shock, Gypsy Violet, the ex-glamour model I had previously mentioned was also not as surprised as she acted when her name was called – I would say that made me suspicious but who was I to criticize, really? I’d be keeping a closer eye on her (well her brain anyway). There were still a good few hours before sunset but sleep was a distant idea for me as we had to meet with ‘The Guys’ to relay our findings so far. I had time for a quick shower and a change into jeans and a shirt – bliss! Pam and I made our way to Felipe’s room for an hour of swapping not very pertinent information. The trackers hadn’t found anything except a group of fangbangers trying to break in; I told them about Gypsy Violet’s non-shock at going through to the next round. “She’s gorgeous and she did a burlesque strip for her talent – how could she not get through?” Victor had a very good point “It was more than that, more than confidence. She knew without a doubt she’d make it through.” “Like you?” Eric, Pam and Felipe stared at him. “The difference is I’m here to do a job! I’m going to get closer to her, see if I can find anything out.” “Miss Stackhouse, please forgive Victor’s bluntness. I ... we very much appreciate what you are doing for our community here and may I say what a treat your performances have been so far. I look forward seeing how you fare with the rest of the pageant.” “She will go through to the next round.” I’m glad Eric was confident, I wasn’t! We left the room, Pam went to find a snack and Eric decided to keep me company and attempt to boost my confidence more while we had some privacy. Pam must have decided to turn her snack into a three course meal; we managed to fit in a fair amount of snuggling after our mutual physical worship before she came back in. “Well Sookie, tomorrow we have the question round, more swimsuits then the top 5 pick. How nervous are you?” Pam was grinning slyly “Actually I’m less nervous now than I was before. I knew the top 10 was fixed but I still had to display a certain standard to prevent people from knowing it was fixed! Now I can chill and do my own thing!” Eric smiled warmly and kissed me goodbye before offering his congratulations to Pam on getting through to the next round. Pam looked a little shocked at that but I could see she was practically giddy at the praise she’d received from her maker. We both went to rest happy. ---xxx--- The next night I made a point of sitting next to Gypsy Violet at dinner and pretending everything she said was hilarious so I could touch her arm or shoulder. She’d been glamoured to the extent her mind resembled a colander, her thoughts were a little disjointed but I got the gist that she was basically under her bonded's control. I made a mental note to ask Eric if there was a chance he could ever control me like that or if my resistance to glamouring prevented it. I couldn’t wait for this whole thing to be over. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been enjoying the gowns and the glamour and the dancing, my low moods seemed to have been forgotten but I just want to get home, hopefully without any bombs or attacks happening into the bargain! One thing I was surprised at was how seriously Pam was taking all of this. It seemed now she’d had a taste of pageant success she was hungry for more. Her hair and make-up demands were more complex tonight and I saw her practicing her smile in the bathroom mirror (mostly determining how little difference there was between sexy fang and scary fang). I didn’t know what question I would be asked, I didn’t want to know what question I’d be asked, whatever it was probably couldn’t be answered with ‘World Peace’. I decided on a deep red satin cocktail dress with heels made from the same material and prepared myself for whatever was going to be thrown at me. Rather than forming a line backstage and being called forward, this time we were all perching on stools set out in a semi-circle with Tredicino standing in the middle. The questions were, surprisingly, normal. Things you would expect to be asked at a pageant. What famous person does your personality most parallel? What quality do you like most about yourself and why? What is the one feature you'd change about yourself and why? I had started to fidget in my stool and was happy when my name was called – at least it would be over. “So Miss Stackhouse. What is your definition of success?” I felt my eyes wander over to Eric; he was sending me courage and love through the bond. Seeing him watching me, pride flashing in his eyes, I never thought I would be doing this. I never thought I would enjoy it, I always dreamed of having a human husband and a couple of kids and a white picket fence but that’s all it was – a dream. My reality was that I had a vampire who did everything he could to keep me safe and make me feel loved and that is what was important – the avoidance of misery. “Happiness. You can be the richest person in the world or someone with more friends than spaces in their phone’s memory but if you’re not happy, then you’re not successful. Do what makes you happy and you’ll find success.” “Wonderful answer Miss Stackhouse! Next we have Gypsy Violet.” I made my way back to my perch and tried not to cringe when Gypsy answered what magazine she’d love to be on the cover of. She was wearing a floor length gown in see-through cornflower blue chiffon with tiny panties and two glittery circles instead of a bra. I felt like Professor McGonagall next to her despite my sassy outfit. Once the questions were over we all filed backstage to change into our swimwear, Pam made a bitchy comment about Gypsy just going out naked – it was the only way she could show anymore flesh. I know Supes in general aren’t modest and revel in nudity whenever possible but it was obvious that this girl was flashing everything in an effort to win something and I don’t think that sat well with any of the other contestants. We posed in our skimpies once again, I was oblivious to the looks anyone else was giving me – I only had eyes for Eric. Tottering off in our heels to the applause of the audience to change, again, for the announcement of the top 5, I realized I never thought about what the winner of this crazy shindig gets! Pageants always have prizes, what kind of prize would a Supe pageant have? Extra strength Nair for a shifter winner? A super-tasty human for a vampire winner? “Pam, if one of us wins, what exactly do we win?” “I was wondering when you would ask that. The prize is $10,000 with the ‘option’ of a night of passion with Felipe De Castro himself.” “Urk” I threw up a little in my mouth “Why did you do that thing with your fingers when you said ‘option’?” “Hmm ... well you might have an out seeing as you’re pledged, but none of these other girls are married in a human or supernatural sense so they will be expected to perform.” “That’s ... awful.” “Sookie, you must understand that to most of the girls who have entered this pageant, having relations with a King, a King of three states no less, is quite the honor.” “But I won’t have to, will I? Eric won’t let him ... do anything to me.” “My Master won’t let him anywhere near you if you win my telepathic friend! The last time I saw him being this possessive was when he bought his first TV with a remote control!” I laughed weakly and changed into my evening gown, ready for finding out if I’d be staying in a contestant capacity or lurking around backstage with the creepy AV guys. The ten of us trooped onto the stage for the judgement. Tredicino made a big deal out of thanking everyone for participating and what a great opportunity this was for all Supes in Nevada, Louisiana and Arkansas, I just wanted him to tell me whether I was in or out so I could get back to my room and take my shoes off. Okay folks, here are the five Supernatural beauties who will be taking part in tomorrow night’s final: Contestant 6: Gypsy Violet – Bonded of Sherriff Bruce Wilson, Little Rock She went nuts, jumping, bouncing, crying, then her boobs escaped from her tiny outfit and she stopped to push them back in. I checked her brain – no real surprise, something stinks here. Contestant 11: Keira Gorman – Vampire from Lake Charles Usually vampires let very little emotion show, so it was a shock when she jumped up and hugged every one of us who was left; I think I may have even seen a small red tear threaten to fall down her cheek. Contestant 15: Sookie Stackhouse – Telepath and bonded/pledged of Sherriff Eric Northman, Shreveport What? Oh! That’s me! Oh my stars! I just sat, smiling and nodding until Pam nudged me. I stood up and bowed, shakily, Eric’s amusement and smugness pouring through our connection. Contestant 21: Millie Stevenson – Were-Jaguar from Jonesboro Another bouncer, I all of a sudden felt bad about my lack of enthusiasm but I never thought I’d make it this far. I was glad for Millie, she was real nice when I’d talked to her before, I hoped she’d win. Contestant 25: Denise Allan – Bonded of Sherriff Thomas Beckett, Carson City Like me, Denise was very surprised to get through to the final but didn’t let it show, no siree. There were tears and flapping hands everywhere. The five of us were herded to centre stage but before I stepped forward Pam grabbed me and gave me a bone-crushing hug “I’m so happy you got through, I promise not to fuck up your hair tomorrow night because I didn’t!” I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that so I smiled and nodded. Tredicino was saying ... stuff, I’m not sure what, I was still in shock. We got backstage and I was tackled by Eric “Lover I knew you could do it!” “Whoa there big boy! I haven’t won y’know!” “Not yet Sookie but you will! Soon all of the supernatural world will know you are not only brave and talented but the most desirable woman in three states!” I wondered how that could ever be a good thing but decided to roll with the mood and let myself get swept back to my room for some celebratory love-making with extra complimentary snuggling afterwards. ---xxx--- The next day I was nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I’d had a few nasty glances my way from the girls who didn’t make it through and made a point of not listening to them. I should have been, seeing as that was why I was here after all, but I knew that any thoughts they might have wouldn’t be as nice as the glares my way. I kept to my project of reading Gypsy whenever I could. I found out her real name was Nora Fromes, I can see why she’d change it what with the business she was in and all. I also found out that Bruce was giving her something very special to wear tonight, she didn’t know what it was but she hoped it was very expensive. She also hoped she won so she could have sex with the King and more interesting was that Bruce – her bonded – was encouraging it, curiouser and curiouser. The day passed in a blur of activity, the final was being televised on VNN (Vampire News Network) and The WC (The Were-Channel), so there were plenty of non-bitchy brains to poke around in. As before, I found nothing suspicious. Finally the sun had set and it was time for the finale, Pam was positively excited and seemed to enjoy having her own personal Girl’s World to play with as she teased my hair to 80’s Madonna levels and beyond. My gown for the final was gorgeous; it was ice-blue silk with a corseted bodice and layer upon layer of material swishing around my legs. Tonight would be more questions, then the announcement of the winner. In a change from the previous night, we would all be asked the same question and the remaining girls would be placed in a soundproofed booth. Gypsy, Keira, me, Millie and Denise were backstage waiting to be called forth. In a change from her usual clothing, Gypsy was wearing a modest empire waist dress with no see-through or cut away parts at all, she looked very uncomfortable Damn it Bruce, this underwear is killing me! I can hardly walk in it! I tried to find out what she was referring to but she’d been glamoured. She was also the first to be called for the question round and the remaining four of us were ushered into a small room and instructed to put on headphones. We stood smiling at each other, Denise was over the moon at having gotten this far but was very nervous in case she won as her bonded wouldn’t have any choice but to let Felipe have his way. I felt bad for her. Millie was also nervous, I put a hand on her arm to comfort her and read that she was excited at the chance to have sex with a king and help to unite the Supe species. I guess Pam was right. Keira was called next and I got a little jumpy seeing as I knew I’d be next. I almost leapt out of my skin when a hand touched my arm. I took off the headphones, trying not to undo Pam’s work on my hair (she’d drain me if anything happened to it!) and tried to walk as proudly as I could to the stage where Tredicino met me and shook my hand. I smiled and waved to the audience, catching Eric’s eye. In a bizarre move he gave me a big grin and two thumbs up, it just looked funny with the fangs and all. “Sookie, what do you think is the best path for peace between all Species?” Heck this was easy! I’d been practicing it for goodness knows how long! “Tolerance Tredicino. We need to stop seeing everyone as different Species and see them as people. There are good Vampires.” I looked at Eric “And there are bad Vampires. Good Were’s and bad Were’s, I think you see where I’m going with this!” The audience laughed lightly “The Supernatural world needs to work together to prove the more hateful members of the human world wrong. It will be a long hard road and many changes will need to be made but I think it can happen if you want it enough and if we keep fighting amongst ourselves then the bigots are winning.” “Thank you for your eloquent answer Sookie! Next we have Millie Stevenson.” I waved to the audience and went to the side of the stage to sit with Keira and Gypsy. Gypsy was glaring at me, in her head I saw that her answer had been ‘More parties, preferably orgies’, and she was still finding her underwear to be the bane of her existence. The last two girls were asked, Millie thought more positive discrimination within Supe businesses would integrate the Species and promote peace through working together. Denise thought peace could be accomplished through large mixed social gatherings. “We’re going to take a break folks; we’ll be right back after these messages to announce the winner of the first Miss Supernatural pageant!” I followed the stagehand back to the dressing area and watched Gypsy wiggle and fidget for 5 minutes. Pam came over to touch up my hair and complemented me on not sweating on it too much. I mentioned to her about Gypsy’s strange behaviour. “She has a problem with her panties? I’m surprised she’s wearing any – she doesn’t seem the type. You on the other hand ...” “I like wearing panties Pam! Her bonded, Bruce, gave them to her, he also very enthusiastic about her winning and getting busy with Felipe. I’ve been forced into this to find out who wanted to blow up the event only to find the most suspicious thing is someone else’s underwear!” By the end of my rant I was hissing “Did anyone check these letters out? Scent? Return addresses? Anything?” “Well they all smelled like the Sherriff, but he’d been handling them ...” “They didn’t smell like anyone else?” Before Pam could answer me, we were called back onto the stage. Gypsy was chanting in her head ‘You just need to get him on top of you’. What the hell? On stage they had set up a bed, oh Lord, they would do ... it! Right there in front of everyone! Felipe was strutting like a peacock, eyeing us five girls like we were prize chunks of T-Bone, I glared at him and he dropped his gaze before casting his eye to a very irate Eric. As we passed by him I whispered in his ear. “Gypsy’s panties, there’s something wrong with them! Stay away from her!” He looked at me like I, well like I’d just told him to stay away from a beautiful woman’s panties. Aargh! I shuffled from foot to foot, not really caring about the contest anymore. Looking back I could see Pam watching as closely as she could without actually being on the stage. Tredicino called for quiet and the drum roll started. I was gesturing across my pelvis to Pam and pointing to Gypsy but she didn’t seem to understand me, no wonder really, it was a pretty ridiculous notion. “Fourth runner up ... Denise Allan!” Denise was handed a bouquet of mixed flowers and escorted a little away from the rest of us. “Third runner up ... Keira Gormley!” Keira was presented with an untouched human donor and went to stand next to Denise. “Second runner up ... Millie Stevenson!” Millie got flowers too ... wait! That meant only me and Gypsy were left! “First ... runner ... up ...” I looked at Pam, her finger nails had scored marks in the wooden beam she was clinging to. Eric was gripping the arms of his chair and looking very excited. “Sookie Stackhouse!” Flowers were handed to me and I was pushed over with the others but I had to warn Felipe! I dropped the flowers and tried to see through the confetti and balloons that were falling everywhere; I raced over to the King to find Gypsy was already on the bed with him. I grabbed at his shoulders “No Felipe! It’s the panties! You can’t touch her something’s wrong with her panties!” Pam and another security guy came over and pulled me away from them, Felipe looked at me like I was a crazy person. Eric was missing from his table. Shit! The King went back to giving Gypsy her ‘prize’ but when he flipped up her skirt he jumped back. I leaned over to get a better look only to find that her uncomfortable panties were actually a C4 encrusted chastity belt! “What is going on here?” Felipe roared. Everyone was quiet until Bruce Wilson took to the stage dangling a key from one hand. “You think I appreciate a sham takeover from Sophie-Ann then another from you barely two months later? Did you think that Arkansas had absolutely no vampires left?” He gave an evil chuckle, huh! I thought only movie villains did that! “Gypsy’s chastity belt is rigged. If you tamper with it in any way it will go off, taking everyone in a 20 meter radius out in less than a second. The only way to stop it is with this key to unlock the belt.” A team of Vamps rushed Bruce and he flew up, through the roof of the building out of sight. Where the hell was Eric? He could fly too! He’d be able to catch Bruce and get that damn key back! Felipe, Pam and two security Vampires started fiddling with the chastity belt. “It’s no use” Pam looked worried “He’s long gone by now. Our only choice is for someone to take her out of here and sacrifice themselves.” Just then Eric appeared and was met with a barrage of ‘where the hell were you’ from about 20 different people, until they saw his ripped blood covered clothes. “I was detained by the full tracking team, they were in on it.” “Eric” Felipe was panicking now “Can you pick locks? We can’t break it or it’ll go off.” Eric walked over to Gypsy where she was laid out on the bed, practically comatose from the realisation that her bonded had put her in exploding panties and made her forget what they were. She took one look at Eric and her inner sex kitten made an appearance, Gypsy licked her lips and smirked at him. I was about to race forward to rip her hair out when Eric quirked his eyebrow at her and there was a chi-chink noise before the chastity belt fell from her body. There were murmurs of surprise from all over the auditorium. Felipe gasped, “I thought it was just a myth!” I looked at Eric and he smirked. It annoyed me at that point in time. Felipe stared at my husband in awe. “You really can relieve a woman of her underwear with one eyebrow!” I couldn’t help it, I broke down snorting with laughter as the bomb squad came in and took Gypsy’s dangerous lingerie away with a big pair of pincers and a very large, very insulated box. Every vampire was on their phone to put out the hit on Bruce Wilson. It was a roundabout way but I eventually worked it out in the end. Another mystery solved. I cuddled into Eric and asked him if we could go home, he raised an eyebrow and I tripped over my panties that had fallen around my ankles.

Heart's Filthy Lesson There's something to be said about living without a soul—clarity. There's no muddled thoughts or murkiness of emotion, just a straightforwardness that tends to be curt and unfeeling. It doesn't gain you any friends. There's something else about having no soul that doesn't get talked about too much—too much clarity. You don't sleep, you hear only lies people tell and it's tough to wind down when all you want to do is just go-go-go. It teaches you that a solitary life will be your future. Sam's clarity is this—he has to work with his brother, Dean. The deeper clarity he explores is—why? He recalls no ounce of emotion or reasoning from before when he had a soul and Dean is no help in that department. Dean's trapped between grimaces of disgust and looks of grief. It's a, literal, pain that permeates a room when they're together. Sam's fine with Dean's indifference and occasional cruelty. But Dean's not fine with Sam being “temperate” to his chilled brashness. It's obvious he wants “Sam” back—his Sam. But who is that exactly? What is so special about the Sam before that makes Dean crave him so? In the lull hours of Dean sleeping, Sam patiently waits, wide awake and thinking. He also stares, which is unnerving, but he's looking for surface clues. Having no soul—no inner compass—has stripped him of an ability to anticipate another's next move. He has to see it in order to know it's there. It's a huge flaw because one needs that as a hunter. Well, not just a hunter but a fucking living and breathing human being. Dean has taken to falling asleep with his back to wherever Sam may be. During the night, though, he'll change position and—in an old habit that can't be undone—he'll turn in a direction toward the second bed—Sammy's bed... and once he sees the emptiness... and that Sam sits in chairs, typing away on the laptop, his heart breaks a little more. Lately, Sam's been doing personal, private experiments to while away the long hours. Since it's hard to figure out the bond between brothers—between Sam and Dean—he has placed himself in certain situations where he's forced a reaction from Dean. It's been, mostly, successful. Sometimes Dean'll forget this isn't his Sammy and the truth will vanish replaced by regret and silent apologies as a resolve slowly cracks at the edges. Dean doesn't know if he'll ever see his brother again, so he's trying but the effort is half-assed. If Sam had a soul, he thinks he'd be hurt, but he's not—he fascinated. Humans aren't complex; they are what they are and there are no in-betweens. But the more Sam studies Dean it startles him to see such a wide spectrum of emotions and feelings. Take for instance, the shower the other morning versus the shower that same evening. Both times Sam had been curious to what exactly Dean did during this time, so he had chosen to spy. The shower in the morning had been rather boring, save for the curvy, muscular naked shape beyond the shower curtain. There had been shampoo for the short spikes, there had been a soapy washcloth to the body and there had been little attention paid to much else. Over, done quick in five-to-six minutes. The late afternoon shower had been a completely different story. Dean had been pissed at Sam; a reckless thing he did on a hunt that could've gotten him dead. Weird since Dean's always reminded him he doesn't care and then he does. Sam wanted to know why Dean was so confusing—does he like him or does he hate him? “You are NOT my brother, but you walk in his skin. Respect that.” Sam had understood the command as he needed to “take care of” his body—Sam's body—Sammy's body. But he had been distracted by Dean's undressing in that moment. In the mornings, it was a roll-over groan and a pace to the bathroom to pee. Dean will stroll out, gather his things and go shower. It's cool and impersonal. In the evenings, he was all sweaty and yanking clothing off to throw in the distance so they land on the floor. Each jolt of action was a statement of emotion. Sam had nodded his head, narrowing his eyes because this... this—he can understand. Dean had been down to underwear and ripped jeans; he was all bare chest, bare feet and he strutted around like a caged animal. He had been so angry or pissed or both, then had gone into the bathroom with nothing to change into. He had attempted to slam the door, but cared even less about privacy. He had wanted to wash off the day he had under the spray. If this had been morning, Sam would have opened the door on his own; this time the door was already partly open, like inviting him to watch. He does; he had been genuinely curious to Dean's further reactions. Dirty clothes in a pile on the floor, shower curtain drawn halfway down the porcelain tub, Dean had been hunched over, drowning himself under the hot cascade of liquid. Hands braced on the tiled wall, he had made noises under breath to release the tension and anger he had felt at the end of the day. It had been minutes before Dean had picked up shampoo or a washcloth and bar of soap. There had been a long pause of gulping down water and spitting it back out. There had been a moment of a tiny laugh like a long ago memory fluttering by. Sam had pushed out of his seat to stand at the door, watching the naked back of Dean. He had wet his hair, shoulder blades, lower muscles and tendons flexing. There had been a clench of buttocks as Dean had bent over; if Sam had stared long enough he would've seen the dangling testicles. Sam hadn't been able to move, he hadn't known why. What Sam had learned was that Dean was impressive unclothed as he was clothed and... he had considered another aspect he never thought of... Sam only knows siblings—brothers... as family. But still he had no idea what that meant, or what it had meant to feel. Working with Samuel and his ragtag Campbell clan he had understood why they were together. They had served purpose and had gotten results. Trying to equate Winchesters with Campbells had become like night and day. It had probably been why Sam was so fascinated and distracted by Dean and this “bond” he hadn't been capable of severing from his Sammy. There had been something more there... something else Sam hadn't been able to touch. Dean had poured out a dollop of shampoo and as he had washed those dirty blond strands he had arched his head backward, hands sliding down to shape his torso. They had stopped at his hips, but then they had continued on down his thighs, coming up inner thighs to cradle, then pet the flaccid length. He had dunked under the water to soak his head, combing fingers through to get every last bit of suds. He had used his bulging arms to create rivulets of water to wash down around his pubic area once he had washed off the shampoo. Sam had watched bubbles play down the slope of bare back, then rest at the lumber spine to eventually ride down the curve or the crack of ass. It had to tickle, because Dean had sent a hand back around to let his fingertips cup along the one cheek. It had become such a slight move but had caused Sam to swallow hard, his own cock beginning to twitch to life at the subtle move. Is this the bond of closeness Sam and Dean had shared? Is this what keeps Dean in his continuous spiral of grief? With washcloth in hand, Dean had turned his back to the spray. He had closed his eyes as the heated water soothed down his back. He had started to wash his face, then upper chest; the second hand had wiped the leftover trail of soap down his body. Everything had gathered at the triangle of dark blond pubes and had dropped off the domed tip of the semi-erect cock. Sam had been about to grab the handle, close the door when he had caught sight of Dean stroking himself. It had been a weird position: left arm bent with forearm on the wall, Dean's forehead mashed into that arm and the right hand had pumped furiously. It had been as if shame and guilt all rolled into one feeling... simply for seeking a quick release. Dean had heavily breathed, moaning and rubbing his head in the curve of his arm. He had played with and teased his cock until he eventually shot his load against the wall, over himself and down at his feet. For Sam, that shower had been sexy-hot... tantalizing beyond words but he had only been struck by one thing... the way Dean had muttered a continual loop of “... sammy-sammy-sammy...” Sam had actually felt a small tear in his wall, like his old self had wanted back in. He had shut the door and walked away to leave Dean in peace... Sam had licked his mouth, biting down on his bottom lip to chew in contemplation. He had felt the same way he did with a woman. It had been strange because logic had told him to always go for the opposite sex, but there had been no reasoning for feeling this way for another man. It had to have been a dormant response from his old self—the one who had a soul and who was weak and a not-so-good hunter. Sam's weakness is Dean and Dean's weakness is Sam. Although it has become more clear that Sam is Dean's utter destruction. No longer a simple vulnerable weakness. Sam will need Dean in the best shape possible, so he will slowly reintegrate a close bond with Dean that will appease him and hopefully make life a bit easier to handle. He watches Dean sleep. He actually worries when Dean gets restless or seems to have nightmares. The soft, incoherent words with the added, “Sam”, often leave him intensely staring down Dean. He eyes the face a lot, but when that's hidden from view, he likes to watch the body. He still recalls the shower; he vows not to watch the evening ones anymore. It concerns him that he wants to see Dean completely naked again, but in sleep... breathing in dreams. It concerns him even more that he wants to touch that naked body... or lay against the form to see what reaction he gets. Sam wonders if Dean can read those kind of inner thoughts on him or is he really safely hidden? Sam pushes out of the chair to walk toward the side of—what's supposed to be—his bed. He takes a seat and becomes a little excited that he never thought to move sooner—he's so close to Dean he can reach out and touch him. He would, but it's an awkward reach. It's better if he sits on Dean's bed, so he does. But he eases down so he doesn't jolt Dean awake. Dean's out cold. Long day... massive hunt over the last seventy-two hours. They got a lot done; the right ones were dead and they made it out alive—barely. Sam remembers pulling Dean away in time, quick reflexes saving not only Dean's life, but his own. Sam didn't know why that instinct struck him at that exact moment; it stunned Dean as well. Laying on his stomach, Dean is face-planted between two pillows, covers are tangled over him as he's nearly spreadeagled over the mattress. Sam tilts his head, reaching out to lay his hand, palm flat, in the middle of Dean's back. This was where that spiked pole would've hit. Sam can feel the slow intake and release of breathes. He can feel the play of muscles. If he closes his eyes, he knows he can concentrate hard with blood flow and hear a heart beating. He startles from the radiating heat because his hands usually feel cold. Dean doesn't wake, simply lays there—dead to the world. Sam slides his hand up to the back of the neck, feeling the soft hairs of freshly-washed hair. He's curious to smell, so he leans over. It's a scent that intrigues him because he thinks he should be able to easily call out the brand name. An inch or two away from skin, Sam sniffs along Dean's form and he's picking up a different sensation—a churning within from deep in his gut. Is this instinct or memory? Sam's not sure but he has no impulse so he acts on it. He presses lips right over where his hand sits, then kisses a trail up the spine to the nape. He stops before he actually kisses skin, but he wants taste... he craves taste. With tip of tongue, he lightly licks. When Dean doesn't stir, he lays tongue on flesh to suckle then nip. Dean grunts and swats at the back of his head. Sam catches that hand and lowers the limb back to the mattress. Dean arches his back to bump the wall behind him, but that's impossible because... Before Dean rises and turns his head to look over his shoulder, Sam's perfectly rolled across the empty bed and plants himself in a chair in the corner of the room, reading a thick book of lore in his hand by moonlight and random street lamps. Dean is none the wiser, but Sam has controlled himself enough on the surface to belie what rages and burns within. Dean is his. He has to have him. One night, it's all he wants—needs. But the prey must never know he's being trapped, so Sam plots while Dean sleeps... ~~&&~~ Days later, when Sam is alone on a hunt, he uses his powers. They aren't like super human powers as much as concentrated energy and focus. If Sam Winchester wants you dead, you're dead. He doesn't care how, end result will always be the same. Dean left him to run after one being and that being, and four others, lay dead at his feet. He didn't even know if they were all good or all bad; he only knew they had sin or evil in their hearts—or whatever organ he could sense from them... what he could “see” around them. It had almost been too easy. And Sam's not hurt, which is bad because he had planned on getting hurt in order to make Dean take notice. He looks down at his own crowbar and bloody knife, deciding that was way-too easy. But he notices that one of the extra four he killed had a gun... another had a smaller sword, like a saber... Which to choose...? ~~&&~~ Dean comes running when he hears the shot ricochet inside the metal building. “Sam!” He yanks open the huge barn door and wanders down the row of stalls. “SAM! Answer me!” There's a piercing screech of agonizing pain coated in, “... Deeeaaannn!...” and then nothing... “Sam! Sammy! Talk to me! Where are you?!” Dean stumbles upon a passed out Sam, bleeding from a wound in the lower back, around the kidney. He rolls him over, patting his body to check for other injuries. He doesn't see the burn mark on the jacket sleeve at the upper biceps of Sam's left arm. “... hey-hey-hey... Sam... c'mon... open up... wake up... c'mon... you weigh a frickin' ton, man... don't make me hafta drag you...” “Dean!” Sam blinks eyes wide open as he lays in his own pool of blood; blood he caused by his own doing. Who knew he could resurrect the dead long enough to compel them to intentionally attack him. “What—? Am I—? I didn't see 'em... did I get him?” Dean looks around, counting bodies. “Jesus, bro... there's, like, five here... you must've been a ragin' fiend...” Sam's not prepared for Dean's smile, his face covered in dirt, blood and sweat—probably pieces of bones and organs in his hair. “uh, yeah... help me up...” He pretends to be weakened so Dean has to hold him, wrap an arm around his waist and use his own body for balance. Sam feels a rush to his head. Again, it's because Dean is near—he's closer than close and Sam converts inner fire to show real pain. “ah-ah-ah-ah... what—?” Sam reaches around to touch his back, bringing his hand back to look at the blood coating the skin. “... oh... I'm hurt...” It's such a small, dumb thing, but it makes Dean snort a chuckle as he secures Sam's arm around his neck, then hooks about his waist under layers of clothes to walk him out of this rusted metal deathtrap. On their way out, not even bothering to close the door, Sam asks, “Got your lighter?” “Yeah... wait—here.” Dean leans Sam against some huge construction equipment, then flicks the lighter to throw it through the open doorway. Matted cloths on the ground are caked in grease and oil; they ignite and the flames simmer to a nice boil as Dean walks Sam back to the Impala. He leans him on the passenger door, but opens the backseat to clear off the bench. Mostly he just shoves things on the floorboard. He guides Sam around, hand on his head as he leans him in head first. Sam throws himself on the seat, remembering to cry out over his wound as he rolls around and tries to fit his hulking frame back here. “I think I need stitches... this feels deep.” “Five minutes. I'll break speed limits.” It's nice not to hear Dean's voice dripping with annoyance or sarcasm. There's genuine concern there and Sam feels bad for all his martyring he's about to do... kind of... ~~&&~~ Dean manages to open their motel room door with only one hand as he's holding up Sam with the other. Sam has been alternating between being dizzy and remaining upright—Dean seems to believe he's as injured as he appears. Dean shoves the paneling wide open, dropping Sam backward on the bed, but not before he takes a tumble along with Sam. He catches himself on an arm—his right—and Sam's reaching up to counter-weight him so he doesn't land on him. Too late. Sam puffs out a real breath of pain as Dean uses his chest to rise and stand. The minute he's back on his feet, Dean's undressing, but not before he closes and locks the door, setting the chain-lock. He takes off coat and button-down flannel shirt, leaving two-layers of mismatched Henleys—one gray, one cream; one smooth, one waffle texture. He rolls sleeves up to his elbows, then proceeds to wash his hands in scalding water, making sure to clean every inch of skin and under nail-beds. He squats in front of two huge knees and, right away, he's untying shoe strings. Two boots off and now Dean lands on one knee to reach out and grab a hand, a sleeve or a jacket lapel—anything to get Sam to sit upright. Sam goes slightly limp, liking how tight Dean tries to hold onto him, as if he'd fall through the mattress. “C'mon, Sam... stay awake for me... lemme...” Dean loses his grip for only a minute and he lightly snorts at the hilarity. Sam's like a limp noodle—a bloody, bleeding stabbed noodle. He latches on to the large kneecaps, spreading the legs so now he can really get a good hold on Sam. “... Sammy...” Sam heard it—that lighthearted tone of voice where he knows Dean cares or there's an emotion riding the tail of the single word. He sits upright for Dean and maybe he'll think about waking up a little more. “... oh, gawd... it stings...” He winces appropriately. “C'mon... help me here... I need to get you undressed...” Dean manages to get the right arm out of the coat sleeve on his own, but the left is proving difficult. As he trails a hand down the material of the sleeve, he notices the singed line on the shoulder joint—Dear God... was Sam shot too? He works double-time to ease Sam's arm out of the left sleeve, catching that the seepage has caked the shirt in a row of red droplets. Sam isn't shot—the bullet ricocheted off something then skimmed him. Dean takes a deep breath and starts to undo the buttons of the shirt. As he opens the lapels, shaping down the long, muscular torso to land at the waist, he sends hands toward the lower back. “—where's the—?” Sam wearily directs Dean's hand—the left one—to palpate over his lower spine, just above the right butt cheek. As Dean accidentally pushes fingers in too far, Sam falls forward and crashes his head into Dean's shoulder. “... ow...” There's another snort of laughter and then Dean gently apologizes as he untucks all of Sam's shirts. He doesn't know whether to pull them off all at once or do them one at a time. He decides he'll tug the button-down shirt off the broad shoulders, then drop the material down the arms. He throws that shirt on the floor, now considering one flourished move for t-shirt and tank-t. He pulls back an inch, looking down, and sees Sam's wearing a Stanford t-shirt—it's not a huge font, but it's enough to stop Dean in his tracks to catch his breath. He can't fault Sam for wearing his brother's clothes since they're the only clothing that'll fit him, and they are his, technically. Through heavy-lidded eyes, Sam watches Dean's face nearly crumble; the way he bites his bottom lip to stem emotions, then cups his hand over Sam's right peck. Sam's years in college feel like decades ago. He remembers the difficulty of coping without Sam and can't compare it to the feeling he has now; it's as if he lost Sam all over again. Now Dean's pissed and aloof. No more smiling or laughter; he's all work and no play. He doesn't care if he hurts Sam—this Sam, not his Sam—then he barks as he peels off the shirts, “Lay on your stomach. I'll be back.” Sam knows he's lost ground. Dean could be gone from him for good if he doesn't try something clever fast. While Dean's getting washcloths, towels and hot, soapy water, Sam lays back to slowly undo his jeans—the snap and zipper—and as he's almost got the waistband down past his hips, Dean makes his way over... “... whoa-whoa-whoa... hold the phone... I didn't request a striptease from you...” “There's blood all down my—there's probably blood running down under my shorts.” “So keep 'em on. I'll get you nice and clean—only so far—for the rest, you can shower on your own.” Sam bounces his head like he'll pass out, then he rolls over on his belly. He forgets about the wound on his shoulder as he draws up his arms to fold them under his head. Dean forgot too once he saw that nasty-looking two-inch stab wound around Sam's kidney. Sam lays there, draped on the mattress and thankful he has turned his face away so Dean can't see him. He grunts and moans in pain as Dean's forceful with his washing. “... sorry...” Sam actually likes it, but that's just him. “Is it deep?” “I don't think so. It seems to have stopped bleeding. I can still close it up with a few stitches.” “You make the call.” Dean reminds himself about Sam's left shoulder wound, so he stretches out over the naked back to wash off the blood, only to see a new series of droplets falling. “The bullet wound might need more attention.” “Got another lighter...” Sam flips his head over, landing on his cheek. “... or some matches?” “yeah, maybe... why?” Dean wrinkles his brow in confusion. “Burn the flesh closed.” “Excuse me?!” Dean isn't shocked by the request, only by how nonchalantly it was offered. “Don't worry. I'm already in pain. It's not gonna hurt me that much more.” “I don't care. I'm not setting fire to your skin.” “Why not?” Sam doesn't understand the reasoning behind the refusal. “Uh... because it's not yours... it's Sam's...” “Ah... oh-kay...” Sam goes back to closing his eyes, burying his face in the center of his arms and trying to pretend what Dean's doing to him hurts like the dickens. “... sorry...” “Don't be. Bygones.” “Look... I know you're my brother—you look like him, you sound like him... so I'm not gonna—I miss him, is all.” There's a long stretch of quiet. Dean cleans the back wound, rubbing anesthetic cream over it to numb the area. He's pulled out the curved needle and thick thread to do stitches. He's chosen three in a crisscross fashion—like tiny “x”-s. He covers that handiwork with antibacterial ointment, a square gauze pad and tapes all four corners. He taps Sam in mid-back. “Roll on your right side.” He wants to deal with the shoulder wound; he's rather stunned to see Sam not sleeping, but wide-eyed and very much awake. It's tough to find words to break the ice and start a conversation. Dean can't have a normal chat with Sam because this Sam has none of his brother's intellect, personality or characteristics, not even one or two mannerisms, like his smile. As he leaves the washcloth over the shoulder wound, Dean discovers it still won't stop bleeding. It's too bloody for a bandage and not deep enough for stitches. That lighter idea is pretty much the only good idea. Dean wanders over to his bags, rifles through for a spare lighter. He hates that he's resorting to this method, but he's a little pleased he can hurt this Sam, even though he'll leave a scar on his brother's flesh. The second Dean approaches, Sam crawls to sit upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He swipes the lighter out of Dean's hand, flicks the wick and sticks the flame against his skin. Dean winces, unable to look away as he hears sizzle and smells burning blood-soaked flesh. Hmm... kinky... Dean didn't expect Sam to be that sadistic, but at least he took away the guilt from Dean's shoulders. Sam tries to hold in as much of the actual pain he feels, but then cries out in genuine agony at the feel of the flames licking his flesh. He falls backward on the bed, closing the lighter and senses a head rush with piercing anguish. “... dean?... dean... where are you?... dean?” Dean takes a seat on his bed, shock on his face as he swears he just heard Sammy speaking. Sam looks like he's passed out or unconscious from pain—how was that possible? He shoots off the mattress, planting a knee down and promptly shakes Sam to open his eyes. “... sammy... jesus... I'm here... sammy...” Dean shapes one hand around Sam's head, thumb pad paying over an eye lid to see if the pupils are active. He pulls away when he thinks he sees orange flames in the hazel color. “... holy—shit!...” Sam rolls his head around as both pain and agony have stopped and he opens his eyes to see a startled yet desperate pair of green eyes looking down at him. “... wha—? What was that?” “I heard... something...” “What?” Sam rises to his right elbow, leaning on the bed. “No.” Dean shakes his head, denying Sam the right to know. It could've just been a fluke, a freak accident. “Never mind. Mind tricks, I guess.” He stands between the two beds, holding out one hand. “Sit up... we'll see how your sea legs are.” If there's any chance he can get to Sammy by using Sam... he'll watch and wait for the next chance. Sam does sit up, then stands because he doesn't know why Dean is being so strange. Especially not telling him what had gone on only mere minutes before. Dean strolls out from between the bed frames, standing in the middle of the room. “Think you could eat...?” He makes it to the phone, picking up the yellow pages for the local town, when he hears the slump of Sam to the floor. “Sam?” It's weird how he knows the differences, but he has been fooled too often. “Sam... come on... Sam...” He walks over to squat down to lay his hand on a cheek; he feels the intense heat radiating off skin. It has to be hotter than 98.7degrees. The flesh is pooling sweat as if near a constant source of heat. “.. sam... sam, hey... sam...” Once Dean rolls Sam, making him as comfortable on the carpet as he can on his back, he watches as eyes flutter open and arms cross above his face as if protecting the head or his body, warding off an attack. “.. dean, please... answer me... dean... where are you?” All right... that time, clear as day, Dean hears Sam's voice. But now he can't see Sam's face to tell if it's real or pretend. And he wants to, he desperately needs to see Sammy's face. Cupping his hand at the top of Sam's head, combing through the long locks, he bends toward an ear. “I'm here, Sammy... I'm always here... always...” He bumps his brow against Sam's head. “... sammy... can you hear me?” Under the raised arms, Sam comes to... and realizes exactly what's going on. The flame must've triggered a connection with Sam... Dean's Sammy... and somehow he's coming through him. He wishes he had done something like this before, so he could've practiced and figure out how to actually perfect this newfangled power of his... damn... Thinking quick on his feet—or on his back—Sam drops his arms and pretends to pass out. Dean reaches up to lay a hand on the middle of the chest. He lets his hand wander upward to brush along cheek and jaw. Though he feels stubble, the skin is unusually soft and warm, no longer burning. That face... so peaceful and serene... it looks like Sammy fast sleep. Dean leans over, merging brow on brow, opening his eyes to bring up both hands to trace the dearest face he's ever known. And just as he's feeling his heart expand, his wrist are grabbed and Sam—not his Sam—flips them over and out from the space between the beds, pinning Dean to the carpeted floor. “What are you doing? What.. are you...?” Sam grimaces as he feels pin-pricks of pain in his head. He really doesn't understand any of this. “What's going on? Whats... happening?” Dean could cry as he shakes his head. “I don't know.” He has come close to having Sammy again—so close. “Do you feel different?” “Tell me. Tell me what...” “I think you're tapping into 'Sam'.” Sam furrows his brow in perplexity. “How's that possible?” “I don't know.” Dean doesn't know why he isn't more scared with Sam looming over him as menacingly as he is. “What are you doing differently?” “What? I don't understand?” Sam really doesn't comprehend much. At least not with Dean under him like this, gentle shoves of a pelvis against him to loosen his hold and let Dean up. Sam sighs, averting his head, moving his hands so now they just rest on the thin carpeting. Dean stays right where he is, liking the feel of Sam between his legs, heavy weight on top of him resting against his body. “uh... wha's on your mind? What are you thinking?” “... you...” Sam states loudly, on an exhale of air. Dean has sense enough to look bewildered. “Me?” “You—and Sam.” “What about?” Dean begins to grow a bit wary. “I'm not...” Sam shakes his head, bringing his head back over to connect hazel eyes with green. One side of his mouth lifts in crude amusement. “I don’t understand what makes you—love...” Sam's pleased when his soft thrust against Dean's groin causes hands to hold onto his waist. Dean darts his eyes frantically over Sam's face, not sure what's building behind those flighty eyes. “You don't know the concept of 'love'?” Sam appears to be coming back fully into his own mind. He has Dean exactly where he's wanted him. “It's a feeling. I don’t have those.” Dean's growing a little peeved, because it sounds like Sam wants to blame him. “So why do you stay here?” He balls his fists on the carpet, about ready to push them against the chest wall above him. “What?” Sam laughs inappropriately; it wasn't funny as much as ironic. He wants to know why Dean stays with him. “With me? Why do you stay and hunt with me?” “Because we're family.” Sam throws out a pat answer, knowing it's not going to satisfy Dean. Dean shoves Sam off him, climbing to his feet. “You—are not my family.” He growls and barks over his shoulder, not bothering to notice that Sam has swiftly gotten to his own feet. “You... aren't even my brother.” As Dean turns his back to walk away, he's suddenly snatched by the wrist, tugged backward to spin and then thrown against the wall—face first. “—ugh! What!—” His arm is twisted behind his back, pushed against his spine. Dean's pinned to the plaster, left cheek flat to the surface. Sam leans into an ear. “You keep lying to me. Your feelings for Sam run deeper than just—a simple brotherly love.” “... shut up...” Dean speaks out from scrunched lips. “You love him. You're in love with him.” Dean tries to push backward, but finds no resistance from Sam. Fucker's strong as steel. “... shut the fuck up... I'll kick your ass...” The threat is weak, but he throws it out for good measure. Sam rests his head on Dean's nape, rubbing skin and hair on skin and clothing. “I see you—touch yourself...” Lips have trailed up the shirt material to glide over skin on the neck and then remain an inch away from the curve of an earlobe. “—an' you cry out his name...” Sam can still picture that moment in the shower. “... my name...” “... stop... please, stop...” Dean closes his eyes, now resorting to begging as he knows he has secretly been watched. Sam spins Dean around, using his right forearm on mid-chest to hold him against the wall. “How long?” “huh?” Dean's weakening; this Sam looks too much like Sam... it's crushing him... “How long have you loved him like this?” “I don't know.” Dean shrugs one shoulder. “—forever, I guess. I never acted on it.” He averts his gaze as he leans his head on the wall, showing off a stretch of pale neck. “Why?” Sam softens his tone, loosen his arm to stand straighter. His eyes flit to the neck, catching veins and tendons. He wants to taste again. He licks his lips to moisten the skin. “Because...” Dean lets out a deep sigh. “... I'm no good for him.” Sam swallows hard, not prepared for that kind of an answer from Dean. “You're no good without him.” “I know.” Dean lifts both eyebrows, shaking his head. “I didn't know it was possible to miss him this much...” He stretches out a hand to brush fingers lightly over Sam's dangling arm—the left one that was injured. “—to have him—you—but still get my heart broken.” Sam looks away, then back as he drops his arm, placing hands on hips. “I can help you.” “How?” Dean snorts out a dry laugh. “I can give you Sam—your Sam... the way you want...” Dean isn't sure he understands this completely. “You mean—” He points between their chests, his eyes darting toward the bed. “Yes. Exactly what you think I mean. I want you...” Sam lets his gaze trail down Dean's body as if admiring him from afar, but now up close, able to touch him the way he wants—needs. “... I want you to be able to keep your head clear, start focusing on the jobs and stop lamenting over Sam's soul...” Dean crosses arms over his chest, grabbing onto his biceps. “—an' you'll graciously give me some half-assed attempt at Sam... with no feelings, no emotions, no heart?” He shakes his head adamantly in disagreement. “No thank you...” He pushes off the wall and walks away slowly. “... go fuck yourself...” Sam yanks him back, five-finger pinning him to the wall. “Kiss me...” He struts up to Dean, hips jutting outward. “... an' find out...” “huh?” “You heard me.” Sam notices Dean licking his lips. “Kiss me.” His eyes never leave that mouth. “Kiss me how you've fantasized kissing Sam...” Sam moves closer, forearm now planted on the wall beside Dean's head. “... I promise you won't be disappointed.” He drops his head, lips skimming the curve of the shoulder joint, moving up the shoulder to the neck. “This... is so wrong...” To Dean, it feels like cheating on his brother. Weird. “I know.” Sam traces open lips up the neck, along jaw and cheek to rest on sideburns. “—but it'll start to feel right eventually.” He drops his arm, backing away as he holds out both hands toward Dean to beckon him to follow—or grab hold of hands so he can drag Dean with him to the bed. “... come here...” The soft command is entrancing... Dean slowly approaches, but he doesn't take the hands. He watches them fall back to Sam's sides. Dean acts a bit shy, nervous, but he's aroused and eager. Sam's always been his perfect fit, in every way—no matter what age. The huge body tends to overshadow him now, making him feel smaller, like a delicate flower. Sam bends his head low, long bangs dangle over his forehead; he looks like he'll collapse on Dean's shoulder. Dean lifts his hands for palms to slide over flushed cheeks as Sam cranes his neck; he can't wait any longer... he takes Dean's mouth under his, walking them back to the wall. It's the closest surface to rest on. Sam braces one hand, then two on either side of Dean as he rubs against Dean's palms on each cheek. He drops one hand to undo Dean's button-fly as his fingers disappear to delve under tight briefs. Dean pulls back to breathe when he feels the large hand wrap around him, stroking, the thumb pad playing with the pre-come at the tip of his cock. He latches on to Sam's forearm, to his right, and begins to thrust along with the hand's slow motions. “... sammy...” Dean lets out on a guttural whine, near begging. Sam silences Dean with more kisses, this time munching and biting, some licking. He didn't know kissing his brother could be this intoxicating, or Dean so god-damn responsive. He moves on from the mouth to cross over cheek, then along jaw and down throat; he's pulling at Dean's shirt collar, wishing he were more naked. As Dean brings his head off the wall, pushing away from Sam for a bit, he reaches behind him, over his head and tugs at his Henleys, taking them off rather effortlessly. Sam stares at the heaving bare chest, the pert dusky nipples and he goes right back to where he left off, advancing down Dean's chest to lock around one nipple, then the next. One hand plays over the tattoo drawn on the skin that's exactly like his. Dean whimpers out his pleasure, not knowing what to do with his hands so he grabs onto Sam's broad shoulders—being tender with the left one. As lips trail down the center of Dean's chest, Sam falls to his knees, yanking at denim and tight boxers. Dean watches that dark hair against his skin, lifting up one hand to pet through the silky strands. His throat catches and his heart picks up pace as he's finally completely naked with Sam at his feet, willing to service him. He's afraid to look into the eyes for fear he'll just see them dead, like the way they've been for months now. Dean isn't sure if he can do this without knowing Sam is totally there... inside his own body. Sam glances up from his kneeling position, resolved this isn't going to go the way he plans because this “love” that rests in Dean—for his little brother—is untouchable... unreachable. He slowly rises from the floor and looks intently into Dean's face, especially those eyes that avert from his gaze. He brings up a hand, caressing Dean's cheek, then throws one arm around Dean's shoulders; the other arm comes around to lock about the elbow of the first. This is one of those hugs he's seen other people do. He's felt Dean's arms before, when they first met after a year apart—those arms had been tight and sturdy. Sam squeezes Dean close, bringing his half-clothed body against Dean's nude one. It's strange to feel the same tight embrace given back to him, but he stays still and absorbs it. “... sam...” Sam understands a little better, but not much. He now knows what he has to do. So he shuts his eyes and he—he can't really explain how he does it, but it's exactly the edge he needs to get Dean to comply with his wants—his needs. “... dean?... dean?” Within their tight embrace, Dean hears that familiar tone again. Immediately, he draws back to look up into Sam's face. He sees it. He sees everything that tells him his Sammy is back—if only momentarily to appease his own heart and soul. “God...” Fingers flutter down Sam's cheeks to land on the upper breastbone. “... I've missed you... you have no idea...” The heart beat is frantic, yet steady and strong. “... dean...” “hmm?” Dean closes his eyes to lose himself in the best fantasy he could've conjured up. He doesn't care. “You're naked.” “Yes. I am.” Dean replies as if it's a “thing” they normally do. “—and I'm hugging you—close.” “I can explain.” “I sure hope so.” Sam smirks, hazel eyes alight with excitement. “I miss you too. I'm not—well, you know... it's pretty gruesome down there, where I am. Not gonna lie to you...” He sighs and rubs a lone finger over Dean's cheek. Dean's just amazed the likeness to his Sammy, even if the no-soul Sam is playing a nasty trick on him. He feels like time is short, so he needs to speak now or forever hold his peace. “I love you.” “I know.” “No. Not just love of one sibling to another. I love-love you.” Sam smiles broadly, nodding his head in easy acceptance. “Oh...” Dean's flabbergasted there isn't more of a reaction of shock or disgust. “What? You aren't going to say something more?” “Like what?” “Anything but 'oh' would be nice.” “... 'I love you'...” Sam says the three words like they're a question. “Nah, see...” Dean gently shoves Sam away from him. “... that just sounds contrived and not at all—” Sam snatches Dean at the back of his nape, dragging him close to kiss him hard to silence him. He keeps his forehead on Dean's as they pull away. “I know what you mean... and I know what I mean...” He lets his fingers trail down Dean's bare arms, coming around to rest on the bare chest. “... why don't we see if we both mean the same thing...” Sam takes Dean's hands, back-walking him to the bed. He stops when the back of his calves hit the frame; he drops the fingers so he can lower his own briefs and jeans, stepping out of the legs to kick the material away. Neither man drops their eyes off the other to look down at their cocks. Sam sits on the mattress, reaching out for Dean's fingers. Dean allows himself to be drawn in, one knee placed on either side of Sam's thighs as he straddles the lap. “Well...?” Sam runs his hands up Dean's naked back. Dean lifts a curious eyebrow. “How long?” “huh?” “Have you always felt this way about me?” “Always?” Sam shakes his head. “I don't think that's accurate. I think there was a time I thought of you as brother-mother-father all rolled into one.” “mmm...” Dean rests his forearms on Sam's shoulders, adjusting himself to sit more comfortably. He feels Sam's erection under him, while his own brushes against Sam's abdomen. “... I'm a bit tough to define, aren't I?” “Yes, but that's what's almost excusable. While, yes... you are my brother, you are also so much more to me... don't think I could find your equal.” Sam's shaping Dean's torso, watching his hands play over bare flesh as if he's been wanting this for years. “Me either.” Dean watches as Sam leans forward and he lays his head on top of the dark brown hair. “I'm not sure I want anyone, if I can’t have you.” They're folding into one another. Sam slides his cheek along Dean's chest to relax on the left breastbone. “Have you ever—?” “—done this before? No. Never. “So...” Sam pulls away to smile up at Dean. “... I'm your first?” He actually sounds proud of that thought. Dean can't help but return the smile, nodding his head. “I guess you will be.” “Any preference to position?” “Nah... I would like to see your face, though.” “Lube? Or will you be all right with... improvisation?” Dean motions with his head. “Go check my bag. I might have something we can use in the side pocket.” He climbs off Sam, then crawls on his knees toward the headboard. “Don't go anywhere... I'll be right back...” Sam is thankful for the moment to himself. As he wanders to Dean's bags, he can't help the natural warmth that pours out, making him smile. He was finding it tough to shake “Sammy”—he's perfected the persona too well it feels like it is exactly who he is—way-deep underneath. Finding the small pump tube, he turns back around to walk over to the bed and realizes he's able to live out a fantasy of his own—Dean fully naked on the bed, only “looking” like he was sleeping. Sam throws down the tube, near the pillows, poising one knee to start crawling over to Dean. He takes one ankle then the other, spreading the legs wide. He advances on the mattress, nearing Dean to put a thigh on either side of him. He looms above Dean until he finally sees those green eyes open. “You okay?” He almost slipped, having to clear his throat. “I am now.” Dean locks arms tight around Sam's neck. “How do you feel?” Sam runs one hand down the side of Dean's frame, resting on the shape of a hip. “... a little scared... but, you're here...” That almost does Sam in, when he nearly breaks Dean out of this “spell” of thinking he was about to fuck his Sammy. Sam stretches out a hand to cup Dean's cheek, kissing him tenderly and beginning to thrust against the pelvis beneath. Dean starts to move as well: hands gripping Sam's arms and legs locking about the trim waist. Tracing that hand between their bodies, Sam's palm is large enough to engulf both their lengths and soon they're keeping the same pace. Once their bodies kept time, Sam slides his hand further down, cupping the scrotal sac, tugging and massaging each testicle. He is rather pleased when the ass lifted higher off the bed, widening the gap to display the anus. He traces a finger along the perineum, slowly rubbing over the sensitive skin. Dean arcs off the mattress, making soft whimpering noises like he needs pleasure fulfilled or he'll die. It's tough for Sam to concentrate, to focus on several things at once because he keeps going back to needing to look into Dean's face. He finds the striking features distracting; lost in bliss and ecstasy, they're near-breathtaking. It's awful easy to lose himself. To avoid this, at the moment, Sam rolls Dean onto his stomach, making sure to promise they would return to the missionary position once they both near orgasm. On his knees, Dean offers out his backside, playful at first but gradually he gets lost in the euphoria. Sam latches onto the hips, steadying the body as his hands split apart the cheeks. He kisses a trail from tailbone down the crack and ending at the sphincter. Taste. The taste is heady and stimulating as he licks the puckered sphere, then takes the tip of his tongue to play at insertion. Dean pushes back, wanting more. Sam kisses along the bottom, up the back, shaping the muscular torso with his hands. He bit between the shoulder blades, then laps at the nape. Eventually he buries his face in the hair, aligning his body over Dean's. They fit—near perfect. It's Dean who rolls to his left side, sending a leg backward to hook around Sam's lower limbs. Sam sends a hand down he chest wall to take the erect cock in his grip, yanking and tugging as they continued to bump front to back. Sam quickly flips onto his back, bringing Dean with him; he straddles Sam, backside connecting right at the groin below. Sam grabs for lubrication, slicking up his length and wiping excess along the gaping crack. He sticks one finger in, then two... not sure that Dean's body will accept him as easily. Dean seems determined to try. Pitching forward, holding onto Sam's legs for leverage, Dean lifts his body while Sam guides his length to slide along the split as the tip rests at the entrance. Inch by slow inch, Dean lowers himself onto the cock; he hand reaches back when he feels resistance. Hoping he helps some, Sam thrusts forward, that last inch, eyes wide and a bit dazed to see he's inside Dean. The tightness clenches hard around him, so hard he almost comes. Dean isn't moving as he allows for his body to adjust to the feel of the thickness filling him. Sam begins to roll his hips; it's starting to become unbearably painful. He wonders if it's the same for Dean. A little over time, Dean moves, slow at first then he picks up speed. Sam is too lost in his own private suffering, he doesn't hold onto Dean to keep him steady or in place. Dean's able to spin himself around, facing Sam. And it's like a cold splash of water in the face when Dean figures out he's been played. Sam was not his Sammy—had he ever been or was this all some elaborate illusion? Dean's wildly mad and extremely pissed, but he can't deny how good this feels. He's needed some type of release from the stress and tension... the grief and loss... but once he's able to wade through his own blind rage, he notices how uncomfortable Sam looks. He attempts not to care, but he does. He can't deny it any longer. This Sam might not be his brother, but he's Sam in every other way but the right one. Dean leans forward, pinning wrists to the bed. This feels too damn good to stop. He might hate himself in the morning, but Dean will seek out his own pleasure—this Sam be damned. As he continues to ride the cock, Dean wrinkles his brow. “What's wrong?” “I don't know.” Sam keeps pistoning upward. “—this feels... different.” “We're men... I'm not a woman...” Dean thinks it's all a physical thing, not an emotional thing. “No, no... wait...” Sam actually wrinkles his forehead, which causes Dean to slow to a pause. “—'m not talking about the obvious. What I mean is...” Dean almost loses his composure when his brother's hazel eyes look back at him with doubt and worry. It dawns on him that no-soul Sam is warring within to not feel or feel. And it wasn't just the sexual pleasure bewildering him. “I think I know. No more games. And no more of these nights. Our first and last time doing this.” He declares the rule in one single breath, not sure he believes it himself. Sam reaches out to hold onto Dean's hips. “I'm sorry... I was—curious to why you love Sam...” His face contorts in pain that spirals instantly into pleasure. “... to such distraction. He really is your weakness.” He speechless with understanding. “No more. Next time you want answers... just ask...” “... 'kay...” Dean averts his head, like he's ashamed, hiding his face in his biceps as he counter-thrusts every move Sam gave. He starts to weaken, needing to use Sam's chest to prop himself upright. A single arm about Dean's waist, Sam rolls them one final time. Dean lands on his back, arms akimbo and head lulling on pillows. His arms reached up to grab plushness and bury his face away. Sam braces his hands on the mattress and as he slams in and out of the warm cavity, he feels pleasure awash over him as he finally comes in a continuous stream of semen. There are a few drops left as he feels the anal walls milk him, then eventually Dean releases his own orgasm, grappling for a hold of bedsheets. Still lost in his own release, Sam takes Dean's hands and places them on his face. He kisses the palms and wrists as he moves inside the rectum to drain Dean of every last drop. Sam pulls out, shocked to see he was still semi-hard and coated in his own juices. He rests on top of Dean, now braced on elbows and forearms, still laying between Dean's thighs. He wants to go another round, but he's already promised Dean they won't do this again... he'll wait to see how long that decision lasts. Sam lays his cheek on Dean's chest, closing his eyes to feel the frantic heart beat and deep breathing. He turns his head to kiss, using his tongue, licking away perspiration. Tucking hands under Dean, he trails up the center of the chest, nipping at the collarbone then up the neck. He senses Dean moving, feels the body reawaken, one arm lifts to place a hand on Sam's back. Sam uses his head to push away the pillows, trying to dig out Dean so he can see his face. When green eyes finally look back at his, he sighs and has sense enough to avert his eyes downward. “I'll agree—no more games. It's not fair for me to use what I can do against you. To hurt you. That wasn't my intention. My intention, at first, was to learn about your true bond with Sam... why you're so damn attached at the hip to him. Especially for you. You're more like me. It doesn’t make sense that you would—but I suppose that's the complexity of humans... their contradictions.” Dean isn't ready to hear this right now. “... stop...” “No. Let me finish. I told you that wasn't my intention, at first. Now—or during this time I was inside you...” Sam traces his hand down Dean's body, feeling him shiver. “... I felt conflicted. I felt pain... not from fucking you, but here...” He places his hand over Dean's heart, or in the vicinity. “I'm still Sam, in every way except the one you need. But for a brief time, I felt it.” He lifts his eyes to lock with wide green ones staring at him, silent and looking pensive. “Felt what?” “Sam's love for you.” Dean grumbles, pulling out from under Sam and flipping over onto his side. “You used me... tricked me.” “And you didn’t use me?” Sam smirks sheepishly. “Thinking I was really Sam, sprung from Lucifer's cage.” He traces a finger down Dean's back, watching the skin flinch and move simply because he was touching Dean in the aftermath of an intense orgasm. “You mimic him well.” Dean plops onto his stomach, crossing his arms to lay his head down. “I'm the one you can't fool.” “But you fooled me too.” Sam drags his body to sit upright, leaning to the right as he plants a hand on the side of Dean to hover above him. “Your bond with Sam is more about souls than just hearts.” Sam looks down at Dean's bare skin, caressing the softness. “I have his heart, it beats for him while he's gone away.” Dean doesn't like Sam touching him so intimately. “Just fuckin' spit it out!” He sits upright, tucking his legs to his body, as close to the headboard as he can get and as far away from Sam as he can be on the same bed. “What are you trying to say?” Sam doesn't know why Dean is so upset; he got what he wanted. Dean acts like he didn't get the release he was looking for. Why wasn't that enough? “I'm saying...” He laughs outright, shaking his head. “... well, for the first time, I'm not sure what I'm saying because I just don't fucking care.” Sam catches Dean's flinch, like he's hurt. “I can't afford to care. Our work is too important to add all these foolish emotions and feelings into the mix.” “They aren't foolish. They keep us alive and help us survive.” Dean folds his arm over his stomach, leaning back on the headboard. “They keep us from doing fool-headed things like throwing ourselves in front of danger.” Ah!... now Dean was back to the “silly, idiotic heroic” things Sam did in their hunts. “... and so goes the epic love story of Sam and Dean...” Dean stares deadpan. “Don't make fun of me.” “I'm not.” Sam thinks Dean looks kind of sexy when he's pissed. “I think I respect and admire you more.” He decides to start moving off the bed; he sits off the side of the mattress where Dean isn't. “Don't worry. I won't let this happen again—what we did tonight. If you want... I could make you forget it ever happened.” Sam isn't even aware if he has that kind of power. “But I think I've gotten to know you well enough to imagine you like this kind of sorrow weighing you down. I'm sure you want to keep it forefront in your mind so you can brood and mope over it.” He pats the bed, right next to his hip. “Just know this, I'll do whatever you want, but I won't be your emotional punching bag. You want Sam back? You want his soul back?... you have my permission to do whatever it is you need to do to procure it. In the meantime, I'm here... I am Sam... deal with it... and move on.” Sam stands, in all of his naked glory, not caring that he was still showing his semi-hardness rather openly. “I will be whatever you ask me to be, even if you want me to do this with you again.” “I won't. Never again.” “Never say never, Dean.” Sam walks around the motel room, picking up all their discarded clothing. He goes over to Sam's bag, pulling out underwear and pajama bottoms. He strolls easily into the bathroom, half a smirk playing over his face. He turns on the shower knobs, looking for a hot shower to clean himself. Sam pulls the gauze and tape off, showing a fully healed, dissolved-stitched wound. The one on his shoulder healed as well. He opens the shower curtain, then walks into the tub. He begins to wet his body first. The shower curtain is moved back, Dean climbing in to push Sam out of the way to hog the spray. “Hey!” Sam is a little outraged. Dean winks and smirks. “I'm older, prettier... an' I have a soul...” Sam nods his head and actually laughs genuinely. “I'll help you, if you want.” “Sam. I'll help you get his soul back.” Dean raises one curious eyebrow. “What? Not havin' fun anymore?” Sam soaps up his hands. “I'm too reckless. I don't know how I'd be if I kept doing this longer.” He hands the soap to Dean. “I have the care and keeping of his body. Probably a good thing if I don't get dead.” Dean sees the healed scar on Sam's shoulder. He reaches over to touch it. “You did that?” It isn't red or inflamed any longer. “uh, yeah...” Sam glances down at Dean's fingers caressing him. “... sorry.” “No, no... that's cool.” Dean spins Sam around to notice the healed stitches. “Awesome. Like a super power.” “I don't know I can do them until I do them.” “Is there more you can do?” “Yes. Mostly out on cases, though.” “Like...?” Dean is actually interested. “I guess I'll need a hunt to find out.” For a minute, Dean goes still. He discovers what Sam's saying. “I'm not tired.” “But it's...” Dean shrugs both shoulders. “—and you don't sleep.” Sam furrows his brow in wondrous thought. “You don't mind hunting this late?” It has to be close to midnight. “You take the lead. I'll... be your lookout/sidekick.” “You sure?” Sam doesn't want to take a case they can't solve in the same amount of time they would if it was regular daylight hours. “Why are you so shocked?” “Because... what's to stop you from setting a trap for me?” “ooo... indeed. I suppose you'll just have to learn to trust me.” “I don't even trust myself.” “I'll teach you.” “Teach me?” Sam frowns with a bit of worry. “How to be human without a soul.” Dean gives out a small, sad smile. “You said it yourself, you and I are alike in many ways... I'm sure there's plenty I can teach you.” Moving the curtain aside, he walks out as fast as he walked in. Sam stands there under the spray, utterly confused but now even more curious to what could be in store for him in the weeks to come. ~*~the end

Title: Want and Need Author: Sev1970/MK Malfoy Pairing: HP/RW Rating: M Date Written: July 13, 14 & 15, 2007 Summary: Harry watches the Weasleys and wants what they have. Can he have it with Ron? Warnings: language, rimming, frottage, hot boy/boysex! Words: 6,524 Disclaimer: I own nothing HP -- that would be JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Inc., Warner Bros., and any other entities involved. A/N: Thanks so much to Magdelena for beta'ing this for me. --Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day.-- Rainer Maria Rilken from Letters to a Young Poet Harry Potter was confused. He looked longingly out the window and watched Bill and Fleur as they talked and looked at each other lovingly. They were the happy ever after that he wanted. Bill had deep scars and was forever changed because of his encounter with Greyback. Fleur no longer had the handsome-looking young man that Bill had been when the two had met, but both had a devotion to the other that had nothing to do with aesthetics and everything to do with love and respect. Fleur was completely committed to her husband, and he, to her. They looked so carefree, Fleur, her silvery-blonde hair whipping into her face, and Bill, moving it out of her eyes with tender movements using his unsteady hands. Harry wondered what they were talking about. Perhaps Bill was telling her that he had finally broken the curse he had been researching for over a year. She would be ecstatic for him. Or maybe he was telling her how much he loved her. What they had was what Harry wanted. He thought he had wanted it with Ginny, but then Dumbledore had died and Harry had done the only practical thing he could think of regarding her – he had told her they couldn't be together. After the war ended they'd tried again, but their feelings had changed and friendship was going to be as far as the two would ever go. There weren't a lack of girls who wanted to go out with him; Harry could have almost anyone he chose. The problem was, he didn't want just anyone, but the person he did want, he didn't want to want them. He had thought about asking Hermione out a few times, but never did – she was a good friend, but Harry felt wrong thinking of her as anything more. Then there was Luna. Harry knew she would be interested. He did like her and they got on well enough, but he just couldn't ask her out, not yet anyway. Perhaps in a few years when they were older and he wasn't as concerned about trying to fit in after not fitting in for the first seventeen years of his life, he'd be ready to ask her out. He knew it was wrong that he cared what his friends would think, but he couldn't help it. Sometimes appearances did matter, shallow or not, but Harry fervently hoped that in a few years that might not be the case and no one would care that Harry Potter was with Luna Lovegood. She would make him happy. Yes, that is what Harry would do: he would wait a few years, let these conflicting emotions leave, then he would approach Luna. By then this uncertainty that had been plaguing him would surely be gone. Ron and he were best friends, after all, and that was what they would always be. Harry liked girls; he had never liked boys that way… only now he thought he might – he certainly had been having dreams about doing things to Ron… with Ron… but they were just that, dreams, because no matter what his subconscious might be telling him, Harry knew he was straight. "Hey, Harry." Ginny. "Hey." "Have you seen Ron?" Harry forced himself to turn away from the window so he was facing Ginny. "Yeah. He and Charlie went with your dad to the Ministry. Your mum said something about your dad needing help." Ginny nodded, but was looking at him with what Harry knew to be worry. He hated when she looked at him that way. "What's that look for?" "What's wrong?" Shrugging his shoulders and suddenly feeling defensive, Harry shook his head. "Nothing's wrong." "You can't fool me, Harry." She was right about that. "I don't want to talk about it." But it seemed as though talking wouldn't be a necessity because Ginny was now looking towards the window, more than likely seeing the same scene he had. She smiled and sighed, then turned back to him. "I can't believe she married Bill. We really did misjudge her." "Yeah I guess we did." "So, I'm guessing you're feeling a bit lonely?" Couldn't she just let it go? At one time, this fiery determination that resided within Ginny had attracted him to her, now it only upset him. "I don't want to talk about it, Gin." "Harry, I doubt anyone other than Ron knows you better than me. You know I'm not going to let this go. We might no longer be together, but that doesn't mean I can't worry about you." Harry took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose; he was getting a headache, and his former girlfriend wasn't helping things. Cleaning his glasses on his shirt in order to give him something to do other than face Ginny, he tried to think of something to say that could end this conversation. She really did know him better than anyone other than Ron... why did it always come back to Ron? "If ever I need to talk about what ails me, you'll be the one I come to, Gin, but for now, let it go… please." Yeah, he sounded pathetic, but he couldn't be bothered to care. "Okay, fine, I tried. Dean is coming over later and we're going to have a swim, so I'm gonna go get ready." "Yeah, okay," Harry said as he put his glasses back on. "Harry, I want you to be happy." Forcing a smile, Harry nodded as he watched Ginny leave the room. He would always care for her and he was chuffed that they had been able to remain such close friends. No matter that they had once been intimate, she didn't seem uncomfortable around him now, and Harry was happy about that because he loved the Weasleys and couldn't imagine his life without them. But if it had or ever did make Ginny uncomfortable for him to be around, he would give his surrogate family up because Ginny's happiness was important to him. "Harry, dear, will you go tell Arthur, Ron and Charlie that supper is ready?" Putting down the plates he held in his hands, Harry nodded and set out to find the three, who were probably still in the shed working on whatever project Mr Weasley had brought home. Harry hadn't gone to see what they were doing as of yet because of his sullen mood, but he was curious because he had an idea that whatever it was the three were working on, it was not going to be anything Mrs Weasley would approve of. Harry mused as he walked towards the shed that it was curious that Mrs Weasley had to realise more than likely what was going on, yet she hadn't once gone out to the shed to see what was going on. It was another aspect of being part of a family that called to Harry. There was such peace within the Weasley household, and they appeared to support each other even when they might not completely agree with what was going on. Entering the shed, Harry cleared his throat. "Supper's ready." Three faces looked up at him, each of them covered in grease and who knew what else. "Oh very good. Boys, go get washed up and help your mother. Harry, please tell Molly I'll be there as soon as I have cleaned up." After Ron and Charlie left, Harry looked at the large automobile and couldn't help the small laugh that escaped. So Mr Weasley had found another car to bewitch. It looked to be an older model Aston Martin, and while the exterior appeared very much as any other Aston Martin, the grease, various tools, and other unidentifiable objects littering the surrounding area indicated to Harry that the interior of the automobile now probably little resembled what it had looked like hours earlier. "She's a beauty, isn't she? I'll ask that you not tell Molly; she thinks we brought a comuter home. I'll tell her later." "I can't believe your dad's going to bewitch another car," Harry said as he and Ron played Exploding Snap in Fred and George's old room, a room which was now filled with various trinkets that Mr Weasley had procured, most of them Muggle devices. "Your mum isn't going to be too pleased." "Mum doesn't have to know until she needs to, yeah? It's bloody brilliant. I can't wait to use it. Er, I think Fred and George did something to these cards – they keep exploding every time I use this one card." Harry laughed at Ron's now singed hair, and didn't stop when Ron glared at him. Smoke rose in small ringlets until a wand was pointed at it, causing it to dissipate. "Caught on, have you?" "Git." "Hey, I didn't do it." Harry ducked as a plushy was thrown at him. He caught it and threw it back. "Wanna play a game of Chess?" "Yeah, sure." Harry watched as Ron waved his wand to gather all the cards together, then as Ron's Wizard's Chess set appeared. He and Ron might be in their twenties now, but nights such as this reminded Harry of their early days at Hogwarts when they had very little to worry about. "Dad said we'll finish the car tomorrow. Charlie has to work though. Want to help?" "Yeah, sure. You know you have to take me with you when you go for a ride in it, don't you? Our last ride wasn't the best memory to be left with." As soon as he said it, Harry mentally slapped himself for sounding so needy. Where had that come from, and what did it matter who Ron took with him in the car? A whole hell of a lot was Harry's answer to himself, and something in his stomach fell. This was becoming impossible to deal with, and ignoring it was not going to work. Not for the first time, Harry wished to be someone else. He had thought he could control his growing feelings towards Ron, but it appeared as though he had been wrong. He felt miserable inside but grinned at Ron, trying to hide his true feelings. "Spiders, yeah, not good, mate. Yeah, of course you'll go with me. You don't think I'd take Dean, do you?" It was amazing how little it took to make Harry happy. "Thanks. You know, I think he might ask Ginny to marry him." "Why do you say that?" "I don't know, but he's been looking at her differently. I can see it in his eyes how much he loves her." "You're a strange one, Harry. I mean, when I look at them all I see is my sister and some bloke who is shagging her." "You're such a prat," Harry said as he rolled his eyes. "You're not looking close enough." "Yeah, and I don't want to, thank you very much. Whatever makes my sister happy, will make me happy, but too much information… er no, I don't need to know the details. When she and you were together I was really happy for the two of you, but I told you and her back then that I didn't want to know any details about your relationship, and I feel the same about her and Dean. When you ended things with her and she was so upset, I tried being mad at you, but then after she talked to me, I knew that for whatever reason, she wasn't meant to be with you. When she began seeing Dean after the war after the two of you tried getting back together again, I didn't want them together, but I've changed my mind. He's a good bloke and he'll treat Gin right. But yeah, she's my little sister and I'm always going to be wary of any bloke who wants to take her away." All Harry could do was nod. Ron could be daft, irrational, and completely mad at times, but he was protective of those he loved, and hearing him speak so lovingly about his sister made Harry regretful and wistful. He had never had – that he could consciously remember – a family who cared about his well-being and happiness. The Dursleys hadn't cared for him, and had only raised him because of some familial obligation tripe, Harry supposed. What would it have been like for him to have had a mother and father, and a brother or sister? Would he be as protective of her as Ron was of Ginny? Harry guessed he would. Ginny was so lucky and she didn't even know it. She wasn't the only one, however. Harry knew how protective Ginny was of Ron, as well. What the Weasleys had was what Harry wanted more than anything. Everyone in the Burrow was asleep except for Harry, who was lying on his back staring at the stars through the window, his hands resting beneath his head. Other than Ron's snores, which were increasing with each breath he took, it was quiet. Usually there were wolves howling off in the distance and the sound of the gnomes rustling their way through the garden below, but now it was as if everything – other than Ron, that is – knew that something was coming and silence should prevail. Harry glanced at Ron, thankful that his best friend seemed clueless about this unspoken agreement between everything else surrounding them. As bothersome as they were, snores were sound, and Harry craved what sound brought with it; it meant life. Harry hated silence. Looking back towards the window, Harry let his eyes close, wishing for sleep to overtake him. There was a light breeze, and it felt wonderful as it wisped across his bare chest, but it wasn't enough to drive away the stifling heat that had lingered for days with no sign of letting go of its hold. Taking a deep breath, he pushed down the duvet covering him and got out of bed, put on his dressing gown, and went to the loo. It was just as hot and quiet there as it was in Ron's room. On his way back, he met a still half-asleep Ron in the passage. "Had to go to the loo," Harry said as he yawned. "Come with me." "What?" "I need to show you something outside." Harry stifled another yawn, shrugged his shoulders, turned around and followed Ron down the stairs and out the door into the darkness. The breeze ruffled his hair and felt wonderful. Looking over at Ron, Harry raised a brow. "So what do you have to show me?" Harry saw a smirk and got the impression he was about be a part of something not so innocent. "Ginny and Dean conjured a small swimming pool earlier and they left it so we could swim tomorrow. Wanna go for a swim?" "Yeah," Harry said rather indifferently, although he was anything but indifferent. A swim sounded wonderful. His dressing gown was sticking to his chest and he could feel the perspiration beading along his hairline. He followed Ron around to the back of the house and smiled as they passed the shed which held the Aston Martin, wondering if Mrs Weasley knew about it by now. He thought not. Then they turned the corner and a swimming pool met his eyes. It was not big, but it looked wonderful… and cool. Harry saw Ron take off his dressing gown, and couldn't move for looking at his best friend stripping in front of him, but then he realised he was staring as Ron began removing his boxers, so he looked away and began removing his own clothing. Harry didn't exactly feel comfortable being naked in front of Ron, yet he was soon stepping into the cold water, relaxing as it covered more and more of his bare body with each step. He came to a stop a few feet across from Ron, who had leaned his head back into the water. When the wet, red hair emerged from the water, Harry laughed. "Feel good, does it?" "Oh yeah. I was boiling upstairs." "Hm, you seemed to be sleeping fine to me if your snoring was any indication." Harry went under the water when Ron splashed at him. When he came up, he splashed Ron back. "We're gonna wake your mum, dad and Ginny." "You don't think I'm that daft, do you? Er, don't even say it unless you want me to dunk you. Ginny, she sleeps through anything, and Mum and Dad, well they won't be waking up until morning." The smirk and inflection in Ron's voice was all Harry needed to understand – Ron was becoming more and more like the twins each day. "What did you do?" "Nothing you need to know about. Let's just say Fred and George helped me out. I needed to make sure Mum and Dad didn't wake up until morning." Harry raised a brow and smirked, admitting to himself that he felt a bit like Snape… okay maybe not so much. "So you planned this, did you?" Harry went under the water again, swam to where Ron was, and reemerged only inches from him. "Why would you do that?" Harry was completely serious, no hint of playfulness or nervousness at all…definitely not. "Last night you didn't sleep much; I heard you tossing and turning. I thought you could use some help tonight; besides, it's too warm. We could both use a swim, yeah?" "So you did this for me?" Harry was almost at a loss for words. "Uh-huh. And it was a good idea, wasn't it? You look relaxed." Relaxed was not nearly strong enough a word to describe how wonderful Harry was now feeling. The water was cooling him, and his best friend was… dare Harry say Ron was flirting with him? He couldn't be sure, but Ron's usual demeanor was such that he wouldn't have done this unless there was an ulterior motive. Harry would just have to go along with it and see how things progressed. He would be damned if it was going to be him to make the first move, however; his life was messed up enough as it was and he surely didn't want his coming out to his best friend to be a mistake. Harry went under again and came up, a smile on his face. "Yeah, the water feels um… really… good." "Do you want me to wash your hair?" Now Harry's breathing was speeding up – this definitely was unlike Ron. Oh Merlin. But still, this could mean anything. Harry swallowed the hope that was rising within him, and willed it away. "Er, yeah?" Harry turned around per Ron's hand movement, and then relaxed as Ron took his head and pulled it back so his hair was completely submerged. A few seconds later, he was standing again, albeit closer to Ron, who had pulled him back so that there was very little space in between them. Harry imagined that Ron's cock was only a couple inches away, and that was all it took for Harry's to begin making a move of its own. When Ron next touched Harry's head, it was to apply the shampoo, which Harry was guessing Ron had conjured; it wasn't usual to have shampoo by the swimming pool, after all. He felt as Ron ran his fingers through his hair, massaging his head. There were few feelings Harry had experienced which felt as good. Yeah, he had rather enjoyed his time with Ginny immensely, although they really hadn't gone very far sexually, well, not as far as people thought they had, that is. Probably the best sexual experience Harry had had thus far was when he wanked, which he did a lot… every night, in fact. When he orgasmed after jerking himself off, it was a feeling of bliss, but this feeling he was encountering now, and knowing that this was Ron and that those were Ron's fingers massaging his head, and that there were mere inches between Ron's cock and Harry's arse, Harry was beginning to reassess what feeling good consisted of. This felt pretty damn good! "Am I hurting you?" Harry let a small moan escape and tried shaking his head, but found that Ron's rather strong grip was not allowing him to do so, so he settled for the most intelligent thing his mind could come up with. "Mflivjsdf," and then he moaned again, leaning his head back a bit so that he felt it bump into Ron's chest. "I am gonna assume that is a no." "Mmm." Harry was basking in the feel of those fingers doing such wonderful things to his hair and head, and could feel the vibrations of laughter coming from Ron's chest. No one other than his hands had ever touched him in such an intimate way…okay yeah, Ginny had, but this was completely different. Harry's head was then lowered; his face held by Ron so only his hair went beneath the water. He noticed that the moon was almost full, causing him to think of Remus, hoping he was okay. He then felt as Ron ran his hands through the sudsy hair, and some time later, he was lifted and turned so he was once again facing Ron. He grinned, but no words were coming to him. "Mmm, you smell good, Harry." "Thanks. That felt bloody brilliant. Want me to wash your hair now?" "Not tonight, but tomorrow night would be good." Harry was having a difficult time because he was close enough to feel that his best friend's very ample cock was experiencing some movement. He looked at Ron and nodded. "Yeah, tomorrow, you and me, here. Yeah," came out far too breathily. They continued looking at each other, Harry fairly positive by now that this was what he thought it was. It scared him, yet it brought a smile to his face. Ron looked as nervous as him. "What are you smiling for?" "Just feel like it, I guess." This was awkward as hell. Cho. This was how it had felt when he had liked Cho. That feeling hadn't lasted, nor had the relationship, but Harry was hopeful that things might go differently this time. "Erm, Ron, I--" Harry ceased speaking when Ron lifted his hand and shook his head. "I was the one who brought you out here, and I think you deserve to know why." Harry nodded. "I just wanted…er I mean I've been meaning… ah bloody hell, Harry, I think I fancy you…er, more than friends. Oh God, you're gonna tell me you fancy getting back together with my sister, aren't you?" Harry grimaced and shook his head. "I like your sister just fine, Ron, but um, no, Ginny and I are friends and nothing more. As a matter of fact, I was thinking that I wanted to be with you, so er, yeah…um, you really fancy me?" Harry was shaking by now but he grinned when Ron nodded. "Do you think I could kiss you?" Not giving Ron a chance to say no, Harry's lips met Ron's briefly, then he pulled back. "I've waited a long time to do that." Harry licked his lips and closed his eyes, opening them again when he felt one of his nipples being licked. A gasp was his only response before he lifted Ron and engaged him in another kiss, this one most definitely not brief or chaste. When they finally broke apart, Harry was panting, the heat that had abated because of the water, once again upon him, but as Ron was the reason, Harry wasn't uncomfortable in the least. "Um Harry, I wanna… um… er…I want to…" "Bugger me? Is that what you want to do?" A nod from Ron was his response. "Er, yeah, I do want that, but um," Harry looked around him and then let out a nervous laugh, "is that safe? In water?" "Okay, yeah, let's go back to my room er… yeah we can do that." "You're as nervous as I am." Harry was breathing much quicker now and he felt his cock continue to react to his proximity to Ron. He leaned into Ron and whispered in his ear. "I want you to fuck me, Ron; I have for a long time." Harry then went to the edge of the pool, pushed himself up and then helped Ron out of the pool. Once they were both standing in the light breeze, awkwardly stealing glances at each other's erect cocks, Harry leaned in and kissed Ron, then after he had retrieved both of their dressing gowns and they had donned them, he placed his hand in Ron's and began to lead his soon-to-be lover back towards the house. "I always thought I'd be the one petrified and too scared to say anything, and here you are looking like you are about to bugger a Thestral. I'm not that bad-looking, am I?" "Merlin no, Harry. I'm just a bit er… not sure what to expect. I don't want to hurt you." "You won't, and if you do, well we'll know not to do it that way next time." Harry chuckled but quickly stifled it. "Harry, don't try to be daft, okay? I'm serious; I don't want to hurt you." Not another word was spoken until the two opened the door to The Burrow and Ginny was standing in the doorway. Harry let go of Ron's hand. Bugger. "What in Merlin's beard are the two of you doing out at this time of night?" Harry opened his mouth to speak, but then turned to look at Ron, who had also opened his mouth. "Harry and me, we were out having a swim." "Likely story. Harry, your hair smells like roses." Harry momentarily thought he might be sick as he glared at Ron, but was mollified when a quiet 'Sorry,' was whispered. "Erm well, we're gonna head up to bed now, you should too, Gin." "Yeah, I guess I should. Do us all a favor though you two, okay?" "And what would that be, Sis?" "Use a Silencing Charm. I really don't want to hear my brother buggering my former boyfriend." Harry gulped and looked incredulously at Ginny, not believing she knew what they were about to do, but when he peripherally saw Ron frown, he turned his head to face him. "You were spying on us, weren't you?" "Not at all, brother Ron. I simply had my window open because it was boiling in my room and I heard the two of you. So then yeah, I looked. Seemed as though the two of you were doing a bit more than swimming down there. You two think I am so daft, do you? Ron, I've seen the way you look at those magazines with Oliver's pictures in them – I've known about you for two years. And you, Harry… Hermione is the one who told me about you. She told me last year, told me that you were trying to be straight. I guess that didn't work too well. Sorry I couldn't change you." Harry smiled weakly, hardly knowing how to respond. Sometimes it wasn't easy to know how to take things from Ginny. She seemed okay, but she did sound a bit odd. Was she jealous? Harry hoped not. "It's okay, Gin, I think I'm gonna be okay now." Ron had been looking at him strangely since Ginny had mentioned Hermione, and Harry knew something was wrong. This was a lot tougher than he had expected. "You don't want to be gay, Harry?" Harry sighed as he shook his head and looked at Ron sadly. "I didn't, no, but er…well, I like you, Ron… a lot." "I like you too, Harry." "Awww, love, gotta love it." "Shut it, Gin." "No, I'm serious. Love is special and if the two of you have found it in each other then I'm happy for you." Harry grinned. "Really?" He was dragged up the stairs before Ginny could respond. "I want to spend the rest of the night buggering you, not chatting up my sister." As the door was opened, and as he felt himself being pushed down on the bed, Harry's breathing, which had returned to its normal rhythm as they spoke to Ginny, sped up again. He felt as his dressing gown was removed, and remembered that their boxers were still by the pool. Then he was turned over and felt as Ron got on top of him, his body covering Harry's. The pressure was exquisite, and he could feel Ron's cock burrowing itself between his legs, just below his arse, its tip brushing his inner-thighs. Small moans as Ron rutted against Harry were the only sounds for several minutes, and then Harry felt Ron lift up and roll onto his side so they were once again facing each other. Harry leaned in and kissed him. Harry had never done anything with another boy, and he was terrified of what was about to happen, but he knew this was right. Ron was the only one for him. Being gay still confused him because he didn't feel gay, but he thought he was falling for Ron, and a straight Harry would not be doing such a thing. "You're shaking, Harry. Are you okay?" Harry nodded and smiled when Ron gathered him in his arms and hugged him. They were best friends, had been for years, but nothing in that time had ever made their bond of friendship as real as this. Harry felt safe in Ron's arms and knew his best friend would never let anything or anyone hurt him. That is what Harry had needed all his life – someone to care for him and to love him. Hell, this was new and nothing might come of it, but if it did, and Harry really hoped it did, he knew he could be happy forever. That is all he wanted: to be happy. "Harry, are you alright?" Harry nodded. "Uh huh." He was burrowed in Ron's neck and enjoying licking it far too much for a more coherent answer. Then he leaned back and raised his head. "You taste good." He then resumed his exploration of Ron's neck and upper chest, and moaned as Ron's hands wrapped around his cock. There was a part of Harry's brain that wanted things to go faster, but he was enjoying just lying here with Ron, both of them enjoying each other. There was potential here, and if their first time was going to take all night, then so be it. They could bugger hard and fast later. "You're still shaking. Are you sure you want to do this, Harry? We can wait." Harry sat up and straddled Ron. "I'm scared, Ron, but it's not because I don't want this or because I'm scared you're gonna hurt me, I'm scared because… because it scares me how much I wan – how much I want this. I feel like you are a part of me already, Ron, and I don't know if I can handle it if this doesn't work." "I want it as much as you do, Harry, I assure you. You have no idea how long I've waited for you. Yeah, it's scary, you and me…this. Hell, I wanted Hermione forever, but then in sixth year, I was jealous of Draco. You seemed obsessed with him, and I wanted you to feel that way about me. I guess then I knew I was gay." "You've wanted me for that long?" "Uh huh." "Why didn't you ever say anything?" "I knew you'd react badly. You had enough going on then and didn't need me telling you I was gay and that you were the one I wanted. So I continued as I had, and you thought I still wanted to be with Hermione. I didn't want you to learn the truth." "I'm sorry it took so long, but now that you have me, I'm yours. Please make love to me." Again, Harry sensed that he was sounding a bit needy and pathetic, but he wanted Ron. He wasn't ready to admit what that meant quite yet, but he did want Ron, and that he had no qualms admitting. His cock gave another jolt when Ron summoned a phial of lube. "George gave this to me; told me it would make wanking feel like I was buggering someone. He also said it helps you to go further without pain." Harry couldn't speak; all he could do was stare at Ron's fingers as the lube coated them. Soon those fingers would be inside of him. Harry moaned. "Lie on your back." Nodding, Harry crawled to the top of the bed and did as he had been told. Lifting his legs to his chest, he frowned when Ron brought them back down. "For now they are fine where they are." As each inner-thigh was kissed repeatedly, Harry nodded, his eyes fluttering shut. They remained shut as he felt Ron's first slick finger enter him, but when he felt an added second finger, he decided to open them so he could see what Ron looked like, and when he smiled, blue eyes met his. "Feel good, does it?" "Uh huh. Feels real good." As Ron entered a third finger, Harry bucked off the bed and grimaced. "Buggerthathurt." "Sorry." Eventually the pain subsided and Harry smiled, perspiration falling into his eyes. "More." His request was ignored, however, and Ron continued to slowly prepare him. "Pleeeeease." Ron then took Harry's legs and pushed them towards his chest, and Harry opened them as wide as he could, momentarily wondering what he looked like to Ron. It wasn't the most comfortable position, and it seemed quite an obscene stance – to be sticking your arse in someone's face, but Ron looked happy about it. "I want to rim you." Again, all Harry could do was nod, and when he felt Ron's tongue enter him, he hissed. Okay, now he could say that he had experienced a feeling greater than what his wanking sessions had brought forth. Harry heard Ron slurping, and felt the saliva travel to his balls. Then his balls were in Ron's mouth, then Ron's tongue was again inside him, then, and then, and then when Harry didn't think he could take it anymore, he came with a violent bout of spasms, shooting his semen on his chest as that thick tongue continued fucking his hole. When Harry was through the most violent part of his orgasm, he saw that Ron was still fucking him with his tongue, balancing himself with one hand while the other stroked his own cock. It was arousing and Harry felt his cock coming to life again. There had to be something in the lube because even for a hormonal young man like himself, it wasn't normal to begin hardening again so soon after orgasm. "Come inside me, Ron." It was a simple request really, but then again, it wasn't. He wasn't asking any little question, was he? He watched Ron lift his head: his face red, his lips swollen, his head nodding. Ron then crawled up Harry and began kissing him almost violently, but it ended almost as quickly as it had begun, and Harry watched as Ron opened the lube again and coated himself liberally. "Tell me if I hurt you." "Okay." "Harry?" "Yeah?" "Are you really okay with being gay?" No, not really, not yet, but he was getting there. "I will be." Harry was turned over on his stomach a few seconds after Ron let his cock slip from Harry's mouth, and it wasn't long before Harry's arse was filled with Ron, the both of them grunting as they each spiraled towards climax again. This would be Harry's fourth time, and Ron's third. Just when Harry didn't think he could go another second, Ron pulled out of him, and then he felt Ron's mouth on him, his tongue where his cock had been seconds earlier. Ron plunged in and out, slurping all over his arse -- Harry could feel the saliva and come running in between his legs, much like last time. He tried bucking his hips, but found he couldn't move them. "Oh Fuck, Ron." Harder thrusts were his answer, and then in the span of five seconds, the tongue was removed and the cock was reinserted. It only took two thrusts and Harry was spraying the duvet and wall in front of him. Feeling Ron shaking and grunting his own release, Harry closed his eyes, feeling truly tired for the first time in days. "That was bloody brilliant, Harry." Harry felt as Ron crawled behind him and as the broad body spooned itself to him. Scooting back a bit, Harry smiled, knowing Ron couldn't see him. His best friend had just made love to him. Closing his eyes, Harry felt fingers threading through his and he brought them to his lips and kissed them. "Ron?" "Yeah?" "I think we did okay." "Yeah, well, I'd say what we did was more than okay. You are so much more than what I imagined." Harry felt the cleaning charm Ron was performing, and sighed contentedly. "How so?" "Umm well, you grow a lot down there when you are excited. I wasn't expecting that I guess." "So you thought I was little and wasn't going to be that good, eh?" "Prat. Of course not. It's not like I've ever been with anyone to compare you with, but well, Oliver is huge, and well, so are Fred and George. You did know that Fred and Oliver were together for a while, didn't you?" "Yeah, I did. I think that was when I realised I was having confusing feelings. So, I didn't disappoint you then?" "No way could that cock disappoint anyone. I can't wait to feel it in me tomorrow night." Harry grinned as he shut his eyes. "You're huge." "Yeah, but you knew that from Quidditch." "Um yeah, but I didn't know what it would be like to have that huge cock inside of me, now did I?" "Hm, guess not. So was I good?" "Yeah." Harry felt himself drifting off to sleep. "Harry?" Sighing and opening his eyes, Harry let out a small chuckle. "Bugger, Ron, can't a bloke get some sleep?" "Sorry." "What were you going to say?" "Do you think you could be bisexual? Maybe you fancy blokes and girls." "No. I'm gay." The End

"Watson," Holmes whispered, directly into my ear, "I don't suppose you'd care to repair to Baker Street a few minutes early? Our esteemed lecturer is duller than paint, and I've spent the last ten minutes thinking how very much I should like to sit you down in your armchair, kneel before you, and bring you off with my mouth. It feels an age since last I tasted you; I seem to have developed a craving which I am sure no substitute can satisfy. Come home with me, and let me drink you dry." Every hair on my body stood on end. Was he mad? We were in a room full of people, for God's sake! A few hours before this little scene took place, at the breakfast table that morning, I had convinced Holmes to accompany me to a lecture at the University of London, where I still had connections and was permitted to drop in at the occasional talk when it suited me. I managed this feat of persuasion by pointing out that the subject of the lecture--blood coagulation, and how the rate and method differs in sufferers from various blood-related diseases--was as relevant to his field as to mine. Holmes' last real case (barring that unsatisfactory interlude yesterday) had concluded on the preceding Thursday and, as it was now Tuesday, I had begun to worry about the problem of keeping his mind occupied. Even with our little game of seduction providing a certain amount of distraction, I had begun to notice one or two of the warning signs of an oncoming black mood. Occasionally, when I catch them very early, I can deflect his dark fits by diverting his mind into some brighter and more salubrious channel. A lecture was not a particularly promising start, but it was far better than doing nothing at all. Or it would have been, had not the lecturer, as Holmes so rightly said, been an absolute trial to listen to. Though a reputed scholar in his own field, the fellow elevated tedium to heights as yet undreamt by man. He ought to be given a medal, I thought, for excellence in dullness. I had expected some variety of rebellion from Holmes, who is more easily bored than any other human being I have ever met. I had rather guessed, too, that he might indulge in some genteel variety of touch, as we were in public, and thus permitted contact under the terms of our bet. I had not, however, anticipated that even ennui should ever drive him to press his lips against my ear and say such vulgar things with three strapping young men sitting within ten feet of us. I stiffened, my body language begging Holmes to be cautious, but he merely gave one of his silent laughs, returned his mouth to my ear, and whispered, "You may have failed to note it, Doctor, but every man in the room who happens to be on good terms with his neighbour has been muttering in his ear since thirty seconds after Professor Emerson began speaking. We shall not attract any attention on that account, for everyone here is suffering equally. And you know very well that I have a talent for whispering in a way impossible to overhear, even at close quarters; I seem to recall one or two quite eloquent phrases in the Strand about it, as a matter of fact. But if you are concerned that your speech might be more carrying, perhaps it's best if you stay still and permit me to do all the talking. Or, better yet, you could accept my offer, and come home with me now. I fear if I am trapped in this room for the final half-hour of that man's speech, I may have to resort to some rather drastic measures. You've no notion what filthy ideas I can think of to pour into your ear--"though you soon shall, if you stay where you are." He was right about his own method of whispering; how he does it I cannot fathom, but his whispers reach the intended listener and none other. He was also right about the carrying power of mine. I did not trust myself to say anything very explicit, for our neighbours would certainly be in a position to hear. As tedious as the lecture was, however, I had no mind to go home--partly because it would have been rude to our lecturer, but partly, too, because I was unwilling to give Holmes the satisfaction of acceding to his demands. And so I turned back to him, and whispered simply, "Do your worst." I had just time to see the look of surprise and delight that passed over his features before his face was once again pressed flush against the side of my head. "Oh, I think you will regret that, Watson. I shall give you one more chance. Relent, come home with me now, and surrender this wager of ours, or, by the time the professor has concluded his interminable droning, I shall have you so achingly hard that you beg me to take you right here, in front of an entire class-full of young men." I shook my head fractionally, not trusting myself to do more, and felt the lips against my ear curl with satisfaction. "Very well then, John," he said, humming soundlessly against my ear in a way that made me desperately wish I could wriggle in my seat. "Do you happen to remember that last night at Baskerville Hall? I am not sure precisely how you could have forgotten it, but that seemed the proper way to begin. It took a bit of doing, convincing the Barrymores to install us in the empty wing, but good God, it was certainly worth it. I had always suspected that, if we could only secure a bit of privacy in a spot where we were certain not to be overheard, I could make you scream for me. I admit, however, that it was a surprise--a most pleasant one, I assure you--to find you quite so vociferous as you proved to be; well worth the many hours of effort spent learning to open my throat. I am not sure I have ever known you come as hard as that. For ten minutes afterwards you were quite insensible, my dear fellow." He pulled back for a moment, glancing around the room to assure himself that no one was regarding us with suspicion, and taking in the heightened colour in my cheeks. Then he leaned back in and resumed his narrative. "Those ten minutes were a mingled joy and torture to me. On the one hand, to know that I had given you such extraordinary pleasure was a pleasure in itself, and no little ornament to my pride. But we had been so long apart, and I was so near mad with wanting you, that I am afraid I was more eager than I ought to have been, and did not allow you simply to bask for as long as I might have. I believe it was my fingers spreading you open that finally brought you back to yourself, but if the way you pushed back against me and the little moaning noises you made were any indication, you seemed not to object to the interruption. I never told you, I think, how much I wished we could have been out on the moor then, for the dark wild strangeness of that place should have been a fitting counterpoint to the dark wild strangeness of our passion. Not that I have any cause to complain about that night as it was, in that big old bed in our lonely wing. I am sure you recall just how forcefully I buggered you that night, John, when there was, for once, no need to worry about the slapping of our flesh as we came together, or the cries of ecstasy which neither of us could suppress. Just thinking about it now makes me want to bend you over the arm of your chair and fuck you senseless. You would not even notice the looks of horror and fascination from our audience, my dear Watson. I could make you forget everything else but the feeling of my cock driving into you, make you cry out my name again and again, hold you half-an-inch from your release for so long that you would weep and curse and beg and nearly lose your mind with pure lust before I finally permitted you to climax..." I could stand it no longer. I rose from my chair with far more haste than discretion, drawing strange looks from half the room, but managed to duck my head in polite apology as I shuffled sideways towards the aisle. Holmes followed, in a calm, dignified fashion, for all the world as though he had not just been whispering such illicit, explicit, dangerous things to me. I hurried off towards the door and he followed sedately in my wake--though with sufficient speed, on those long legs, to enable him to catch me up as we were leaving the lecture hall and brush his fingers against the small of my back. "You're a cruel man, Sherlock Holmes," I muttered, as we made our way down the street. "Sometimes," he agreed, with mock seriousness, "but you are also well aware just how kind I can be." "Yes," I said softly, giving the words a very different slant than the prurient one he had meant, "I am." His eyes widened for a moment, and then, to my infinite delight, he actually blushed, though very slightly. "Touché, Watson," he replied. Only a few blocks from the lecture hall sat one of our favourite little cafés, which served good, simple fare and excellent coffee with a pleasant view of Regent's Park. "Will you permit me to treat you to a late lunch, my dear doctor, as amends for my churlish behaviour? I admit, it was bad of me, to distract you so when you were attempting to take in that fascinating lecture. I am sure that a mere sandwich can never begin to pay my debt, but if you would only..." "Oh, hush," I growled good-naturedly, taking him by the arm and tugging him towards a table. The meal was a more than excellent one. Holmes was at his brightest, bouncing from subject to subject in the way which shows off his brilliance to its fullest effect, for it is only the most vibrant of brains that is able to trace the larger connections between seemingly disparate ideas. In Holmes's brother, this skill at seeing everything at once is almost frightening, but in my dear Holmes it is, to choose a most accurate if rather fanciful adjective, entrancing. He raced from colonial politics to Eastern religion to methods of dyeing silk to poverty in England with the speed of an express train, and yet every word was calculated to fascinate. Our lunch would have been a pleasant one at any rate, with his ankles pressed against mine and the both of us taking every opportunity to brush our hands casually against each other in lifting wineglasses or reaching for saltcellars, but the appearance of his most charming aspect made everything still lovelier. I did not waste time in worrying that his exultant mood might be followed by a descent into misery, as they sometimes are. I simply enjoyed it while it lasted, and attempted to keep up with the sparkling of his mind as best I could. As we were only a mile or so from home we opted to walk rather than taking a cab, and as the Park was so conveniently in our path it should have been a waste to go around rather than through it on such a fine August day. Our ramble--arm in arm every second, as may well be imagined--was as pleasant as our lunch, and I would gladly have remained there, savouring those alternating periods of companionably silent enjoyment and of lightly philosophical conversation, until the sun was well down in the sky. It was Holmes who led us back towards Baker Street just before four and, while I at first followed reluctantly, I was glad of it by the time we turned the corner at Baker Street, for my old leg wound had just begun to complain about all that walking. I was on the fourteenth step when it occurred to me that Holmes had noticed my own pain before I had. Something of what I felt for him at that moment must have shown on my face, for once we were in the sitting room and he had turned to face me he gave me a quizzical glance. "Whatever are you grinning about, Doctor?" "You," I replied simply, retrieving my pipe and settling myself into my armchair. "A very unworthy subject to provoke such an expression," he said, affecting seriousness but secretly well-pleased. He recovered a pair of afternoon papers from the table where they had been laid out for us, passed me the Telegraph and retained the Echo, lit his own pipe, and slid into his own chair. The time until supper passed pleasantly thus, the meal a fine dish of curry, and afterwards, when the clock struck seven, it was time for Holmes's weekly meeting with his personal army. For a short time, Holmes attempted to appoint Wiggins as his mouthpiece to the rest of the Irregulars except in extraordinary circumstances, but that was found to be an unacceptable arrangement. Those boys worship Holmes. The thought of being denied their usual communion with their venerated leader caused such consternation among the ranks that the project was scrapped, and a general congress became once more the order of the day. Mrs. Hudson, however, was firm in her insistence that she would not have that crowd of little ruffians tracking dirt hither and yon and, as she is the most tolerant of landladies in other respects, Holmes was forced to knuckle under to that particular demand. And so, at seven every Tuesday night, the corner of Baker Street is the scene of a very strange little gathering, my stork-like and immaculate friend surrounded by a gaggle of diminutive ragamuffins, prattling away with them as though that were precisely where he belonged. In a sense it is precisely where he belongs, for my Holmes is beyond doubt a natural leader of men. The men in question, however, need not necessarily be quite so young. Oftentimes I accompany Holmes on his 'inspection of the troops', as he likes to call it, for I am fond of the lads, and, as the conditions in which they live are far from ideal, I and my bag of remedies are often able to do some good. Tonight, however, I intended to have my revenge on Holmes for his behaviour in the lecture hall earlier. Though my plan was nothing very complex, I should require the rooms to myself for a minute or two. So I simply bid Holmes give my regard to the boys, and sent him on his way. He shot me a rather suspicious glance but, for once, did as he was told. Once he was out the door, I gathered up the necessary items from the hat-stand and his desk-drawer and carried my prizes off to Holmes's bed-room. I stripped off every stitch of my clothing, folded it all neatly, and placed the pile of garments on the chair in the corner. I had deposited my treasures on the bed while I undressed, but I turned to them now and began to set my scene. Holmes keeps one pair of old-fashioned darbies in the house, and another of the new variety of self-locking hand-cuffs. I opened all four locks and laid the keys carefully on the nightstand. Then I fastened one side of the darbies to the left bedpost, one side of the cuffs to the right, and left the other side of each dangling open. The last object that I had brought with me was Holmes's riding crop, and this I laid at a gentle diagonal across the foot of the bed before settling into position myself. I had no plans to actually fasten the restraints around my wrists; they were mere set dressing, a little something to add to the atmosphere, for neither Holmes nor I had ever expressed a prior interest in being bound. If Holmes, when he arrived, made some sign that he desired to put them to use, however, on myself or on him, it would clearly not be the done thing to object. After all, I had put them there. Only the worst sort of tease offers what he is unwilling to deliver. The crop, on the other hand, had made one or two prior appearances in our bed, though not for the purpose of causing pain. We are both of us far too unconventional to choose the obvious use over the inventive--and, despite my provocative comment about whips the day before, I saw no particular appeal in the notion of pain-as-pleasure. Neither, so far as I was aware, did Holmes. Then again, as pain goes, that caused by cropping is, as I understood, both brief and slight, no more than a bit of a sting. Again, if Holmes should seem intrigued by the notion, I did not plan any resistance. Holmes's meetings with the Irregulars on weeks when we have no cases are, naturally enough, brief, and so I did not expect the wait to be a long one. Nor was it; I had scarcely time to register the fact that lounging about in the nude looking vaguely alluring is an incredibly dull pastime when I heard the front door open and close downstairs. To my horror, however, I also heard the rumble of two men's voices, one of which was surely Holmes's. They had passed into the sitting room by the time I was able to hear sufficiently well to identify the other as belonging to Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Had I not already been cold--August or no, lolling around alone and unclad in the evening is a chilly business--I should have turned so then. Lestrade and I have known each other since only a few weeks after I first met Holmes. Relations between the inspector and myself have always been cordial, though I admit that it took me some time to fully appreciate him. The fault was entirely mine. Lestrade does not show to best effect around Holmes; his quite natural response to Holmes's jeering is to turn brusque and competitive, which goes far to masking his usual quiet competence. The fact of the matter is that Lestrade's instincts make of him a perfect mirror, a trait which has no doubt been useful to him as a policeman. Within reason, he behaves towards everyone precisely as they do to him. During those early years when I was outwardly polite to him but privately subscribed to Holmes's unlofty valuation of his talents, so exactly did he act to me, and, as my respect and regard for him grew, so did his. Likewise, the inspector scorns Holmes to the very degree that Holmes does him at any given time. He swaggers before Holmes only because Holmes so enjoys showing off himself, does not fawn over Holmes any more than it is Holmes's nature to do to him, and is never bitter when Holmes beats him to the solution of a case, for Holmes's happiness at those moments is contagious. I do not consider this reflective quality of Lestrade's to be a weakness; on the contrary, I respect it very much. It encourages men to be their best selves in his presence, for knowing that the kindness they sow to him shall be reaped, and the bitterness returned. The inspector's responsive nature does not extend to all corners of his personality--he is not the sort to lose his head, for example, no matter how hysterical those around him may be. But within that unruffled, practical, dedicated framework, it is his practice to treat every man precisely according to his deserts, which is a disconcerting and a wonderful thing. It was not, then, that I had any aversion to a visit from Lestrade in and of itself. But there are obvious disadvantages to being caught in the nude in another man's bed by a friend and especially by a policeman, and his timing was therefore damnably inconvenient. Even if I managed to slip back into my clothes it would be awkward to explain what I was doing in Holmes's bedroom with the door shut, but I had very little chance of achieving a respectable state unheard. While the floors and outer walls of Baker Street are quite solid (facts which allow us to live our lives without fear of detection from the residents of 220 and 222, and to maintain a veneer of innocence in our dealings with Mrs. Hudson, who probably knows far more than any of us ever speaks of), the inner walls are appallingly thin; if I so much as moved from the bed, the likelihood was in favor of anyone outside hearing it. My best hope, I supposed, was to stay absolutely silent and still, and hope that they did not come searching for me. And, that I might be as prepared as possible should the worst happen, to listen with all my might. "Are you sure you cannot stay for a drink, Lestrade?" I heard Holmes ask, with surprising cordiality. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Holmes. I've got to get this information back to the Yard as soon as possible. I shouldn't have to bother you about it, you know, if you'd only tell us the secret of that blood-test of yours." I could tell from his tone that Lestrade was grinning. The Sherlock Holmes Blood Test is a long-standing feud between them, but a friendly one. Shortly after Holmes discovered his test, and before he had the chance to make it public, it occurred to him that here was an ace-in-the-hole at a time when few members of the Yard took him seriously. Holmes will administer his test at any time, day or night, at the request of any representative of the Law, but he stubbornly refuses to give up the formula, and so anyone wishing to use it must come to him. By now, of course, it is not because he fears that the Yarders will stop bringing him cases. It is partly because he is a man of habits, and partly because he likes to have something to do, and partly, too, because he enjoys his little joke with Inspector Lestrade. "When I am ancient and feeble and have given up this life of excitement for a farm in the country somewhere, I may consider it," Holmes replied genially. "Until then, Inspector, I am afraid we shall both of us have to be inconvenienced. Have a cigar while you wait. It will help you to feel the wisdom of my point of view on the matter." "If you insist, Mr. Holmes--but only for fear of offending you by my refusal," Lestrade said solemnly. I heard him cross the room to the humidor on the bookcase. "No Dr. Watson tonight?" I held my breath. One never knew about these things with Holmes. He may hardly have noticed that I was gone at all, or he may have deduced precisely where I was and what I was doing. If it were the former, it might lead to a search which would spell inevitable disaster. If the latter... "The good doctor is spending the evening at his club," Holmes answered smoothly. I gave a silent sigh of relief. There was a short pause, presumably while Lestrade took a puff of his cigar. "I'm sorry to have missed him. Do give him my regards." "Certainly," Holmes replied absently, clearly too caught up in his analysis to pay any attention to such politely typical conversation. There was another pause. "I heard about that case you took yesterday, Mr. Holmes. A jewel theft, was it?" The slightest possible film of mischief clung to the words. Holmes groaned. "This is why you're here tonight, Lestrade! Not so I can inform you that the stain which looks like blood and smells like blood is, indeed, blood. To rib me about that insufferable..." "Now, Mr. Holmes, whatever would give you an idea like that?" Lestrade broke in, honey-tongued and innocent as you like. "I do need that test done; you know what juries are. 'The substance which an expert chemical analysis revealed to be blood' goes over miles better than 'the substance which gave every possible indication of being blood.' And, having made the journey for that purely professional reason, you could hardly expect me not to mention that Stanley Hopkins has spent the day announcing to anyone who'll listen that you were so impressed by his performance in the case that you're planning on taking him on as an assistant." "Tell me that you are joking, Lestrade, I beg." Holmes sounded positively miserable. "Could I invent such a story, Mr. Holmes? You are always telling me that I have hardly enough imagination to keep body and soul together, after all. But it is blood, then?" "Oh yes, you need have no doubts of that." "Excellent. Much obliged to you, Mr. Holmes. And thank you for the cigar." The shuffling of feet and the rustling of cloth followed Lestrade around the sitting room. "Think nothing of either, Inspector. And Lestrade?" "Yes, Mr. Holmes?" "Has he really?" It was impossible to doubt from his tone that Lestrade was grinning. "I leave that to you to deduce. Good-night, Mr. Holmes." The door closed. "I liked it better when he despised me, curse the man," Holmes muttered. Raising his voice, he called, "Watson?" "In here, Holmes," I shouted back, arranging myself into as nonchalantly alluring a pose as I could manage without making myself feel still more of a fool. "I thought so. Whatever are you doing..." Holmes stopped short as he opened the door and took in the scene, his eyes lingering on the handcuffs and the crop and intentionally scudding over my nudity. "Ah. That explains that, then." "Care to join me, Holmes?" I asked, struggling not to laugh. His lips curled. "My dear Watson, while I applaud your initiative, I am not sure that setting up this..." he struggled momentarily for the proper word, "...unique tableau for me was the safest possible manoeuvre. Suppose I had invited the good inspector in?" "Into your bedroom, Holmes?" I raised an eyebrow. I think that I managed quite a near approach to scornfulness, for a man lounging about in the nude. "That does not seem very likely. What possible reason could you have?" He looked at me in a way that would have made me feel naked, if I were not so already. "The most obvious of reasons. Friend Lestrade is not immediately prepossessing, but there is, I think you will admit, something rather…stimulating, about the man. Though his face and form are unexceptional--not nearly so attractive as yours, my dear doctor--one cannot deny that he does have very fine eyes. One can only suppose that, with the proper inducement, they become even finer. As you refuse me the pleasures of your bed just at present, I think I could do worse than our friend the inspector." I spluttered. I admit it. And then I swallowed hard, breathed deep, and regained control of myself. I knew very well that he did not mean it--and that I could turn his own ploy back on himself, if I was sufficiently deft. "In that case, Holmes, it's too bad you didn't let him in. It would be abominably selfish of you to keep our Lestrade all to yourself, but I certainly should not have been averse to sharing him." "Our Lestrade?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, and walking over to sit beside me on the bed. He hoped, no doubt, to entice me by his proximity, but it was a grave tactical error. His nearness worked far more to my advantage than to his. "Certainly, ours. He is my friend as well as yours, after all. I do not see why I should not have as good a claim to the inspector's favours as you do, if indeed he inclines towards men." "He is of your turncoat stripe, and hasn't bedded a man since he turned eighteen, but he would say yes, if we asked him," Holmes said, with that offhanded self-confidence which would be completely unbelievable coming from anyone else. "As to priority, I might point out that I have known him rather longer." "I might point out that I annoy him rather less," I grinned. "At any rate, Holmes, I would not attempt to lay sole claim. In fact, I should have no desire whatever to interfere. The image of you," I moved then, planting my arms to either side of Holmes on the bed and leaning around him, very nearly bringing the sides of our faces into contact, "with Lestrade standing before you," I leaned to the side and breathed into his ear, "his cock in your mouth," and then puffed a trail of breath over his neck, "certainly has its own variety of appeal." "Oh really?" Holmes does not often speak with no definite purpose in mind. That he could come up with no better remark than 'oh, really' made his disturbance of mind as clear as print. "Mmmm. Though, of course, I'd need one or two concessions from you, before I could actually give my blessings to such a liaison." "Naturally," he replied. He hesitated a moment, clearly aware that he oughtn't to ask the question, but, if there is one trait of Holmes's that may be depended upon, it is his curiosity. "What sorts of concessions?" The possession of a moustache bestows upon a man certain advantages in matters amatory. One of the less obvious is that moustaches permit a certain variety of smile, one which is visible only as a sort of rustling, and which is especially effective in conveying lascivious intent. I directed such a smile at Holmes, and then said, "I think that, if you were busy attending to our Lestrade's prick, you might permit me to sod him in the meanwhile. I daresay he would raise no objection, and it should not be much of an interference with your own activities. In fact, my attentions might be rather useful, from your perspective." "Would they?" he asked, rather unsteadily. "Oh, yes. After all, every time my cock thrust into him, it would no doubt force his hips forward, and press his own cock further into your mouth. You would not need to consider the question of back-and-forth, and would instead be free to devote all your attention to those clever little tricks of the tongue in which you are so proficient." "Very considerate of you." He seemed to be having some difficulty keeping his pitch under its usual strict control. "But you will forgive me observing that I seem to be coming off worst in this little arrangement." "Only at first, I assure you, my dear Holmes. With the both of us pleasuring him at once, the good inspector certainly would not last overlong. I'm sure I should be able to see to you as well, and perhaps Lestrade would be kind enough to fill for you the office you had just performed for him." I lay back on the pillows, spread out full length before him in all my nudity. "What do you say to that?" Holmes's eyes were almost black as he looked at me. I was looking straight at him and yet I did not see him pounce, for he was quick as a panther about it. His legs came to either side of my hips and his arms fenced in my neck. There were a dozen places where we ought by rights to have been touching, but we were not, some little space separating every inch of my naked body from his clothed one. Only in the case of our faces was the distance significant. That did not last long. He leaned down, the eyes which were suddenly not only aroused but dangerous drilling into mine. "I do not like it one bit, Watson." It was my turn for the sort of paralyzed incoherency that prevents all but simple leading questions. "Don't you?" After a moment, I managed to add, "It didn't seem that way." "No," he repeated, "I do not. I do not like it because if you are to bugger anyone, it shall be me, and only me. If anyone is to suck my cock, it shall be you, and only you. I do not like it because you are mine, John, and I could not ever stand back and share you. You are mine." It ought to have bordered on frightening to hear him stake his claim so very aggressively, especially given our imbalance in clothing and the fact that I was pinned beneath him. It was not frightening--at least, not in an unpleasant sense. It was, on the contrary, one of the most unbelievably erotic moments of my life. The spinning of that little fantasy for him only a few seconds before had left me in the first throes of arousal, but now I was aching with readiness, wishing for nothing more keenly than to feel his beautiful and talented fingers on my prick. I only just managed to croak, "I believe you were the first to mention bringing another man into our bed. The idea was not my own." "But that was in reference only to me. My body is a thing of trifling worth--sound and fury, signifying nothing--but yours..." He looked at me then, taking in my entire form, his expression that of an aesthete savoring a masterpiece, "...yours is a very different matter." I blushed. "I have as much scar tissue on me as unblemished skin, and if I keep gaining weight the way I have been the last two years, I'll be positively portly soon. Whereas you..." He shook his head, still intense. "You are beautiful, John," he said simply. "You are beautiful, and you belong to me." I blushed still further, but replied, "Then prove it. Kiss me, Holmes. Teach me that I am yours, and no other's." His lips moved within half-an-inch of mine. "You know it very well already, your body as well as your mind. My name flows through your veins with every heartbeat, and expands in your lungs with every breath. You could no more wish to bed another man than you could will yourself never to have existed." "That sounded suspiciously like poetry, Holmes." My voice was shaky, even in my own ears. "Amazing, what sorts of bad habits one can pick up from one's intimate acquaintance." "Oh, indubitably. I have been living with a confirmed queer for some years, and find myself lately with the most pronounced desire to sleep with men. Or one man, anyhow." "They should give the fellow a medal, for encouraging that particular vice in you," he replied with a smile, rolling to lay beside me. "I do not think that would be a very good idea; decorations go to his head. Her Majesty gave him an emerald tie-pin last year, and he has been horribly puffed up about it ever since." "Only because a certain person's eyes go so very blue when I wear it. Such things mean nothing to me in and of themselves, I promise you. They might offer me a knighthood, and I should have no compunctions whatever about refusing it." "I shall believe that when it happens." "And so you shall." He stood then, and spared one last glance for me. "Unless you intend to end our bet now, Watson, I should advise putting some clothes on. While the notion of you lounging about the sitting room in the altogether is not entirely unpleasant, it is probably not a wise plan." "Then stay here, Holmes," I said, in the most seductive tone I could summon, "and conform yourself to my dress code, rather than the other way about." "You know very well, my dear Watson, that I have no talent for conforming myself to anything whatever." He seemed about to leave, when his eyes lit on the riding crop still lying across the corner of the bed. He walked slowly back across the room, took the thing in hand, and considered it for a moment. I ought, I suppose, to have found something witty and alluring to say, but nothing occurred to me. Still less occurred to me when he pressed the leather tress of the crop against my sternum and dragged it gently upwards until it pushed up on the underside my chin, forcing me to meet his eye. "You oughtn't to leave weapons just sitting about, Watson," he said, huskiness browning the edges of his voice. He moved the loop of the crop to my face, caressing my cheek. Then he brought it to rest against my lips and tugged down softly, pulling my lower lip down into an odd sort of pout. The smell of leather filled my nostrils. I shivered. When he moved the crop away, I unconsciously leaned towards it for a moment before catching myself and pulling back. It might not have been him touching me, but it was the next best thing, and I found myself aching for more. "I'll just put this back where it belongs, then," he said smugly, and sauntered from the room. Holmes had not come out entirely the victor in that encounter, I told myself. That fit of possessiveness that I had managed to provoke was, at any rate, a decided point to my side. Still, I could not help feeling, as I gathered my clothes into my arms and shrugged into Holmes's spare dressing gown (the blue one, which he claims is such a fine match for my eyes), that my plan had been flawed. While the scuffle may have been a draw, however, I had not yet lost the war. Considering the fact that Sherlock Holmes was my competition, that was saying something. Holmes glanced up as I and my bundle of clothes emerged into the sitting room. He shot me an inquiring glance, and I replied to his unasked question with an, "I think I am going to retire early with my book this evening. I am scarcely more than a hundred pages from the end, and the climactic naval battle is about to get underway." "I really cannot fathom your interest in those frivolous..." "Your opinions on the matter of my reading habits are already a matter of public record," I interrupted, in the name of connubial felicity. We both stood where we were for a moment, waiting for each other. Finally, I broke the silence with an, "Aren't you going to come over and practically kiss me good-night?" He raised an eyebrow. "Would you like me to?" "I merely thought it was the rule," I replied nonchalantly. "I know you are a scientist, and that, in your mind, two instances do not establish a pattern, but it seemed to me as though you intended to make a habit of it. As you clearly had other plans, I'll simply bid you good evening from here, and..." He caught me at the door to the stairs. He was barely more than a foot away from me as it was, and so it did not take much leaning to bring his face in line with mine. It would be easy, so easy, simply to step into a kiss, and from there it would be only a brief, frantic, conjoined stumble to his bedroom... "Good-night, Watson," he murmured. "Good-night, Holmes," I echoed, and he pulled back. Tonight he did not vanish instantly, but lingered, his eyes locked with mine, rocking slightly back and forth. All at once he surged forward, so swiftly and deliberately that a kiss appeared absolutely inevitable. It seemed far past the last possible second when he stopped. I was afraid to breathe lest I bring our lips into contact. "John..." he whispered. Every one of my inner organs seemed to twist a quarter turn to the left. I heard his bedroom door close before I was even aware that I had closed my eyes. I spent the next hour staring at the same few pages, attempting vainly to wrench my brain away from Holmes, and the hour after that twisting between my sheets, haunted by the presence of the man who ought to have been beside me.

Friday It was as I was dressing that morning--early, for I had passed another unhappy night--that I had the idea. I happened to see it, in the far back corner of my wardrobe, and to recall one or two conversations with Holmes which bore obliquely upon the garment in question. I had been saving it for a special occasion, knowing full well how much Holmes desired to see me wearing it. That special occasion, I decided, had come. One of the circumstances which drew Holmes specifically to our Baker Street rooms (though I could not have cared less about it, at least in the early years) was the profusion of empty space. Besides our bedrooms, sitting-room and bathroom, our part of the house contains no fewer than three lumber-rooms--one on either side of my attic room, each only slightly smaller than a bedroom in its own right, and another small closet on the main floor. The first of these is packed nearly to the rafters with newspapers, which Holmes saves in ridiculous quantity in hopes that the information therein may someday pertain to a case. The second was originally mine, but, as the newsroom has become more and more full, as I never had much to store at any rate, and as my bedroom only rarely sees use anyhow, the relics of Holmes' cases have slowly come to fill that space. I avoid that room when I can, as many of its contents are decidedly eerie artifacts: the enormous grandfather clock which once ticked away with such relentlessness in the Paradol chamber, and which stopped with a tremendous clanging of bells at the same moment as old Rev. Witherspoon's heart; the collection of stuffed and mounted snakes which a noted herpetologist sent to us (along with a stern note about poetic license and the auditory capacity of serpents) shortly after the publication of The Speckled Band; the carved mermaid that had once been the figurehead of the Friesland, which we clung to for two miserable days before rescue finally found us. It is only in search of the pleasanter contents of Holmes' old tin box that I ever venture into that room full of oddities. But the downstairs lumber-room, unlike the other two, does occasionally get some practical use. Some years ago, while I was living away from Baker Street, Holmes fitted it up as a darkroom. It is admirably suited to the purpose, having no windows and being just large enough to accommodate the necessary equipment. I should mention that Holmes almost never uses a camera on our cases; our instrument is one of those enormous, ancient monsters, which Holmes bought cheap somewhere, and not well-suited to toting about to crime scenes. Instead, he decided that he required a darkroom to print his photographs of tobacco ash for a new monograph to supplement his original work on the subject. It bothered him not a bit that the original sold approximately two dozen copies (though perhaps it might have done so to a greater degree had he known that, of those two dozen, I bought three, Lestrade one, at my urging, and young Stanley Hopkins no fewer than eight); he insisted that the work ought to be kept current, for the sake of science. It may mark me out an idiot, but I am willing to admit that those sorts of eccentricities do nothing to diminish my love for him, and in fact a great deal to enhance it. Holmes, of course, knows this weakness of mine very well and takes full advantage, so much so that, when he was pulled away from his photography by a series of complicated cases, I allowed him to inveigle me into to doing the work. At this point, it must be said, I had quite mastered the technique, while Holmes's own forays into the darkroom were still accompanied by muttered imprecations. Had Holmes been in the house, I have no idea how I should have managed to get the camera--which, as I mentioned, is an enormous, cumbersome contraption--up to my room without attracting his attention. Fortunately, Fridays are his mornings for visiting the barber, and so I had a free hour in which to enact my plan. The question of just what sort of pose would be best occupied my mind for some minutes as I busied myself with changing my clothes. I did worry that my old uniform might no longer fit me; I had indeed been "thin as a lath" when I returned home, but as it had hung so loose on me then that I was just able to wriggle into the thing now. It is a well known principle that if one shoves a man into a uniform, and the man in question is over fifteen, under sixty, and not actually hunchbacked or dribbling at the mouth, the vast majority of women will swoon at the sight from some patriotic instinct if nothing else. In my personal experience, the phenomenon extends to a not insignificant number of men, as well. Holmes had never specifically mentioned that he might be among their number--such clarity is not his style, nor does he wish to be thought ordinary--but I had, if I may be permitted so to express it, deduced it, from one or two sidelong glances and the occasional hitch of his breath when our conversation happened to turn to my unhappy soldiering days. I had feared in the past that a return to that well-worn suit might bring back memories of blood and screams and sun that almost burned out a man's will to live, but now, so many years and miles away from those bygone horrors, the uniform was little more than cloth. Beyond the decision to photograph myself in that costume, I had not quite worked out the details. Ought I to make it a simple portrait, such as one might purchase at any photographic studio in the metropolis? That did not seem quite to be exploiting the full potential of the thing. There was, however, a distinct chance of going too far with this little game. I quickly discarded the notion of leaving my trousers open and touching myself for the camera, for it was simply too vulgar to attract Holmes (or any other man of taste). I needed a more tactful approach which nevertheless displayed undeniable erotic appeal. I was not certain I had found it, but I worked out an idea which, at very least, seemed worth trying. I headed back down to the sitting room, retrieved one of the simple wooden chairs from around the dining table, and carried it up the stairs. This I positioned before the open window, with the camera across the room. Once I had readied the plates, I took the bulb to release the shutter in my hand and headed back over to my chair. I splayed my legs wide on either side as I sat, and planted my hands on the front edge of the chair, between my legs, leaning forward slightly. To complete the pose, I stared boldly into the camera and allowed my mouth to curl in a bit of a smile. My pose was brazen, I felt, but not overt. It would fit well with the raiment of the soldier. The camera was, as I have mentioned, a very much outdated machine; it took nearly three minutes to fully expose a plate. This made for a seemingly interminable wait, sitting as still as possible, but I am a fairly patient fellow, all things considered, and that pose was not a difficult one to maintain. When finally my wait was ended, I set about bundling everything--including my uniform--back where it belonged, and then headed down to our little darkroom to obtain my print. Thankfully, the photograph turned out well; I should have had no chance to make another attempt, for Holmes arrived home while I was developing my first. I had to shout out my whereabouts to him, as he was in some confusion about where I had got to. Having finished with the antiquated camera, the chemical processes of developing negative and print were a mere bagatelle, and I soon had an acceptable print drying. I sneaked up to my room as quickly and silently as possible, hoping not to alert Holmes, and busied myself with a search of my bedroom which turned up a little leather folder which had once held a photograph pertaining to a problem of much less immediate interest. This prize I carried back downstairs to be filled with my artistic attempt, once I had scribbled a brief "To S.H.--All my love, J.W." in the corner. I slipped the finished product into the inner pocket of my jacket and hurried off to lunch. Holmes was already at the table, nibbling at mutton and creamed spinach. "Whatever have you been up to all morning, Watson?" he asked, with some degree of irritation, as I sat and helped myself. "Surely the great Sherlock Holmes can deduce that, when a man spends the morning in a darkroom and emerges smelling of all manner of foul chemicals, he has been developing a photograph," I replied genially, tucking in. "Shockingly enough, I had indeed come to that conclusion. What I was endeavouring to discover was the subject of said photograph, and why you took it, and where it has got to." I grinned mischievously at him. "Really, Holmes, I am sure that you can manage to figure some of that out for yourself. Use your powers; exert yourself." He was in no particularly sweet mood, but he made the attempt all the same. "If I am not mistaken, the 'where' is your inner jacket pocket--I did not notice it at first, as that suit is rather new and I am unused to seeing you in it, but the line does seem just a bit off. And if your mood is any indication, the 'why' seems to have something to do with our little wager. But as to the 'what'... well, if I am correct about your reasons, then I suppose the likelihood lies with it being a photograph of you, but as to what you could hope to accomplish by presenting me with a photograph when the real thing sits before me, I cannot guess." "Very good, Holmes," I said, in a teasingly condescending voice reminiscent of his lecturing moods. "Though I am a little disappointed at your lack of imagination." I turned back to my dinner, skewering a piece of mutton with delicate deliberation. "And having expended such effort to obtain your snapshot, are you not going to give it to me after all?" Holmes asked peevishly. "I never said it was for you, Holmes. Perhaps it has nothing to do with our bet. Or perhaps I am hoping to arouse your jealousy, and intend it as a gift for someone else." "It is for me, Watson, and we both know it." "Far be it from me to contradict you," I replied airily, unable to keep my grin entirely from my face. I sipped coolly at my water. "Well?" Holmes asked, leaning back in his chair. I had him, and I revelled in it. Holmes hates to be uninformed about anything. While I had the photograph and he was unsure what was in it, I had the trump in any conversation. "Well what, Holmes?" "Watson," he ground out, "I cannot stand it when you are deliberately obtuse. You cannot possibly have forgotten the tenor of my comments on your stories, irking me as they do for just that reason; rest assured that I shall brook no qualms about expressing similar sentiments with regards to your person, intelligence and moral qualities, if you continue to behave in this manner." "That is what bothers you about my stories?" I asked, genuinely surprised. "The fact that I occasionally underplay my own intelligence?" Holmes's scowl trembled. It wobbled. It slipped sideways, and, of a sudden, it transformed itself into a smile. "My dear Watson," he said, in spite of himself, "how on earth do you manage that, and so consistently, too?" "Manage what?" "Not only to invariably leap past the sort of abuse which no sane man would tolerate, but actually to find a compliment in it. And you habitually underplay your own intelligence." I grinned back at him. "Let us call it a survival instinct, Holmes. I'd not have endured six months living with you had I not developed the ability to see the generosity of spirit which you attempt to conceal--and, as you may recall, for those first six months, I could not afford to live anywhere but with you." "Ah! The truth comes out at last," Holmes said, buttering a roll with a flourish. "You endure me merely from a sense of economy. It hurts my pride to hear it, my dear Watson, but I suppose, as you have so few faults in general, that you are entitled to a mercenary nature. I have one or two singular gifts, you know, which permit me to earn an exceptional living when I make an effort at it. Ought I to be keeping you in a better style, Doctor? I am quite amenable to showering you with jewels and buying you oysters every night, if it will keep you by my side." "And here I am meant, I suppose, to be deeply offended by the imprecation. Nothing of the kind. Feel free to feed me oysters and present me with extravagant presents whenever it suits you--but not if it means taking dull cases from rich clients. I should much rather have you as a poor man than an odd, imitation Sherlock Holmes with a high tolerance for boredom and a bulging purse." "Then you shall have to settle for me as a moderately well-off sort of fellow. We can have oysters on Saturdays and take what cases please us, and when you are feeling neglected I can toss my amethyst snuffbox at your feet. How does that suit?" "Admirably," I laughed, polishing off my spinach and wiping my mouth on my napkin. I rose and so did Holmes, but as he was stepping away from the table he stopped. "I have allowed you to talk me in circles, Watson. That is terribly unlike me. We were discussing the photograph you took for me, before that little digression into matters financial. In fact, you were just on the point of handing it over." "Oh, was I?" I asked, all innocence. "If you say so, Holmes, by all means." I slipped the thing out of my pocket and passed it over to him, then swiftly retired to the corner by the mantel to watch the show. His reactions were gratifying, to say the least. For a moment after opening the leather cover he did not respond at all. Then the hand not holding the photograph tightened on the edge of the table, and all the blood rushed from his face, and he seemed to go weak in the knees. He stumbled, and sat back down hard in his chair. I wandered back over and leaned over his shoulder, as though looking back at the photograph myself. "Not entirely bad, on the whole. A silly notion, of course, but I did think you might be inclined to appreciate it." "Whatever gave you that idea?" Holmes asked weakly. "Was I mistaken?" I questioned in my turn,with a wicked grin. "What do you think of it?" "It is...very nice," he said faintly. He was still staring at the photograph for all he was worth. "Is that all?" I teased. "How very disappointing. If you had seemed truly to like it, I was thinking of taking you upstairs with me and recreating the original--it would hardly take me long to slip back into my uniform--but, as you cannot seem to summon any more enthusiasm than 'very nice...'" "It is as well for me if you do not," he replied, with a bit more strength. "Never mind the bet--I am not sure my heart could take it. You could run rather a nice little racket that way, Doctor, sending patients into arrhythmia and then reviving them. I suspect it should prove quite the lucrative scheme." "I believe that my Hippocratic Oath precludes me enacting plans designed to stop the hearts of well-meaning citizens." "How very unfortunate," Holmes murmured. He gave the photograph one more long look, slipped it into his pocket, and rose. Only once he was half-way across the room did he dare to look back at me. I would not go so far as to say that he actually shivered, but he did swallow hard before hurrying into his bedroom and shutting the door. It was with no small degree of self-satisfaction that I contemplated this undignified retreat, though I was curious to know precisely what he was up to. I did not have long to wait, however, for it was less than ten minutes before he emerged again, looking only slightly calmer than he had before. Both of his hands were clasped around the handles of his gladstone bag, fingers flexing nervously. "I am going out, Watson," he announced, hurrying for the door. "Out where?" I asked, rising from my chair and placing the still-lit pipe which I had been smoking to pass the time carefully on the mantelpiece. "I have a few little matters to attend to," he answered, in a weak imitation of his masterful tone. He was on the point of making his escape when my hand caught the doorknob a moment before his, trapping him in the room. "Crucial though I am sure your extraordinarily vague errands must be," I said, in a quietly knowing tone laced strongly with seduction, "I believe we could think up one or two even more promising ways to pass the time, if you would only touch me now." "I am quite satisfied with my own plans for the afternoon, thank you," he replied, regaining some of his haughtiness. "Now, if you would please move out of the way..." "No," I responded. "I know very well how much you want me now. Stay here, Holmes, and make love to me." "Certainly, if you will kiss me first." I shook my head. "Just at this moment, you want this far more than I do. It is your mind that is full of lewd images, your heart barreling away at many times its usual rate, and your body straining in every muscle--some more than others--for the feeling of my body. I have you, Holmes, and you know it. Now, give yourself over to me." Were he not so dashed light on his feet, had I been able to keep him trapped in that room with me, I should have had him. I believe I have mentioned, earlier in my narrative, that our bath-room at Baker Street has two doors: one leading into the sitting-room, the other to the hall. Holmes darted away from the sitting-room's main door, which I guarded, and was in the one and out the other of the bath-room doors as quick as lightning, so that I barely had time to witness his flight once I had turned the knob in my hand. "Enjoy your afternoon, Watson," he called back over his shoulder as he made his escape. There was nothing to do about it but shake my head and smile--which is precisely what I did. I had no idea how long Holmes planned to be gone, but, from his manner, I guessed it would likely be some time, and I had no intention of languishing around our rooms while he concocted his riposte to my thrust. There is no company I prize more highly or crave more deeply than his, but I do occasionally require other society. This seemed as good an opportunity as any for visiting my club, and catching up on the news of my other acquaintances and friends. I spent some hours doing exactly that, returning home just in time for supper. When Holmes did not put in an appearance at table, I admit sparing a few moments to gloat, taking it as a sign that he did not feel secure being quite so near to me just then. When nine o'clock, ten o'clock, and eleven all passed with no sign of him, however, I began to worry. Mrs. Hudson assured me that Holmes had not returned while I had been out in the afternoon. I burned with curiosity to know where he had gone and what he had taken with him. The clock dragged on towards midnight, and my concern edged ever further nearer panic. Finally, at a quarter to twelve, the sitting room door opened and a person walked into our rooms. It was undoubtedly Holmes. And yet I hesitate to use the pronoun 'he,' for it was Holmes in a wig and full make-up--not a particularly unusual state of affairs--and a gown--a very unusual state of affairs indeed. That last article was a garment of grey and white striped silk trimmed in mauve ribbon and ruched up at the hem to reveal a petticoat of the same shade. I must confess that the hues suited Holmes's colouring admirably. The gown had only the barest hint of a bustle, far less than fashion demanded that year. It was also possessed of a neckline and a hem which, in their respective lowness and highness, proclaimed in no uncertain terms that the wearer, female or not, was no lady. Indeed, the whole ensemble had about it that air of disreputable attempted-grandeur that marks out a woman of a certain profession, a distinction made especially clear by the violent red shade of Holmes's rouge and lip-colour. As is always the case with Holmes's disguises, he had changed more than simply his outward trappings. How he managed by his posture alone to convey not only the impression of a woman, but of a woman of ill-repute, I have no notion, and yet he did. When he stepped into the room it was with a woman's gait, that slight accentuation about the hips, and when he bid me, "Good evening, Doctor Watson," it was in a voice which, while not quite an imitation, lilted upwards in a way not entirely his own. In every detail, down to the way his eyelids fluttered, he was transformed. For long moments, I could do nothing but stare. It is not that he made a particularly attractive woman. His body is too bony and angular to approximate accurately the sensual curves of the female form, the features of his face too sharp to hint at sweetness, and his great height, which gained an inch by the low heels of his boots, was odd indeed beneath that guise. And yet, it was that very blending of the masculine with the feminine which made him so very nearly irresistible in that moment. The perversity of it was utterly intoxicating. I stepped back three paces to sink into my armchair, staring for all I was worth. He smiled--a smirk, and yet not his smirk, for there was something indisputably feminine about it--and closed the door behind him. Within a moment he was kneeling beside my chair, gazing up at me with eyes brightened beyond even their usual brilliancy by two thin rings of kohl. "Whatever is the matter, doctor? Are you feeling unwell?" He ran his eyes over me as though searching for symptoms, lingering and yet not overtly lecherous. "You look quite uncomfortable, I'm afraid. Only tell me what I can do to ease you; I am entirely at your service." He seemed to have discovered precisely the proper balance to stop the charade veering into the realms of the risible, playing his part without for a moment denying his own identity, still speaking in that voice which was only a shade (but how significant a shade!) different from his own. This is absurd, I reminded myself, a little too vehemently. Pull yourself together, man! I took a deep breath. "You look ridiculous, Holmes," I said, not nearly so firmly as I should have liked. "For God's sake, take off that insane get-up before someone sees you." He raised an eyebrow, the familiar gesture binding the character to him, the man I adored, in a way that very nearly cost me my control. "I rather thought you were enjoying it, John, but it shall, of course, be as you wish," he replied, without giving up that change of voice. He turned and walked to his bedroom, leaving the door deliberately open, and suddenly it occurred to me just what I had asked him to do. By that time, however, I had no hope whatsoever of convincing myself to look away. He sat on the edge of his bed and pulled off his boots first, unhurriedly, then stood and stretched. Next he turned to his gloves, tugging at the fabric surrounding each finger, slowly revealing those hands which have always affected me more profoundly than I can adequately express. Once the gloves had tumbled to rest on the carpet and those perfect white digits were bare, he moved them to his back and the seemingly infinite column of tiny buttons stretching from a few inches below his nape all the way down to his waist. He neither hurried nor lingered in unbuttoning his strange costume, but moved as though with utter calm, the rhythmic dancing of his fingers and the oh-so-gradual parting of the gown hypnotic to the eye. It seemed a lifetime before the bodice of his gown fell away and his hands moved to the quicker task of untying his skirts and petticoats, which collapsed with a characteristic whooshing of air. And then he stood before me--or, to be more accurate, stood facing away from me--in nothing more than a corset and stockings. I could have resisted that. I swear that I could have. I could have resisted the thin silk of the stockings that hugged his calves. I could have resisted the way his garter straps bordered his thighs. I could have resisted the impression of hips which the corset bestowed. I could even have resisted the way the whole ensemble seemed designed to frame that portion of his anatomy which it left bare, drawing the eye irresistibly to a very particular expanse of naked flesh. If he had merely stood there looking thus, I should have survived it with my dignity in tact. But it was then that he moved his hands up to the wig that still capped him, and loosened the ribbon that held his curls aloft, allowing his false hair to tumble about his shoulders. I have no notion how he was aware that the sight would affect me so. For all I know, it was nothing more than a guess (despite his claims that it is a habit he refuses to indulge). I had certainly never told him that, while I have always been willing to admit that there are some advantages to bedding women, the taking down of hair is the only erotic spectacle which I truly miss now that my days of sleeping with ladies are in the past. It is an act of which the supreme sensuality cannot be overstated, precisely because there is nothing overt about it. It is a symbol only, and yet it is a symbol of so much-- of possession, of surrender, of willingness, of everything that is soft and yielding and warm and lovely and irresistible in the female sex. Perhaps if I could have seen his face, the contrast should have proved enough to distract me. I do not know. But I could not see his face, I was not distracted and, after that long week of torments, I had finally run out of resistance. I was, quite simply, undone. All thoughts fled my mind save one: that I intended to walk into that room, pin his wrists to the wall with one of my hands, pull his hips to me with the other, bury my face--and, most probably, my teeth--in the crook of his neck, and bugger him until he wept and screamed with the pleasure of it, not stopping until he had come to glory at least a dozen times. I understand, in some part of my mind, that Holmes and I live a life unlike that of other men. I know, objectively speaking, that the sort of adventures which we experience on a weekly basis are such as, for many men, should mark the high point of a lifetime--and, equally, that the pains and sorrows that we know are such as would break many a weaker man--and, again, that the love we have in each other is of a variety for which most people search in vain all their days. These are not the sorts of truths which one can live one's life thinking of always, but I know them, in a quiet corner of my brain. They do not mean, however, that Holmes and I are not fortune's fools, like everyone else. The little mishaps of everyday existence fall upon us just as much as on others; there are moments of human comedy even amongst the dramas of our lives. This, I am sad to say, was one of those. That I found myself so utterly possessed by desire was bad enough. But that, in my rush to embrace him, I should have happened to catch my toe on the threshold of his bedroom and send myself sprawling across the floor, earning myself a face-full of discarded petticoat, was, I felt, as deliberate an injury to pride as fate ever dealt a man. It is fortunate that Holmes's first instinct was concern. Abandoning his persona in an instant, he rushed to my side with a "My dear Watson!" I think that, had I not rolled over at that point, he might well have forgotten himself so far as to touch me, but roll over I did. The sight of him then, still rouged and corseted though he had lost his wig in his rush, suddenly brought the whole thing home to me. I was thus fortunate enough, though by far the more humiliated, to be the first to see the humor in it all. I broke into the most hearty peal of laughter I can ever recall emitting. After a few brief moments of surprise, Holmes's lips began to twitch as well. It was not long before we were both of us stretched full-length on the floorboards beside each other, positively weeping with mirth. Every time one of us seemed nearly to have himself under control our eyes would meet, and we would be off again. Only once our cheeks were aching with it did we finally begin to quiet. We ended up facing each other on our sides, less than a foot apart. His eyes sparkled with amusement and affection, and I am quite sure that mine did the same. I reached out a hand and ghosted it along the side of his powdered cheek, not quite touching him. "You realize," I pointed out, when I had finally mastered my laughter, "that I would say to hell with the bet and kiss you now if it weren't for that paint on your face. I admit the allure, but I want you, and not the costume." "Hoist with my own petard," he replied, smiling. "Or with your own corset strings, anyhow. I don't even want to ask how you got that ensemble--or where you've been in it these last few hours." "Acquiring the gown and underthings was no particular undertaking; I was a concerned older brother shopping from a list for an invalid sister. The wig and the paints I have had for years, as they are basic elements of the actor's trade. Only the boots gave me any trouble, for there is not many a lady in London with so large a foot. By the by, doctor, will you be an angel and undo my laces?" His voice feminized again on the last sentence, and he rolled so that his back was to me. "I'm sure you can manage it without touching any skin, with such clever hands as you've got. Does that come of being a surgeon, or a writer, do you think?" He glanced back over his shoulder and fluttered his lashes at me. "Both, as you know very well. And do stop that." He had knotted his corset strings into the most dreadful tangle, a state which no lady of my acquaintance would ever have permitted. It was absurdly satisfying to detect an imperfection in one of his disguises, even so slight a one as that. It also meant the things would be a horror to untie. "You've not answered my question about how you spent your evening," I said, as I went to work at my task. "Technically, you asked no question about how I spent my evening, but we shall take it as implied. I have, in fact, used this disguise before; it is an excellent method of gathering information. Women will answer without hesitation questions from other women which they would not in a lifetime countenance from a man, and professional women in particular share a clannishness that is easy to exploit if one only knows how. I passed my afternoon lurking at the Diogenes, ducked into one of my little hidey-holes to change come dusk, and then went traveling about to various low haunts, putting out my feelers for any news of criminological interest." "And did you learn anything of interest?" I asked. I knew him far too well for the admission that he had been wandering about London for hours in the guise of a prostitute to be shocking. Besides, the impenetrable labyrinth of interlaced ribbon before me was taking up too much of my attention to permit me the time to be scandalized. I had managed to undo one knot, but a dozen more seemed still firmly in place. "Nothing very much. The usual problems of theft, brutality and broken promises that are a common part of that world, I am afraid, but beyond that the only intriguing whisper was of a possible increase in human trafficking from the Far East. It seems that there has been an influx of Oriental women to the brothels of London lately. I shall have to do a bit more nosing about around the docks--but in rather a different costume, I think." "Mmmm," I agreed absently. I stood and walked into the sitting room. "Watson? Wherever are you going?" "Back in a moment," I called, and indeed I was. He had turned to face the door in my absence. "As you were," I instructed as I lay back down, and he rolled over. "I had always thought that Alexander's solution to the Gordian problem was a terribly inelegant and unthinking waste of an excellent puzzle," I commented, "but somehow, I've begun to see his point." I pulled back hard on the corset strings--Holmes gasped at the sudden constriction--and used the scissors I had gone to retrieve to snip the entire knot clean off. He had been laced so tightly that the cut ends slithered of their own accord through a series of grommets, and as he tugged on the halves of the corset itself the rest of it parted, leaving his back bare. "I should not be so unkind to Alexander, if I were you," he commented, as he reached down to detach his stockings from the garter straps at the bottom of his corset. "Men of our stripe must hang together or we shall, likely as not, hang separately. I do admit, however, that I should not like to have said of us what Aristotle said of Alexander and Hephaestion." "That they were but one soul living in two bodies?" "Precisely, my dear Watson. I should not prefer to see either of us denied the right to a soul of his own. Two men need not think the same thoughts or see with the same eyes to be well-matched. In fact, I think that, on the whole, one can never have a true understanding of others who are too much like oneself. It is our differences, John, that permit us such entire sympathy." He had by then shed the last of his accoutrements and turned to look at me, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly and his eyes swirling with significance. I could not look away, nor did I wish to. "Holmes," I said simply, "sleep with me tonight." He raised his eyebrows--both of them, in genuine surprise, rather than one, as he would have done to imitate that same emotion. "Is that a surrender, John, or are you simply attempting to entice me?" "Neither," I replied. "I meant precisely what I said. Sleep with me, in the same bed. I have hated these last nights, and, to be quite frank, I do not believe that you have liked them any better. Your bed is large enough to hold us both without touching, if only just. And if we should happen to wake up in each other's arms, well, neither of us can be blamed for that; we may simply declare it an act of God, disentangle, and go about our business." He looked away for a moment, considering the ramifications, and then back at me. "All right." He smiled at me, almost shyly. I grinned back. "I'll just go up and get changed, then. Do you wash that mess off of your face." He stood, his eyes sparkling wickedly. "Yes, sir," he replied with a salute. "I don't suppose I could convince you to forgo a nightshirt in favor of putting your uniform back on? It was positively diabolical of you, to take the thing off before letting me see you in it in the flesh." I clambered to my feet as well. "It'd not be the first time I'd slept in it, but it's certainly an experience I've no wish to repeat. I'm afraid I shall have to decline." "Cruel," he said, shaking his head sadly as he rummaged through his armoire in search of a nightshirt of his own. "Very cruel. Off with you, then." I hurried upstairs and back, but by the time I returned he was already clad and standing at his washstand, drying his dripping face on a towel. It was his own face again, wiped clean of paint, and a glad sight indeed. I crossed to the bed and slipped gratefully under the covers, feeling really at home for the first time in days. Holmes assumed his own side of the bed, stretched with extraordinary enthusiasm, burrowed a bit, and turned to face me. I knew what was coming. I took it upon myself to make the first advance. Rolling over, I trapped him beneath me, and leaned my face in towards his. He arched his neck up to me in turn, and I was about to begin the good-nights when he murmured, "Watson," in such a compelling tone that I stopped short. His every feature was imprinted with appeal, the visage of a man begging earnestly for that which he desires more deeply than life itself. "Kiss me good-night, my dearest John." His tone implied only too clearly that he would cease to draw breath if I did not comply. "Holmes..." "Please?" His eyes were open very wide, all innocent pleading. "Please kiss me, John." I had to actively fight my own muscles, which seemed intent upon propelling me into a kiss. "You," I breathed, none too steadily, "are a fiend in human form, Sherlock Holmes." He gave it up then. "And proud of it, too," he grinned. "Were I not a sinner, I should be denied the eternal company of the only man on earth I care a jot for. The second circle is the realm of the lustful, is it not?" "I believe so, but I should not expect to meet you there. So determined a heretic as yourself will surely find himself in the city of Dis." "Then quickly, Watson, say something terribly blasphemous, that we may share adjoining coffins of red-hot lead for all of time." I shook my head, smiling. "Good-night, Holmes." He quirked his own head to one side. "That is not quite what I had in mind." I rolled back to my side of the bed. "All right, then, how about this: I, John Watson, am madly infatuated with another man, intend to share his life and bed as long as we both shall live, and I do not believe that this is wrong. Is that sufficiently heretical for you?" "Good heavens, Watson, I had hardly expected you to go as far as that. Have you no delicacy of feeling, to go about making such inexpressibly depraved declarations?" "Good-night, Holmes," I repeated through my laughter. "Really, John..." "Good-night, Holmes," I said again, shutting out the light. "And to think that I have been living all these years..." "Good-night, Holmes." "Good-night, Watson."

Dr. Rodney McKay, Chief Scientist and Head of Research at GeniiCorp, the West Coast's largest software company, turned 35 on a brisk November Friday. The party took place at the ritzy hotel that GeniiCorp used for their official functions. It made sense, really. Rodney was as much company property as anything else in the building. The party was predictably swank: cool women in columnar dresses, men in discreetly tailored tuxedoes, clinking glasses and sparkling jewels, all shifting and twirling around the ballroom. Rodney hated everything about it except for the carving station and the little chocolate mousse thingys. He stalked up to his assistant, who was downing a flute of champagne next to an eerily accurate ice sculpture depicting the GeniiCorp logo. "Radek!" Rodney hissed. "Hello, Mr. Guest of Honor." Radek raised his eyebrows. "I am surprised you are still here." "I can't leave. I tried and Elizabeth gave me a lecture about gratitude that, frankly, I could have done without." "Yes, because you are already so grateful," Radek said, chuckling. Rodney scanned the ballroom for potential obstacles. "Do you want to go hide in the men's room?" "Charming offer, but I am afraid I will have to decline." Radek tilted his head to look past Rodney's shoulder. "You have company." "Hey, birthday boy!" Acastus Kolya walked up and slapped Rodney on the back. "Are you enjoying your little party?" Kolya always punctuated his small talk with physical violence. "Lovely. Are the speeches done?" Rodney checked his watch. "I have a date with my couch." "Speaking of which..." Kolya grinned. Board member or no, Rodney hated it when Kolya smiled. It gave him the willies. "We have another gift for you." Rodney hadn't seen Cowen, the Chairman of the Board walk up, but he was never far behind Kolya. Cowen was an old-boys'-club crony since infancy. He hated that his company's greatest asset was a queer, misanthropic, badly-dressed Canadian, but Rodney's brains (as usual) trumped all. Radek shot Rodney a horrified look at the thought of Cowen giving Rodney a present of his own free will, then scampered off. Little Czech bastard probably is going to hide in the men's room, Rodney thought, without much bitterness. He'd run himself, if he had the chance. Instead, he mustered his best smirk and said, "Strippers, Cowen? That's a little unoriginal, don't you think? I thought you were a little more," he sketched a square in the space in front of him with his fingers, "out of the box. Besides, I'm not exactly interested in a parade of silicone breasts, if you know what I mean." Kolya smiled even wider, kick-starting a cascade of uneasiness through Rodney's nervous system. The orchestra suddenly sounded distorted, strange. He punched Rodney in the arm. "Why don't you go home, Dr. McKay? I think you'll like what you find." That was pretty much all the invitation Rodney needed. He rushed out of the ballroom, almost forgetting his damned coat – how do you lose a coatroom ticket in a tuxedo, for God's sake? – and crashing full-body into Dr. Kavanagh on his way through the revolving door. Brushing off any attendant cooties, he waved frantically to his driver, Ronon. Rodney got in and panted, "Home." "I know." Ronon turned out of the driveway. "Kolya and Cowen got me a present. It's at home." Rodney closed his eyes against visions of circus animals in his living room. Or, worse yet, some hideous piece of modern sculpture. Kolya had a thing in his office that looked like a demented guillotine. Rodney shuddered. Rodney could see Ronon raise one eyebrow in the rear-view mirror. "Creepy." They pulled up the long, winding road that served as Rodney's driveway. There were perks to being obscenely rich, and privacy was the one that Rodney took advantage of as often as he could. Flicking the ignition off, Ronon paused before getting out. "Want me to go with you?" "Yes, of course," Rodney snapped. He let Ronon open the front door. Rodney could see the flickering of his fireplace dancing across the rug. Ronon stopped short in front of him. "Oof!" Rodney smacked into a solid wall of muscle. "Uh, goodnight, Dr. McKay," Ronon muttered and pushed past him back out the door – was he laughing? "Fine! Thanks! Some bodyguard you are!" Rodney called. He stepped into the living room. That's when he saw the guy lounging on his couch. Really, the surprising thing wasn't that the guy had gotten into his house. It wasn't that the guy was ridiculously good-looking, with artfully styled hair and a charming grin. It wasn't even that the guy had somehow found his best brandy and was hello, making himself at home. It was that the guy was wearing a rich, Merlot-colored silk robe. And not a whole lot else. "Who the hell are you?" Rodney asked. "John. John Sheppard." The guy smiled, effortless and totally practiced. "Your friends at work…procured me." He offered Rodney a snifter. "Happy Birthday." "Good God." Rodney tossed back the brandy. "I take it you were expecting a pony?" "Very funny." Rodney walked around the guy, looking him up and down. "Aren't you a little old to be a rentboy?" "I prefer gigolo." John crossed his arms. "And how old do you think I am, anyway?" "Gigolo. How classy." Rodney leafed through a pile of mail on the table. "Not that I actually was expecting men of ill repute in my living room, but if I was, I'd be expecting your average West Hollywood twink." "Well, I can always call the agency if I'm not to your taste." John smiled in a way that seemed to be cheerfully telling him to fuck off. "If only." It was uncanny. John was a little too to his taste. As appealing as Mr. Charming was, he was Kolya's gift and not to be trusted. "Listen, contrary to popular opinion, I do have standards, and one of them is to not pay for sex. So, thank you, but no thank you." Rodney looked pointedly at the door. "You do have clothes, don't you?" "Yeah," John said, hesitating. "Listen, I was paid and, well," he looked down at the floor. "I don't want to get in trouble." "Oh, God." Rodney started pacing around the room. "Is your pimp going to beat you up? Does that really happen? Okay, here." He jabbed a finger at an open door to the left of the cavernous living room. "Guest room. You can stay the night. Bathroom is next door. Don't touch my laptop, don't disturb my sleep, and don't steal anything." "Yes, sir. I shall refrain from petty larceny, sir." John snapped a fairly accurate salute. "Hey, that's pretty good," Rodney said. "Ex-military?" "Yeah, a long time ago." John reached behind Rodney's couch and pulled out a black duffel that Rodney hadn't noticed. "Hey, I really appreciate this." "Don't think it means I'm taking you in or anything. It's just been a long night." Rodney rubbed his forehead. He was exhausted. "And I have to be up early to send a few scathing emails to Kolya." "Well, I won't bother you." John walked up to Rodney slowly, the silk stretching and pulling tantalizingly with the motion of his legs. He took a sip of brandy, and Rodney watched, frozen, as John licked his lips before putting the snifter down on Rodney's desk. "Are you sure you don't want a turn? I don't mind. You've been really nice to me." "Nice?" Rodney backed up against the wall. "Me? No, I was just, you know, I didn't want you to get in trouble and –" John reached up and touched the side of Rodney's face. Rodney shivered. John's palm was so warm and God, all Rodney had to do was say yes and he could have this. "Thank you," John murmured. "Um," Rodney croaked out. This had been a really, really long night. Leaning in, John brushed his lips across Rodney's temple. "Happy Birthday." "I – bedroom." Rodney pushed John away, trying not to pay attention to the feel of muscle and skin and silk. "Me, not you, well, you to your bedroom and me to my bedroom, or I'm going to lose control of what few morals I have left." "Goodnight, Dr. McKay," John called, as Rodney retreated into his bedroom. Rodney didn't even bother getting undressed. He just kicked off his shoes, threw his jacket on the floor, and flopped on the bed. What a fucking day. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend that there wasn't a gigolo in his guest bedroom. He'd better not touch the laptop. >>> After pulling on a pair of boxers, John dragged his duffel into the guest bedroom. The room was pristinely decorated in muted browns and blues, and John had the feeling that only the attentions of a dedicated housekeeper kept it from being covered in an inch of dust. It bore a resemblance to every Holiday Inn on the planet, a fact that John found strangely comforting. McKay probably didn't get a lot of guests. John smiled to himself. Not if he treated them all like he treated John. And, even though John couldn't blame McKay for trying to kick him to the curb, John had a feeling that he was like that to a lot of people. When John was hired, Kolya told him, "McKay probably hasn't been on a date since the last Star Trek movie came out." The real Rodney McKay was pretty far from John's mental image of Coke-bottle glasses and adult acne. But then, John's last real date was during the Clinton era, so he had no room to judge. Rolling his shoulders, John stretched his neck. The silk of the robe shifted across his body, causing goosebumps to prickle along his arms. He felt restless. John let one hand skim down the front of his boxers, letting his mind drift. It wouldn't have been such a bad thing if McKay had agreed…Snap out of it, Sheppard, he told himself. You're lonely. Get a cat. John checked his watch. It was midnight. Twenty-four hours to go, he thought. He found his cell tucked into the bottom of the bag. Flipping it open, he made sure it was in silent mode, then hit the first number on his speed-dial. "Teyla?" John whispered. "I'm in." >>> The next morning, Rodney woke up with a pounding headache and a desperate need for coffee. He stumbled into the bathroom, tossed back a few aspirin, took care of business, and went into the kitchen, where— "'Aaaaaah!" "I'm just making coffee. There's no need to scream." John said mildly, stirring the grounds in the French press. "Of course you are. What else would you be doing? Except, I don't know, leaving?" Rodney was not used to sharing his morning time with other people. Particularly attractive, scruffy, paid-for-sex people. "Sorry, did you not want coffee?" John asked. "Don't be stupid. Of course I want coffee." Rodney grabbed the steaming mug from John's hand before he could retract the offer. "So," John said. "Tell me about yourself." "Shouldn't I be saying that to you?" Rodney sniffed. Was that cinnamon? "I made some french toast. Hope you don't mind." John opened the oven and took some plates down from the cabinet. "Well, no, I…you were going to tell me about yourself." Rodney clutched the mug closer. This morning was not going as planned. He needed fortification. "Me? Not much to tell. I like college football, Ferris wheels, and things that go over 200 miles an hour." John deftly poured syrup over the toast. "Voila." "That's it? You sound like a personal ad. Or 'Mr. December 2003.'" "Nah, I'm much better looking." John grinned and sat down across from Rodney. "So what do you do at GeniiCorp? Must be something really important." Well, gigolo or not, Rodney had to give John Sheppard credit for his powers of observation. He launched into what he called the "encryption for dummies" lecture, and, surprisingly, John seemed to catch right on, asking reasonably intelligent questions and not really losing interest. It was kind of nice, actually. Nobody liked to listen to Rodney talk about his work, including most of the people at work. "And do you work for Kolya?" John asked. "Do I look like a masochist? No." Rodney finished up his breakfast. "I work," he said, through a mouthful of food, "for Elizabeth Weir, the president." "Ah." "Speaking of which, I gotta check my email. I can't believe I waited this long." Rodney unlocked his briefcase, took out his laptop, booted up, and logged in. The ritual was reassuringly normal, after the strangeness of the last twenty-four hours. Still, Rodney wasn't in as much of a hurry to get rid of Sheppard. He was a good listener, a good cook, and easy on the eyes. As if he could hear Rodney's thoughts, John came up behind him and placed a hand on the back of his neck. "Stand up," he said. "What?" Rodney turned around. "Come here." John pulled him up and kissed him full on the mouth, his lips scraping against Rodney's until Rodney opened up for him. God, it was as good as Rodney imagined it would be. Maybe he really wasn't too old to be a hooker. Somehow, the thought of paying for sex wasn't looking nearly as sleazy as it did last night. It must have something to do with all the sunshine. And the french Toast. John pushed him against the table, jostling the laptop. "Hey! Careful!" Rodney turned to grab it, but John pulled him closer. Rodney kissed him again, but pulled away. "No, this isn't a good idea." "I'm not getting paid," John said. He worked his hands under Rodney's t-shirt and bit his shoulder. Wrapping his arms around Rodney's waist, John steered him toward the bedroom. Rodney thought about fighting, but John was wiry and flexible. With lots of muscles. Very, very nice muscles. "Wh-what?" Rodney had basically no willpower left. What was he doing with his hands? "I'm not getting paid. Kolya only paid me for last night. This is a freebie, just because I like you." "You do?" Rodney yanked off John's boxers, without thinking about what he was doing. "Yeah, I do." John pushed Rodney on the bed and seriously, Rodney was only human, here. He had limits. "You know what? I don't care if you like me or not." Rodney flopped back in submission. "Do your worst." >>> "Actually," John drawled. "I thought I'd do my best." He knelt down and straddled Rodney, trying not to let his knees slide off the edge of the bed. What would a real prostitute do? John asked himself. Thankfully, according to Rodney, he hadn't actually been with a prostitute before, so he didn't know what to expect. And John hadn't – he let his hands grip the muscles of Rodney's shoulders and moaned – he hadn't done this in a really long time. Rodney's room was a jumble of laundry, paper, and electronics that swirled around John as he struggled to get back in control. He just had to keep Rodney occupied long enough for that little device he'd planted on Rodney's laptop to work – if it worked. Pulling himself back to the task at hand, John leaned down to kiss Rodney, forgetting that prostitutes probably don't kiss. Rodney didn't seem to care, though. He moaned into John's mouth, his hands reaching up to grasp John's face. John hitched his hips against Rodney involuntarily and shuddered. Control, he told himself. Rodney was a nice guy. There was no need to go too far; that would be wrong, that would be…holy fuck. Rodney's hands had worked their way up his thighs, stroking him, coming maddeningly close to his hard cock. Rodney gripped his cock and John lurched forward, fighting for control. He reached out blindly, raking his nails down Rodney's chest and stomach. Rodney hissed in a breath and tightened his grip, causing John's cock to leap in his hand. John bit his lip and closed his eyes. Christ, this was the best sex he'd ever had and he wanted…he wanted to tell Rodney the truth, to let himself go, to wake up next to Rodney and then make him another breakfast. Teyla was right. He was too vulnerable, too raw. The other guys had mocked him; they left dog collars and condoms in his locker. But Teyla had just looked at him quietly, doubting. She knew more than he gave her credit for. She knew how much he needed this kind of connection. Wiggling free, John worked his way down Rodney's body, no longer thinking about the right thing or the wrong things or the fact that he wasn't supposed to be enjoying this. Mouthing Rodney's hipbone and rubbing himself against the bed, the farthest thing from his mind was the mission. Fuck. Abandoning Rodney just as John's mouth was inches from his cock, John pushed himself up and pulled Rodney upright. "What? What now?" Rodney gasped. "I want you to know—" John threaded his hands in Rodney's hair and pulled their faces closer so their foreheads were touching. "I never meant for this to happen." Please understand, he begged silently. "But-" Rodney's face twisted in confusion. "Just – this is us, okay?" John kissed him desperately, willing his body to explain where John couldn't. "I never meant for this to happen," he whispered against Rodney's lips, sliding back down the bed and taking Rodney's cock in his mouth in one swift, efficient motion. Rodney gasped and thrashed, nearly taking John off the bed, but he held tight, sucking, trying to stay coordinated, trying not to choke. He hadn't done this in years, before the military, before the FBI. Don't think about it, he told himself, so he just closed his eyes and gave in, gave in to the feel of a hot, real human body below him, to the feel of Rodney's cock deep in his throat, to the feel of Rodney's hands raking down his shoulders, until his orgasm tore through him like a fighter jet, buckling his knees. He let out a low, thick moan around Rodney's cock. "Jesus Christ!" Rodney's hips stuttered and jerked. "Sorry, sorry," he chanted as he pushed harder into John's throat. "I have to—" John stroked Rodney's thigh reassuringly with a shaking hand as Rodney came, twisting the sheets and shouting John's name. After John rolled away to stretch his aching muscles, Rodney grabbed a towel off the floor to clean them off. "I'm exhausted," he announced, then immediately collapsed onto his pillow. He was asleep before John could finish arranging the blankets over them. John figured it was a bad idea to sleep, but he didn't want to wake Rodney up by leaving, and he was so tired…he could figure things out with just a few minutes of rest… The first thing John saw when he opened his eyes to see Rodney McKay, snoring slightly and drooling on his pillow. His immediate reaction was to drop an affectionate kiss on Rodney's forehead, but his next, almost-immediate reaction was to jump out of bed so fast he bruised his ass on the dresser. Oh, God, he thought. I just had sex with a man for money. Okay. Not really for money but, hold on a minute, if the FBI was paying him for this mission, then wasn't he technically…? Shit, he was a hooker. Almost. At the very least, he was losing his mind. Not comforting. Not comforting at all. And it was even less comforting that the sex had been really good and that Rodney was kind of funny and endearing, and not at all a corporate-spying traitor to his country. At least, John didn't think he was. The really scary thing was how much he wanted to crawl back into bed. It was pretty nice waking up to someone – on the several disastrous occasions when he'd tried to take women home, the morning cuddling had been the best part. For some reason, John figured that Rodney was only soft and sweet when he was half-asleep. John kind of wanted to get to know that for sure. Shit, shit, he was not thinking clearly at all. Okay. Rodney's phone records were clean. John's thorough search of the place last night hadn't turned up anything. Now the last piece of evidence was the laptop, and John needed Teyla's help on that one. Teyla. Crap. He was supposed to check in by ten and it was damn near noon. John was surprised that she hadn't shown up knocking yet. He crept out of Rodney's room, dragging his shorts along the floor with one toe. Once he got outside Rodney's door, he dashed to his duffel, picked up his equipment, and tossed on a pair of jeans. He had to get out, now, before Teyla came in, guns blazing, to get him out. Not surprisingly, Teyla was pulling up McKay's long-ass driveway by the time he made it into his pants and out the door. "Where have you been?" Wow, Teyla was pissed. Usually, that particular tone of voice was directed at enemies of the state and drug smugglers. John wasn't thrilled with being on the receiving end of it. "Ambassador Halling will be arriving in eight hours." "It's under control. There were…complications." John struggled to keep his tone neutral, but Teyla knew him too well. Raising one eyebrow, she nodded. "I knew it." "Knew what?" "You're a romantic." She held up a hand to stop his protests. "And you have a kind heart. I knew this assignment would be difficult for you." This was hitting way too close, and John would bet anything that Teyla knew how close. John jerked a thumb at the house. "Is he clean?" "Yes. We were able to break Dr. McKay's security measures and access the information on his laptop. We found nothing." Relaxing slightly, John said, "It doesn't mean he's not involved." "No, but there is no evidence. What does your gut tell you?" She reached down to her phone and dialed a three-number code. "I have a team at the end of the street. I'm sending them home." "Good idea." John's gut was telling him that he'd made a big fucking mistake, here. He could still feel Rodney against him. Fuck. "Let's get out of here." He turned to walk down the long driveway. "Too late," Teyla said softly. "John?" Rodney came stumbling out of his front door. Wearing only his boxers and plush blue robe, he made his way over to John, wincing and cursing as he walked across the rocks. "Rodney, listen," John started. "What the hell is – is she – she's kind of short for a pimp, isn't she?" Rodney's head swiveled back and forth from John to Teyla. "Rodney, I'm not a prostitute." John shot for what he hoped was a reassuring tone. "What? What the hell is going on?" Rodney wrapped the robe around himself. "I'm with the FBI. We –" "The FBI? Am I being deported?" Rodney took a step back, horrified. "No, no. That's the INS." "Please don't tell me you were searching my – you drank my brandy and you searched my house?" "We're investigating GeniiCorp for—" "What does that have to do with seducing me?" Rodney began pacing back and forth. "And, forgive me for bringing this up, but 'This is a freebie?' Was breaking my heart part of the deal?" Not—" Rodney jabbed a finger in John's face. "That my heart or any part of my anatomy above my waist is involved. Just – theoretically." "Rodney, I can—" And that was when the world exploded. Light. Heat. Flying. Darkness. When John came to, he had a mouthful of dirt, there were branches digging into his back, and Rodney's car was on fire. >>>> Rodney lurched out of his rosebushes. "You! This! This has been the worst twenty-four hours of my life! First I have an agent in hooker's clothing showing up to what? Search my house? And then? Terrorists! My car! What's next? Aliens?" But John wasn't listening to him. He ran over to the front of the car to a small, still form. "Teyla!" He shouted. Great, now somebody was dead. Rodney started to shake. "Is – is she --?" Bending down and pressing an ear to her chest, John shook his head. "She's breathing." Rodney slumped onto his front steps. He cradled his head in his hands. "Thank God." Okay. She was alive. He was alive. John was alive and not a hooker. "Red Team, this is Agent Sheppard. We have an agent down. Repeat, agent down. Please respond." John stared anxiously into the distance, down Rodney's driveway, a walkie-talkie pressed to one ear. "Roger that," crackled a voice through the speaker. "On our way." John turned to Rodney. "What would you normally do?" "What would I normally do when? People don't normally blow up my possessions!" "No, I mean if I wasn't here." John ran his hands through his hair. "What would you do if the car exploded while you were sleeping? We don't know how much they know." Rodney tried to picture how the morning could have gone, but his mind kept getting tangled up with John in his sheets. "Uh – call Ronon, I guess. How much who knows?" At the sight of sleek black sedans and emergency vehicles racing up Rodney's driveway, John seemed to relax. He eased away from Teyla as various medical personnel swarmed around her. "I guess I should explain," he said. Well, finally. "You think?" "Let's go inside." John nodded to a short, efficient man in a subdued black suit. "All set. Lorne?" "All set, Agent Sheppard." He gave John the thumbs-up. John led Rodney back into the house. "Call Ronon, and then I'll explain. Please." John grimaced. "I owe you a lot of explanations." After calling Ronon and leaving a vaguely panicked message on his voicemail, Rodney walked back into his bizarrely normal kitchen and collapsed into a chair. He was shaky and exhausted. Everything still smelled like French toast and coffee. How long ago was it that John was making him breakfast? "Rodney. Rodney. Snap out of it." John walked over and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Losing it isn't going to help. We don't have much time so you have to listen." John crouched next to him and looked him in the eyes. "The FBI has been investigating GeniiCorp for the past eighteen months. We suspect that someone on the inside has been selling encryption and data transfer software to a lot of shady customers in Iran, North Korea, the Balkans, you name it. Obviously, this is a concern because—" "Yes, yes. My technology is bulletproof. They could transmit plans for attacks on the U.S. without the FBI picking it up." Rodney walked over to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup of sludge. "And we believe they have been. Remember the U.S. embassy bombing in Tashkent last month? We think they pulled that off thanks to GeniiCorp technology." John pressed his mouth in a tight line and walked toward the window. "We received some chatter that there's a plot to assassinate Ambassador Halling. We had good intel, then our sources dried up. A few weeks ago, we got a tip that GeniiCorp employees were directly involved in the plot. The ambassador arrives tonight. That's why this operation was such a priority," he finished quietly. "Operation." Rodney repeated dully. His technology -- his baby – had killed five Americans and two Italian tourists. "Rodney," John walked over to him. "We were desperate. We needed to stem the leak. And we thought that – well, you were the one who knew the most about the technology, you're not an American national—" "Yes. I'm a Canadian terrorist. You caught me." John continued, ignoring him. "Your home security is, frankly, impressive enough that we wouldn't be able to search your place covertly." John cracked a smile. "Yeah, well, I'm better funded than the U.S. government," Rodney muttered. "I don't doubt it. So we needed a way to get to you quickly. When Kolya and Cowen started sniffing around for your, um, present, last week, we figured that this was the perfect opportunity." John couldn't quite look him in the eyes. "And you martyred yourself for the cause, of course." Okay, so that came out slightly more bitter than Rodney had intended. "Rodney—" John sounded serious and sorry and Rodney didn't really give a shit, because he wasn't attached or anything. Prostitute or agent, it didn't matter. Rodney didn't even know the guy. Showing his usual flair for perfect timing, Ronon ran through the open front door. "Doctor McKay – your car—" Wow. He actually looked shocked. "I know, I know. Ronon, meet Agent John Sheppard, FBI." Rodney waved his hand back and forth between them. "John, Ronon." "Agent?" Ronon's eyebrow crept up to his hairline. "Yes, agent." John had the nerve to look offended, like Ronon hadn't seen him damn near naked last night. "Listen, as you can see, we have some trouble. We need to act like everything's normal. Are you licensed to carry a firearm?" Ronon pulled back his leather jacket to reveal a Cobray M11 tucked into a shoulder holster. On a smaller guy, that would have made a hell of a noticeable bulge. But Rodney didn't hire small guys for a reason. "Like this?" "Uh, wow. Yeah. You're really licensed to carry that?" "You want to see my license?" Ronon reached for his wallet. "No." John grinned, and Rodney got a flash of the cocky guy he found in his living room last night. "If you're not licensed, I don't want to know about it. We're going to need you." "Smart," Ronon agreed. John said, "Now, Rodney. You usually work on Saturdays, right?" "Of course." "Well, get dressed. We're going to GeniiCorp and we're going to figure out exactly who knows what and how much." John nodded at Ronon. "I'll explain on the way." >>> Much as John expected, Ronon took the story in stride, without asking a lot of questions. John didn't know where Rodney had found this guy, but he sure knew why he'd keep him around. Rodney, on the other hand, asked a hundred questions and hypothesized a hundred more suspects by the time they pulled into the driveway of GeniiCrop. John sat in the back with him, careful not to get too close. They still had a lot to talk about, but business came first. He merely contented himself with listening to Rodney's list of possible leaks. "As much as I'd like to suspect Kavanagh, he's not smart enough." "Bates. It has to be Bates. He's the kind of guy that writes you up for forgetting one little quarterly report." "Cadman. She has shifty eyes." John waited until the stream of names and accusations – stolen donuts, excessive use of sticky notes, "data based in archaic mythology" – came to an end. "Who is it, really?" He asked. Rodney sighed. "Cowen. Or Kolya. Possibly both." Nodding, John made a note on his steno pad. "They were next on our list. They have the access and the connections. We weren't sure how much knowledge they had, though." "They have most of my data." The color was draining from Rodney's face. "My reports --" Not thinking, John reached out to touch Rodney's knee in comfort. He jerked his hand back when he realized what he was doing, but the damage was done. Rodney gave him a tight, angry look and said, "Do you mind?" "We're here," Ronon interrupted. "Okay." John straightened up, all business. "Ronon, do you usually go in with Rod – uh, Dr. McKay?" Ronon shook his head. "I stay in the car." "That's too bad; we could have used you." John tossed a walkie-talkie to Ronon. "If this activates, even for a second, even if it's just static, call the number on this card. Read them the code off the bottom. Then sit tight and be ready." "You got it." Ronon took the card. John turned to Rodney, who looked like he was going to pass out. "Are you okay?" "Just peachy. What exactly are we going to be doing?" Rodney lifted his chin and set his mouth. John tried not to think about kissing him. Later, John told himself. They would talk later. "Is there anyone here that you trust without question?" "Zelenka," Rodney answered promptly. "I'd trust him with anything. I've trusted him with my laptop." "Wow, that is big." John grinned. "We're going in – do you sometimes take visitors in the building with you?" Rodney nodded. "Yes. Investors, vendors, and so forth. Only when I have to." "Good. I'm a new vendor. We need to assume they're watching your office and your communications." John checked his ammo and clicked the chamber back into place. "You go to Zelenka and ask him to –" "I know what to do," Rodney waved an annoyed hand at him. "I can do things with our data that you couldn't conceive of. Do you think I wouldn't put safeguards against this kind of thing?" "Great. I knew I could count on you." John smiled. Rodney made a pretty damned good partner. "Let's go, and keep it cool." They made it about halfway up the entrance plaza to GeniiCorp, (a marvel of black granite, flagstone walkways, and the occasional, discreetly-placed bush) when Rodney stopped short and slammed a hand into John's chest. He dragged John behind a large, tastefully subtle piece of sculpture. "Hey, ow!" John rubbed his breastbone. "What are you doing?" Casually, John scanned the tinted blue windows above them for cameras or snipers. "I need to know why," Rodney said. He slashed his hand down in front of John's face. "And I'm not going another step until you explain." "Now? Rodney, now is not the time," John hissed. "Yes, now. It doesn't make sense. Why would you sleep with me when you already had the chance to search the apartment?" Rodney crossed his arms. Shit. There was no way to get into this quickly and easily. "Rodney…it's complicated." John sighed. "I didn't mean for that to happen. I was just trying to distract you. I—I put a transmitting device on your computer after you logged in—" "You what?" "It's not going to hurt anything; don't worry." John touched Rodney on the shoulder, but Rodney just walked away, shaking his head. "Things got out of control. I'm sorry. I really do like—" "You don't know me," Rodney snapped. He fumbled in his coat pockets and pulled out his GeniiCorp ID card. "And I don't know you. So don't try to make it all pretty for me." He shoved the card in the reader. "Let's just get this over with so I can go home." John wanted to argue, but he couldn't. They needed to complete the mission before more people got hurt. "Right," he said. They walked through the cavernous, marbled foyer, past the empty reception desk, ("Shouldn't you sign in?" "Since when do I sign in?") and toward the bank of elevators to the rear of the building. They took the elevator down to the labs, where a small, rumpled man was tapping furiously into a computer. "You are late," he said, with the hint of an accent. Radek Zelenka, John thought. Czech national. Has lived in the U.S. for seven years. Divorced, one child, Karina, age twelve. Clean driving record, no priors. "You have no idea," Rodney said, pushing Zelenka out of the chair. "What? Hey!" Zelenka spotted John. "Who's that?" "Oh, that's –" Rodney started. "Agent Sheppard," finished a low, gravelly voice from behind them. "Kolya," Rodney breathed, as they turned around. Kolya was standing in front of the elevator, gun in hand, stalking toward them slowly. "Agent John Sheppard. Were you as ineffective a whore as I hoped you'd be?" "Ineffective?" Rodney laughed. "Whore?" asked Zelenka. "How did you know?" John said, desperately trying to remember his late-night studies of the GeniiCorp building blueprints. "I first began to suspect you when you were so…eager to take our assignment. At first, I thought it might be due to the fact that you're slightly, shall we say, past your prime." "Hey, I work out." John said. "But after a few quick background checks, I realized who you were. I take it our little bomb didn't go off as planned?" "Oh, it went off." Rodney spit out. "And you owe me a car." Rodney had backed up so he was standing right next to John. Zelenka stood in front of the computer, his knuckles white from gripping the table. "Did you sleep in, then, Dr. McKay?" Koyla chuckled and tipped his gun toward John. "Congratulations, Agent Sheppard. You must have more skill than I gave you credit for." "Wait a minute," Rodney said. "Why did you hire me a bad whore?" He gripped John's sleeve. "I am not a bad whore!" John yelled. "Exactly," Kolya said. "You're an FBI agent who would fail to seduce Dr. McKay, become convinced of his innocence, and talk him into helping you with the investigation. Sadly, the car bomb failed to rid me of your interference." He raised the gun. "Is this…does this have to do with the funny data?" Zelenka blurted out. Kolya swung the gun in his direction. Zelenka began to back up, twitching and bobbing, toward some complicated-looking equipment. "There has been unusual activity all day. I was trying to track it down, and that's why…" As he went on, John noticed that his twitching seemed to have a purpose. Zelenka kept jerking his head toward a small section of – aha! There was a door, nearly, flush with the wall and painted the same glaring white. John remembered that it led down to the main generators below. Smart man, John thought. "So, I see that you were behind it all along," Zelenka was continuing. John saw the glint in Kolya's eyes, and he tried to shout in warning, but – Bang! Kolya pulled the trigger and Zelenka went down, slumping to the floor. He left a trail of sticky red smeared on the machinery behind him. "Oh my God!" Rodney screamed. "You shot Zelenka!" "Come on." John kicked over the nearest equipment, raised his gun and fired, but Rodney, jumping over the fallen electronics, bumped into his arm at the last second, and he hit something that sizzled and burst into flames. "Shit, Rodney!" The equipment exploded, knocking the gun from his hand. He grabbed Rodney by the sleeve and yanked him through the door. It was completely dark, but by luck, they stumbled over some ladders that they used to bar the door. "Now what?" Rodney panted, his voice high and panicky. "Run," John said, and took off into the darkness. >>> Rodney couldn't see anything. He was blind, being led by a crazy FBI agent and being chased by an even-crazier terrorist who had just shot his best friend. His side hurt and his lungs hurt and he was scared out of his mind. There was a faint crackle in front of him as John activated the walkie-talkie. "Now, Ronon!" John whispered, and then Rodney heard a clatter a few feet away. "What was that?" "I got rid of the walkie-talkie," John panted. Good. He was out of breath too. "It could give away our location." "There's…there's a door, not too far down," Rodney stumbled over something on the floor. "If we make it, we'll come out on the side of the building, not far from where Ronon's parked." "Good," John said. "Let's hope we make it." "You know, you're not very cheering." Rodney pushed himself a little harder to keep up. "Are you always this optimistic?" "Like you're a ray of sunshine," John said. Rodney heard a muffled thump and John cursed softly under his breath. "Like," Rodney gasped. "Like you even know me, Agent Sheppard." Rodney chuckled as ironically as he could, considering the state of his lungs. "I can't believe you used your real name. Not very smart, are you?" Suddenly, the slap-slap-slap of John's steps stopped, and Rodney ran full-force into him. John clapped his hand over Rodney's mouth, spun him around, and pinned him to the wall. "Mmmph!" Rodney tried to struggle free. Great. John was crazy. He knew it. "Shut up," John hissed. "Just shut up for a second and listen." Rodney didn't exactly have a choice, so he tried to nod. Taking a deep breath, John started whispering so fast that Rodney could barely understand him. "Hi. My name is John Sheppard. I really do like football and fast things. I'm an only child. My dad's in the Air Force and my mom lives in an ashram in India. I was in the Air Force too until I had to watch three of my buddies die in Afghanistan." John stopped and took another, shaky breath and pressed closer, his knee bumping into Rodney's. Rodney didn't move a muscle. All he could hear was John's harsh breathing and his own heartbeat. "I joined the agency right after that. I'm 38. I like steak better than pizza and I hate anything with mushrooms. I snore. And—" He let go of Rodney's mouth. "I'd really, really like to take you to dinner when this is all over." Rodney swallowed hard. "Oh." Distant shouts came from above them. "Shit," John said. "Keep moving." They untangled from each other and pushed forward. Rodney's mind kept spinning around, looping back and forth from last night to this morning to now, threading together with the image of Kolya, gun glinting in his hand, and Zelenka, pale and still on the floor. A burst of light blinded him, and he shielded his eyes as they spilled out into the late afternoon sun. John didn't stop at all, but burst into a sprint toward the front parking lot. "Christ," Rodney muttered. The guy had to be an athlete too, didn't he? Not that Rodney hadn't noticed that already. There was a crash behind him. Rodney didn't think; he just started running. He turned his head just enough to see Kolya behind him, raising his arm… "Fuck!" Rodney yelled, and dropped to the ground. The bullet sounded like it was exploding in his head, but there was no immediate bodily damage, so he assumed that Kolya missed. Another shot exploded above him and he covered his head with his hands. When his ears stopped ringing, he looked up to see John standing in front of him, mouth set in a grim like, with a smoking gun in his hand. "Where have you been?" Rodney asked, dusting himself off. "Cutting it a little close, were we?" "Oh, you're welcome for saving your life, Rodney." John held his hand out and pulled Rodney up. "Yes, thank you, fine." Rodney muttered. "Zelenka--?" "Ronon called right when I contacted him. They sent a team in." John brushed a stray piece of grass off of Rodney's jacket. "That's all I know." The GeniiCorp parking lot looked like the set of CSI, with cops and feds and emergency personnel crawling all over the place. "Tell me I can go home," Rodney said. "I can tell them that I'm going to debrief you on the ride back, and that you'll be in tomorrow to give a more detailed statement." John led him back to the car, where Ronon was watching the goings-on with little interest. Rodney collapsed into the backseat. The frantic noise of the outside activity dulled to a low hum as soon as Ronon clicked the door closed. The quiet and the feel of the plush seat were an almost orgasmic combination. Rodney could feel himself relaxing for the first time in twenty-four hours. It seemed like a long time before John came back – Rodney had almost fallen asleep. "Hey," John said. "Zelenka's going to be okay." "Thank God," Rodney said. They set out for Rodney's house in silence. This had to have been, Rodney reflected, the worst day of his entire life. Really, Rodney had never thought anything would beat his Grade Seven holiday dance, but today was definitely one for the record books. He turned to look at John, who was curled up next to the window and nodding off. He looked small and bruised. Rodney remembered this morning, John's whispered pleas. I never meant for this to happen. Okay, so maybe the day hadn't been a complete loss. Rodney opened his mouth. "There's a place in the Valley," he said. John jerked awake and looked at him, confused. "They're not that popular, but they make a hell of a steak." John grinned, the smile spreading slowly across his face. "And don't think," Rodney continued, "that just because you're a public servant you're getting out of paying. I didn't exactly get my money's worth last night." "Technicaly, Kolya paid." "Well, then," Rodney smirked. "He really didn't get his money's worth."

Jack leaned back in his chair, his hands cupped around the glass on the white linen tablecloth, savoring the burn of brandy in the back of his throat and watching Daniel sip his after-dinner coffee. Jack, on his own Washington turf, had chosen the restaurant and had made sure to get their reservation on the night that his two favorite waiters were working. And he had chosen brandy instead of a sweet for dessert. He felt it balanced the rich aftertaste of the exquisite meal they'd just enjoyed. Daniel, however, had ordered chocolate. He had emerged from his orgasmic enjoyment long enough to gift Jack with one slightly grudging bite of the ganache, and he had, of course, ordered coffee. Jack noted, smiling on the inside, that when his second-favorite waiter had brought Daniel's cake, he'd brought two forks without being asked. Daniel hadn't seemed to notice. He'd given Jack the bite off his own fork. Jack had asked Daniel out on what amounted to a romantic date, but Daniel, it seemed, was so used to their boundary-less friendship that he'd simply accepted what Jack had meant for a signal. So, Jack sighed. Time to ramp it up. He was going to have to resort to more drastic action. Because it was time, he'd told himself, when he'd made the decision about this date. Then he'd worried, and had had to tell himself again. Over and over, he listed the reasons why the time was now: They weren't getting any younger. Absence had indeed made the heart grow fonder, and the heart more darn aware of the preciousness of every passing day. Jack wasn't on a front line team any more, and wasn't Daniel's CO. But that didn't make his heart stop pounding. Funny how he could face Senators and your stray, average Goa'uld with less trepidation, nowadays, than what he had realized he was about to do. Yeah. Funny, that. He took another sip of brandy. Daniel's dessert plate was scraped clean, showing only the merest smudge of the raspberry-sauce "Z" that the kitchen had painted on the china. The snifter, Daniel's mug, one white plate and one fork were the only things left on the table between them, beside the little flickering romantic lamp. Their waiter had gone over the linen with a little shiny scoopy thing, catching up crumbs, before the dessert came out. It was that kind of restaurant. Fancy and exquisite as D.C. could offer. The place you brought European ambassadors in order to impress them. It was time. And since Daniel had not picked up on the romantic ambience, Jack was going to have to give him a verbal nudge. "I always wondered," Jack said, making himself watch the swirl of liquor in the little balloon glass, how it painted the inside of the crystal with curls of transparent amber, instead of focusing on Daniel's face, "why you never remarried." There was no immediate answer. Jack took a quiet breath and looked. Daniel's eyebrows were up, and he was staring at Jack over his glasses, his hand still on his coffee cup. His expression said, "What the fuck?" Jack held his stare, keeping his face neutral. Eventually Jack said into his silence, "The coffee must be really good here. Since you didn't want any cream." Daniel's expression went far-away and distracted. Finally he said, "I guess I never found the right person." His tone was light. Jack believed the tone was a subterfuge. Jack noted Daniel did not say "woman." He said "person." Daniel thought for a while, and then his gaze intensified again, and sharpened on Jack's face. He looked positively eager, and he was about to open his mouth. Jack could feel it. Careful, Jack said, inside. One step at a time, and not too much in public. Jack said, "You know, maybe I shouldn't have started this conversation here. Maybe I should have waited till we got back to my place." Like directing an orchestra of cats. Jesus. "I..." The effort it took for Daniel to tear his gaze from Jack's now was visible. Jack felt the removal of that gaze like he would feel the closing of a door on a warm room, or the sensation of stepping away from a fire. He made himself look down, take a deep breath, and another sip. Daniel got it. Jack's heart was still pounding. It was an effort not to fiddle with the silverware. "It was the chain of command stuff, then," Daniel said, finally, to his coffee cup. "I honestly didn't know." Jack exhaled. He ordered himself not to sag back in the chair. Even his fingertips went cold with relief. "Yeah," Jack said. "It was that." "Ah," Daniel said. He looked around the restaurant, as if seeing it for the first time. "And so this is a date, then." The corner of his mouth quirked. An expression of pleased shyness was replacing his frowny, single-minded focus. Well, Jack thought. You really are a genius, Doctor Jackson. His mind might have known that Daniel would quickly get on the same page, but his body was still just a little shocked. Daniel looked into his cup, as if there were tea leaves down in there to read, and Jack watched the wheels turn as Daniel searched back mentally over a decade of data. Then Jack's hunter's vision caught their waiter, hanging on his heel, watching the two of them, hesitating, calculating, and then the guy turned away and went to the workstation in the corner and chatted up one of his colleagues, who was doing something with the computer that was actually a cash register. Jack smiled with one corner of his mouth. Yeah, this was indeed a very good restaurant. As good as its reputation, even. And that was a rare thing. What Daniel eventually came up with, was the answer to Jack's original question. He was still looking down at his cup as he began to speak. "Because: At first, and for a long time, I was just stunned, and full of grief, and then I was discouraged, and beaten, and then I was ... glowy," and Jack wanted to press his lips to that hesitating smile, wanted Daniel to raise his eyes from his cup so he could read the love shining in Jack's and then Jack wouldn't have to say anything else at all and they could get out of here and skip, finally, miraculously, straight to the touching holding closeness skin-contact part, "and then, I dated a little and realized that none of those people out there," he waved his hand at the room, at the room full of soft-spoken, well-groomed, upper-class Washington elite, dismissing them along with all the other denizens of his home planet, except one, Jack silently and hopefully interjected. "...none of the people out here--" and Daniel, finally, met Jack's eyes, the contact a solid jolt, and their glance connecting was how he finished the sentence. And Daniel was smiling. The combined buzz of the intent glance and sweet smile went all the way down Jack's spine and settled in his ass and his balls. "--were you," Daniel wasn't saying, at the end of the sentence. But he was looking it. Jack smiled. Daniel dropped his glance again. He drank the last of his coffee. His smile settled in the corners of his mouth and in his eyebrows. Jack raised a hand without looking around for the waiter. He pretty much counted on the guy to be watching for it. "And then I was frozen," Jack said softly, "and then there was Kerry, and the promotions, and one thing and another. So I, you know, kinda lost track there. That's on me." Daniel sighed. "My--" and he cleared his throat, "affections weren't really worth keeping track of in those days, I'm afraid. I'm not proud of that, but. In there, before Tagelus, before Jacob's death, I went after Sarah Gardner again. Pretty hard. For a while. I thought--" "You don't have to--" Jack started. "I know. This isn't therapy night for me or something," Daniel interrupted. "It's okay. It's not dredging anything up. It's just history; nothing more." And Daniel's smile was sad, but his eyes were kind and still a bit amazed. Jack, out of the corner of his eye, could see the waiter approaching with a little black leather folder. After a moment, Daniel went on. "For reasons that don't really matter now, at all, water under the bridge and all that, I went after her, but she wanted nothing to do with me, or with archaeology, or with anything at all that reminded her of what had happened. She couldn't stay in the States; too many memories, she said. She went home to her parents, and cut me off quite severely and quite thoroughly. And then later I had a kind of a fling with Catherine Langford's niece, actually." Daniel hitched his shoulders and did that jerking thing with his neck, a signal of reluctance and confession. The waiter had slipped the folder onto the corner of the table by Jack's elbow and vanished again without interrupting. Jack nodded. He'd known about Sabrina Gosling. He didn't need to tell Daniel that, which would serve only to confirm the reality of the surveillance, but Jack had known. "But..." Daniel said, and shrugged. "I wasn't in love with her." "Well, I'm sure for the time being you have your hands full with Vala, so it's not like you're lacking for women in your life. To say nothing of Carter, of course." And Daniel burst out laughing. Threw his head back and laughed until his shoulders shook, and he pulled off his glasses -- Jack still wasn't used to the new ones, the new shape -- and rubbed his eyes. Jack was pretty sure Daniel was relieved that Jack felt comfortable enough to mention Carter. There was a lot they weren't saying, in among everything they were, now. A lot of assumptions. A lot of water under the bridge. But it was nice to get on the same page about the history. Jack put the credit card in the folder, and when the waiter collected it and brought it back again, pretty much immediately, Jack glanced at the total, added the tip and signed the check while Daniel got through chuckling and rubbing his eyes and hopefully venting all the remaining tension that Jack's question had prompted. Jack knew Daniel could process the new knowledge Jack had handed him, at least intellectually, this fast. He wasn't sure about the other, non-intellectual types of acceptance. But he had hope. When Jack looked up from writing, Daniel was watching him with unmasked fondness, mixed with a kind of unbelieving yearning. It was a look Jack was immeasurably relieved to see, and one that he was sure he would never get tired of. And he hoped he had the chance to experiment with that; see exactly how long it would take to prove he'd never tire. They were done here. Jack suppressed a desire to pull Daniel's chair out and help him with his coat. Instead he stood, and waited until Daniel was standing, too, and had his suit jacket back on, and then he turned and headed for the door. In the truck, heading back to the townhouse, Jack noticed out of the corner of his eye, (trying not to be obvious that he was trying earnestly to get some sense of the trajectory of Daniel's mood) that Daniel folded his hands in his lap and stared straight ahead. Daniel said nothing for several blocks, but then made a querulous protest about the status of some obscure line item in the SGC xeno-anthropology budget, and so they bitched some more about politics and bean-counting until they were inside the garage at Jack's place and the garage door was coming down. "Jack, I..." "Hm?" Jack was gathering up his sunglasses and pocketing his keys and opening the driver's side door. "I don't know what you expect-- it's been a long time, and I--" "Daniel." "Jack?" "Let's just go inside and make a pot of coffee, mmm?" He heard Daniel sigh, and then Jack was up the steps and inside, and his heart was pounding once again as he took off his jacket and hung it on its hook, then took off his suit coat and draped it on a kitchen chair. Too much to ask that this would be simple, this next step. But with Daniel? Things were never simple. Which was, honestly, one of the reasons Jack loved him so much. Daniel was standing there, looking confused, glancing around the bright kitchen. He'd worn a jacket but no tie, and Jack had tipped the maitre d' extra to overlook it at the restaurant. Daniel had never noticed. Jack watched him for a long moment as Daniel stared blearily around the kitchen, and then Jack busied himself with the coffee beans and the grinder. Maybe Daniel needed some space. At least he wasn't hugging himself; that was a good sign. If he were to ask a question now, any question at all, Jack was willing to answer it. And making coffee was something to do with his hands, for now. He felt a warm, heavy touch on his shoulder. He turned, and then Daniel was folding him up, folding him in. So not so much with the talking.... His arms came up eagerly, and he pressed himself against Daniel's tall, solid length. It wasn't the first time they'd hugged, not by a long shot, but it felt very different. Different because of the explicit knowledge they now shared, and different because there was no politeness in this hug. It was a full body, very affectionate hug. A lovers' hug. He felt Daniel smile, and then the smile rested softly against Jack's neck, which sent a warm thrill down Jack's spine. And then the smile faded. "I want this, so much. You must know I do. But, Jack," and Daniel's hands tightened, like he was afraid of falling, "I don't know if we should.... If we can.... You're too important to me. If I fuck this up because we introduce sex? I won't be able to stand it. I'm not kidding or exaggerating. You have to believe me." Jack tightened his arms around Daniel's middle. "It will fuck it up to introduce sex?" "I didn't say will. I said if." "Sex fucks things up?" Jack could allow that, theoretically, that might be true, for some people at some times, but for them, now? No way. Daniel felt so good in his arms. Warmth radiating, through his clothes -- it made Jack skip right to imagining, again, how this would feel without the clothes, nothing between his skin and Daniel's. Fleeting images from his well-thumbed stock of fantasies skittered through his mind -- pasted-together, yearning ideas of how he'd imagined Daniel would look in bed. In Jack's bed. But Daniel huffed at Jack, "What planet have you been living on?" He wasn't moving away, despite the argument he was trying to start. He was still holding on, still hugging, and furthermore his package was firming where it pressed against Jack's, and he was doing something that resembled, okay, something that definitely was, nuzzling. Another tingle down Jack's spine. "A different one than you, apparently, even yet," Jack said. He began to nudge Daniel gently toward the door to the hallway, began to turn him. He hadn't had a chance to finish making the coffee, but oh well. The beans would still be in the grinder in the morning. "In my experience, professor, sex or no sex, things may very well get fucked up. But that's not about the sex. It's about other things. Outside things." Daniel resisted being chivvied toward the hallway. He took Jack's shoulder and pulled back so he could study Jack's face. "I don't want to ruin our friendship," he insisted. "I've lived without being intimate with you for this long; I know for certain I can do that. But if this goes wrong? So wrong that I lose you again, entirely?" Daniel closed his eyes and a shiver went through him. This close, Jack could see the fine tracery of his crows' feet, see the lines that concentration left in his forehead, see the barely-beginning dusting of gold in his dark hair. He smelled so good. They were too close to resist the next move, now. And Jack had no desire to resist. Daniel had stated the situation in the negative, but that was an answer, in itself. So Jack pulled his grip up to Daniel's shoulders and tilted his own face and leaned in. He felt Daniel suppress the start when Jack's lips touched his, and Jack frowned. But Daniel didn't pull away. The kiss felt careful, and Jack intentionally made it shallow and short. He whispered, "We can start slow. I just want to, you know, start somewhere." Daniel frowned, but when Jack kissed him again, he cooperated and even added a few flourishes, making this second kiss long and sweet. It made Jack's knees melt. It was everything he wanted and more; he'd pretty much dreamed this kiss. Daniel's lips moved gently against his; Daniel's arms tightened around him. But when the kiss eventually ended, and Jack pulled back, Daniel was still frowning and he didn't open his eyes. But, on the plus side, he wouldn't let Jack pull away. He brought up his hands to cup Jack's face, and delivered another kiss that became even more of a knee-melting fantasy come true. Jack realized, through the saturated warmth of Daniel's mouth, that Daniel was now gently backing him against the kitchen wall, and he groaned and went with it. Daniel pressed against him, grinding their erections together, devouring his mouth, and Jack wrapped his arms around Daniel's shoulders and let the wall take his weight. Daniel's tongue became hot and aggressive. Kissing like this made Jack light-headed. It made him lose track of his surroundings, his senses overwhelmed by Daniel's warmth and weight, by the sweet plundering pleasure of Daniel's mouth. After an uncountable time, Daniel leaned back, breathing hard. He took Jack's hand and pulled on it, and turned to go down the hall to the bedroom of the townhouse. But his eyes were still closed. Daniel led, and when they arrived at Jack's bed, Daniel took a deep breath. Jack could see his back expand with it, and then he stripped, and climbed in. He folded his glasses and put them on the far nightstand. Jack got very distracted from his own undressing, as he watched the play of muscles in his back and his ass. Daniel was in better shape than he'd ever been -- he'd been lifting weights for years now, and probably pushing himself to stay in the kind of shape the rest of his team maintained. He'd always been gorgeous. Now he was gorgeous and buffed. Jack smiled and remembered what he was supposed to be doing and quickly finished taking his own clothing off. He lay down beside Daniel and gathered him close. This was it -- this was what he'd wanted. Nothing but skin. Hot, silky skin. Daniel kissed him again, hard and intently and deeply, making Jack go from hard to rock-hard, sending flames licking down his spine. Then Daniel let go of him and turned over to lie on his stomach. And spread his legs. Jack's eyes got wide. "I assume you have lube," Daniel said, and his voice was choked. "And I'm also assuming you've thought through the latex/no latex decision, and for the record, you can assume I'm clean. So ... yeah." Jack, stunned, leaned hastily toward the nightstand. So much for starting slow. He found he was ready to blow from the view and the matter-of-fact talk, and he managed to get some gel out of the drawer, onto his dick and then squeeze some more onto his fingers. Jack managed, "It's been at least a year for me. And two blood tests. Since the last time I had sex, I mean." "All right then," Daniel said, into the pillows, and he reached back to pull his cheeks apart with shaking fingers. "You need to open me first. Because it's been longer than that for me." "God, Daniel," Jack said, reverently, and put his dry hand on Daniel's cheek and ran careful firm fingers down the crack, pausing at the opening, where the muscles were so alive, seemingly straining to accept him before he'd tried to slip in even one finger. "God, baby, are you sure? This is how you want it? This is what you want first?" Daniel had only talked about women, Jack thought, confusedly. Only about women. Was this what he really wanted? He carefully massaged the blooming hole and tried to swallow. His throat was dry. Daniel was sex on legs. Jesus. "Please. Jack. If I think about it too much that will be bad." The laugh that followed was shaky, and it made Jack frown, even as his dick jumped and his eyes squeezed closed, because Daniel had timed an aggressive push backward against the tentative easing of Jack's middle finger, and buried it to the knuckle. God, so tight and hot and slick and welcoming. Jack wanted in there, so goddamned badly. Daniel said, still pushing back in controlled jolts, "Surely after all this time you can appreciate that I want to do something without talking it to death first." "Jesus," Jack said, watching two of his fingers disappear. His arm was braced -- Daniel was doing it all; Daniel was fucking himself on Jack's fingers. "Please; Jack," Daniel said again, and Jack said, "Baby," and Daniel couldn't have been more clear, but the closed eyes were bothering Jack and yet, and yet.... His mouth falling open in awe, he slowly pulled his fingers free, took hold of his shaft and lined up, watching the ripple of muscle in Daniel's buttocks and thighs, and eased in. God. So tight, so slick. It had been, Jesus, years, since he'd had sex with anyone without a condom. You intentionally forgot, put out of your mind because of necessity and duty, the sheer intensity of the sensation when it was bareback. Jack's eyes fell closed and he swore time itself slowed down, letting him feel every inch, every fucking millimeter, of his entrance into Daniel's body. It was, simply, heaven. Sliding, sliding, like a firm caress, all the way down, 'til his balls were snugged against Daniel's and his shaft was squeezed by tight heat. And then he gasped, and swore, because Daniel clamped down on him and made it even tighter. Resisting the expert play of those muscles, Jack gripped Daniel's hips a little harder and took it in the other direction. He eased almost all the way out, slowly, making Daniel groan. Jack opened his eyes at that, and was treated to the sight of new sweat sheening Daniel's back, and the way his thighs strained, pushing him toward Jack. And again, in, slow, so slow -- all the way in, and Jack shifted his knees just a little, and cocked his hips. If he could get the angle right, if he remembered -- God, it was so different with a man. There'd been two women, three, since the last time he'd been here with a man, and he wanted to catch the gland, wanted to make it good for Daniel, so good. It should always be good for Daniel. Always should be the very, very best. Nothing less, ever. For Daniel. Maybe he got there, maybe he didn't; the quality of Daniel's moans didn't really change, but Jack's body knew what it wanted and made him forgot about trying to hit the prostate for Daniel's benefit, in favor of setting a slow, intense rhythm, a rhythm to rock them both, rock the mattress, and making Daniel groan and brace with one hand against the wall and push back, stroke for stroke. The tight friction on the underside of the head, the enveloping heat. It was too much. It was beautiful. The rhythm went on, gradually building, gradually getting harder, faster. Once again, Jack lost track of time, lost in their bliss. Daniel kept groaning. There it was -- the edge of climax was close; so close, and soon it would be right there, and Jack let himself just go for it, smooth and inexorable, because he had plans for bringing Daniel off afterward if the fucking didn't get the job done, but God, Daniel felt too good, so good, so tight, so hot. He cried out as he shot, calling Daniel's name, then bending to put his mouth to Daniel's shoulder and the climax shook him -- it would have been a kiss if he could have controlled it better, but it was too good, too much. Too much of what he'd wanted, for so long, for forever. He fumbled his grip away from Daniel's hips and up to his waist, bringing Daniel with him as he fell to his side, circling with his arms, and Daniel's hands were on his wrists, Daniel was wrapping Jack's arms in his own arms. The unbelievable pleasure ebbed. Jack rested a minute, panting. Daniel held him tight. When he freed a hand and touched Daniel's hard dick, Daniel jerked, and groaned even louder than he had before. He turned his head, scrubbing his face against the pillow again, and then he went still. His dick was rigid and hot, and also very wet, and Jack used that and the leftover lube, guessing at how fast to stroke and how tight to squeeze, but it didn't take long until Daniel tensed even more, and came, pulsing strongly over Jack's fingers. Then it was over. Jack let his fingers soften -- again, wondering how Daniel liked it, how he did this for himself; but there would be time to learn that, to learn it all, give it all back -- and left his fist curled loosely around Daniel's still-firm shaft. He had recovered enough now to kiss, and so he pressed three or four firm wet kisses to Daniel's nape and Daniel's shoulder. Then he let his head rest on the pillow, behind Daniel's head. Four breaths, five, and Daniel hadn't moved. He was still holding Jack's arm, a hand locked around his wrist. He was still tense. "Baby," Jack whispered, and kissed his neck once more. No response. Oh, shit. Jack got up on an elbow and freed his hand from Daniel's grip to stroke down his forearm. "Please tell me you really wanted that," Jack said. Something in his belly was going cold. "You know I did," Daniel said, but he didn't move. Jack leaned to get a glimpse of Daniel's face. "Then what's wrong." "Nothing." Jack sighed, and put his head back down on the pillow behind Daniel's. Son of a bitch. How could he have been so fucking optimistic? How could he think they could come together, finally, truly, without some kind of classic, colossal fucking misunderstanding? This sucked. He was still inside Daniel, buried in that fucking beautiful heat, and his dick was fast deflating under the pressure of all this negative emotion. So close, and yet so far. Yeah, some cliches were cliches for a reason. He'd hoped that one didn't apply to the two of them any more. Apparently he'd been wrong. He winced and shifted and pulled out, gathering Daniel more firmly against him as he did, as a way of softening the impact of losing that fullness. Men, women, it didn't matter -- if it was anything more than just getting off with a stranger, that moment of emptiness needed a counterweight. Jack knew that down to his bones and it was easy, instinctive, to deliver the hug. It was as easy with Daniel to offer that embrace as it had been with Sara. In fact, Daniel was the first person since Sara with whom it had been more than a polite duty. No surprise there. But Daniel was most emphatically not on the same page. As demonstrated by the tension in his body. Jack stared at the sharp, clipped line of hair on the back of Daniel's neck and drew an exasperated breath. He had to consciously carve the annoyance from his voice. To soften it. "Okay, I'm getting that I'm not the one with the intimacy problem of the two of us. Big shock there." That might have startled Daniel, but if it did, the only way he showed it was to tighten his grip around Jack's wrist. "Really, yeah, it is a big shock." His voice was neutral. Resigned, even. It made anger flare in Jack, anger that immediately washed into chagrin. "So what is it? What's the matter? You apparently don't believe this, but I really do want to know what's wrong. Is it more second thoughts about sex? You don't really bottom? You don't love me? What?" Daniel used his grip on Jack's wrists to push free of his arms. He rolled until he was facing Jack, and raised on an elbow. His eyes were snapping now, narrowed and angry, too bright, like sunlight on tropical water. Way too bright for someone who just got off. "It's none of that, goddammit. It's none of those things, none at all." He glared at Jack for a minute, then flopped onto his back and put his hands to his eyes, scrubbing. "It's just-- it's just so goddamn easy for you. You decide to make your move, you ask me out, you bring me home. It was finally time, according to you, and so you did it. Jesus." He brought his hands down and stared at the ceiling, blowing cold as quickly as he'd blown hot. "It's just so easy. For you to make these incredibly life-changing decisions. So easy to just reach out and take what you want." Jack cleared his throat. "So, backlog of resentment, much?" He'd expected that Daniel would find it hard to move from friendship to sex, after all these years. And Jack had feared rejection, or, illogically, feared that he'd been wrong about his long-cherished belief that Daniel, underneath all the AF rules and the necessary distance, loved him back. Jealousy, anger -- those, he hadn't expected. Oops. Daniel was glaring at him again. "I told you that if I thought too much about it, it would be bad. For once I don't want to talk about it and you do; how's that for hilarious." He threw the covers back and got up. He disappeared into the master bath. Jack heard the shower start. Jack lay back on the pillow for a minute and forced his breathing to slow. Then he got up and followed Daniel into the bathroom. He put his hand on the towel bar, ready to slide the door open and climb in with him. But Daniel said, "Don't.... Just don't." He was half turned away, soaping himself. Jack sighed. Yeah, okay, Daniel was right. This was bad. He sat down on the toilet seat. He noticed that his hands were gummy with dried lube, and he stood up and washed at the sink and sat down again. Daniel kept soaping himself under the hot water. The sound of the shower was soothing; like the ocean. Jack had never heard it from out here. When Daniel was done in there, he'd smell like Jack's soap and Jack's shampoo, all night and all day. Jack said, his voice a little drier than he wanted, "Should I have asked before barging in here?" "No, no. Shit, we did the showering thing all the time. With hot and cold running Marines, yet. No, Jack, I don't have any issues about showering while you're in here." Jack decided to let the lecturing-to-stupid tone pass. He watched Daniel rinse his hair and his body. He could look, now. No more stolen glances, no more stern internal warnings against ogling. So he did. And confirmed for himself, one more time, as if he needed confirmation, that Daniel was stunning. Finally Daniel shut off the water and stepped out into the loud, humid silence. He dripped all over the rug as he slipped past Jack. He looked at himself in the mirror over the sink, then rummaged in the drawers, and found the spare pack of disposable razors Jack always kept, and the shaving gel. He stared at himself in the mirror some more as he shook the can. Jack got up from the toilet lid and got into the shower. He had no desire to linger. Just a quick soaping of his groin, a quick scrub of his armpits. As Jack was toweling off, Daniel said to the mirror, through the foam on his face, "It's like this." Jack bit his lip and tried to pay attention. "I'm working without a net here. I warned you that the stakes are really high for me; that if we screw this up I won't be able to stand it." He rinsed his razor and kept shaving. He sounded like he was testifying in court. "Plus, you know, as you've always said: I think too much. So, all that kind of adds up to a rather intolerable level of risk. Emotional risk. Which is, of course, the kind of risk I suck the most at." Jack sat down again on the toilet lid, which put him just under Daniel's left elbow. He wanted to reach out and touch, so badly. Put his hand on the naked curve of hip, on the jut of bone there. Slide his palm on up, along Daniel's ribs, feel his every breath spread them apart. Instead he sat, unmoving, making himself keep a firm grip on his bunched-up towel, and thought for a minute. "...Does it help if you think about how much I love you? Because that's pretty much all I've got here. Since I doubt we're accurately evaluating the potential quality of the sex yet." Daniel closed his eyes, as if he had to let the words sink in. Jack reviewed their recent conversation and realized he might have blown past another big milestone without warning. No help for that now. Jack continued, thinking out loud, "Although you're still right; that's a guarantee that I won't leave voluntarily and I'll hang in here for the issues. But you know how it is. Out there. Shit happens." Daniel sighed and kept shaving. "Ori happen. Jaffa happen. Replicators happen. Wraith. Untested technology. Speeding trucks with no brakes. Airline--" "The list, yeah," Jack said, interrupting with a handwave, wincing. Daniel turned to him, done shaving. He tossed the cheap razor on the counter, stray scraps of gel clinging to his face. "How do you do it? How do you stay in the moment like you do? Dance on that knife's edge without constantly worrying about the future and what could happen?" Jack smiled ruefully. After all this time, he got this question. He really didn't know how to attempt to answer. It wasn't something he had figured out by conscious thinking. Daniel should know that by now. Shouldn't he? He was a genius, after all. Jack said, lightly, "To be is to do...." Daniel smiled, because he knew the rest of the joke. He blotted his face with a hand towel and folded it up and placed it carefully on the sink. It looked like busy work. Jack felt hugely relieved at his cautious, sad smile. Because at least it was a smile. Jack said, "Can we go to bed now? So I can rest up and maybe sleep, and knit up the raveled sleeve of care and so forth? Nurse my damaged ego? Because that was so the worst sex you've had in years. Maybe ever." "No, actually it wasn't," Daniel said, briskly, and he turned to Jack and put his fists on his hips for a second, and looked at Jack, really looked at him, scanned him up and down, and then he turned and left the bathroom. Jack followed. They turned out lights. They got in bed, and Jack pulled him in close and Daniel let him. Daniel turned so that they were face to face in the near-dark, their bodies damp and a little chilled. It still felt sublime to Jack. As much as the sex, he'd wanted Daniel here. With him. Near him, touching. All the time. And then Daniel sighed and wrapped Jack even closer. The press of his arms was almost too tight, and his face was pressed against Jack's shoulder. Moved by instinct, riding a wave of tenderness that was as intense as it was surprising, Jack put a hand on the back of his head, cupping. Daniel moaned. "Too sappy?" "No. No. Just...." He pushed his face harder against Jack's neck, and Jack realized with a jolt what he was hearing in Daniel's voice. Daniel was on the verge of tears. That one touch, prompted by an urge to comfort, made Daniel choke up. Jesus. Daniel said, his voice muffled, "I love you too. And I can't lose you. But that's what always happens. Always." Big lightbulb. The biggest. Doh. Jack felt as dumb as Homer Simpson. Of course that was Daniel's biggest issue, the most familiar elephant in the room. Everyone he had ever loved, had gone. Had died. Badly. Painfully. Jack tightened his arms. "I get that, now." Daniel cleared his throat and shifted so that his face wasn't pushed quite so hard against Jack's neck, but he didn't let go. "Yeah. I guess you do. I figured you of all people would." Jack could hear him thinking, but despite that, despite everything, it was late, and they managed to sleep. Both of them. Wrapped close. Morning brought a steely-eyed Daniel; all focused determination and will. But all of it was, for the moment, directed away from Jack, who woke when Daniel got out of bed. Jack blearily watched him rummage in drawers and come up with a pair of Jack's pajama bottoms -- the comfy fuzzy ones MalDoran had given him for Christmas, in fact. Daniel put them on, and then without a backward glance left the bedroom. Jack stayed alert long enough to identify that Daniel had found the coffee beans from last night, still in the grinder. So he was definitely on that mission, that coffee-making mission. Which, combined with the evidence of the pajama pants, pointed to Daniel staying for breakfast. That settled, Jack allowed himself to lapse back into a doze. It seemed like about 30 seconds later when Daniel climbed into bed beside him, carrying a fresh cup of coffee. It smelled splendid and it woke Jack up completely. He didn't even have to drink it to get the benefit. The scent was enough. Daniel sat there, legs stretched out under the covers, drinking. He still looked determined, but not angry, and he didn't have his glasses on. Jack rolled to his side and slid a careful hand to rest on Daniel's thigh, under the covers. Daniel didn't flinch, and he didn't feel too tense. Jack sighed with contentment. After a while, Daniel set his cup -- presumably empty -- on the nightstand. He put his hand over Jack's, but on top of the covers. Jack smiled. "Good morning, Mary Sunshine," he said. He knew perfectly well that that was sideways to Mitchell's pet name for Daniel and he wanted to see if he could dislodge Daniel's train of thought, whatever it was. It was always nice to get verification that Daniel was among the living, present and accounted for. Too often for Jack's comfort, he was listening to voices no one else could hear. At Jack's words, Daniel's brow unknotted a little and he leaned back and huffed out one rough chuckle. "That's in the moment, right there," Jack said, his voice rusty with sleep, "you and that coffee. So you do know how to do it." Daniel smiled. Jack smiled too. It was like the happy sort of contagion. Daniel turned, scrunching down to kind of loom over Jack, leaning on his elbows, looking serious all of a sudden. Jack, lying on his back, cocked his head to indicate receptiveness and waited. Daniel was attempting to stare him down. Or something. All in one motion, Daniel grabbed the edge of the comforter and flipped it and the blanket and sheet down. They landed, rumpled, around Jack's knees. Jack raised his eyebrows, and glanced at Daniel's middle. He was already hard. He met Daniel's eyes again, and let one corner of his mouth curve up. Daniel bit his bottom lip and sat. He began running slow, firm hands over Jack's skin, seemingly at random. Exploring. Jack's eyes wanted to roll back in his head. He just lay there, his hands palms up at his sides, his head rolled toward Daniel, and ... felt. Absorbed. Those long-fingered hands, surprising in their strength, their delicate calibration of touch, all that expertise, all that curiosity, directed at him. It was intoxicating. He registered that Daniel was leaning over him, bringing skin all along his skin, a full-length warmth, and then Daniel's lips brushed his ear. "Turn over," Daniel whispered, and Jack shivered. He turned. Daniel made a noise, a kind of a groan, and Jack felt him slide down toward the foot of the bed, and then Daniel's bulk and weight were settling between Jack's legs, pressing them apart. And Daniel was kissing his buttocks. Jack groaned, in surprise both at the act and at how fucking good it felt, and then Daniel slid and shifted some more (must be kneeling on the goddamned floor, off the end of the goddamned bed) and then he gently pulled and opened and holy fuck, that was his tongue. In Jack's ass. More groaning, incoherent and enthusiastic, and it was all warmth and the scent of coffee and skin and the sticky friction of Jack's leaking dick against the sheets, and finally when he was straining his thighs apart to get more of Daniel's tongue up inside him, Daniel leaned back, breaking the contact, but Jack didn't even have time to groan in protest, because then Daniel's slick fingers were pressing inside him. Jack had no idea how many they were, but they felt so good, taking up where the gentle muscular probing of Daniel's tongue had left off, then going deeper, stroking -- a white explosion, blooming behind his eyes, and Jack lurched and cried out and realized he was pushing his ass up and toward Daniel, blatantly grinding back against those fingers. He called Daniel's name. Yeah, he knew what was next, now. And it was not nearly as drastic or as radical a step as perhaps it should have been. "Jack." Daniel sounded hoarse. "I'm going to fuck you now. Is that all right?" "Slow," Jack gasped. "Take it slow." "Been a while, huh," Daniel said, and shit, that was more fingers. The stretch was huge; much different from a moment before. Jack's ab muscles contracted and he tried to relax his thighs and that helped. Daniel had used a shitload of lube, too, and -- oh, God, there, there.... "Never, actually. This is all a first." His voice sounded strange -- breathless and choked. And at his words, Daniel seized up. The relentless gentle tight stroking inside him stopped. Daniel's hand seemed to shake a little. Jack needed the slide, the movement, which was really starting to feel spectacular, but not when it stopped. When Daniel stopped, it was just something shoved up his ass. "If you don't keep going I will have to hurt you. Badly," Jack said. "Oh my god." "Come on Doctor Jackson. Fuck your virgin flyboy." "Oh my god. And stop it. No silly nicknames. Not that." "Made you laugh. Now, Daniel. Now would be good." "You're sure--" "Enough with the talking." "Jack..." But this last wasn't preface to a question or a refusal. It was just an endearment, as Daniel got with the program. He pulled out slowly, and Jack heard him moving as he did. Then immediately his slippery hands put Jack's hips where Daniel wanted them, and the thick warm head of Daniel's dick replaced his fingers in Jack's ass. Jack managed not to tighten up around it. He was still panting. The first push felt a lot like all those fingers had. And as Daniel pushed in, Jack pushed back, betting Daniel might need the confirmation that this wasn't something Jack was simply enduring. On that thought he said, "It's good," though thinking was nearly impossible now. So tight, so slick and big -- he'd never before felt this pleasure, from having something inside, from feeling himself... filled. Stretched open, penetrated. Fucked. And it just kept going, and the deeper Daniel went the better it got. His fingers were shorter, and made a different shape inside. This was so much more -- a solid, thick penetration, a radical kind of opening. His body was swallowing Daniel. Daniel was inside him. So close. So close. Blood pounded in Jack's ears and he realized he was gripping the top of the mattress and his thigh muscles were singing and he was hard as a rock. "God, Daniel," he said. "Baby," Daniel said, and Jack hitched out a laugh and shot back, "We said no pet names," and Daniel choked, "Right, sorry," and he was laughing too, and then it got all blurry and breathless and Jack felt turned inside out, obliterated, because now he got it -- all those jokes about the prostate that were purely academic before. God, it was good. So deep, so overwhelming. God, Daniel was fucking him. And now Daniel was crying his name, and clutching his hips, and collapsing over him, and it was like one orgasm, Daniel's on the inside, Jack's on the outside. Jack somehow managed to heave them aside out of the wet spot and lay there, holding tight to Daniel's arms around him. He'd be sore as hell in a few minutes, but Jesus. Jesus. Daniel was quiet. Too quiet? Again? Jack squeezed his hand and swallowed and said, still breathless, "Okay, this is so unfair. Two awesome orgasms for me. How was that for you." "I'm good," and Daniel cleared his throat. "Who's counting?" Daniel put a hand between them and eased out, slowly, making Jack wince a little, and Daniel got up. Jack, of course, was familiar with this part, too, from the other side. Very gentlemanly, our Daniel, but of course he would be. Jack waited, smiling a little to himself -- was this sort of the bottom's prerogative? To lie here in the afterglow, content and spent? Daniel came back with a warm towel and cleaned Jack up. Jack caught his eye, put his hands on Daniel's arms as he worked, and Daniel, thank God, was willing to look at him. He looked disheveled and sweaty. His own afterglow was definitely becoming. When he came back to bed, Jack grabbed him and pulled him close. Jack felt relieved, and tender, and rubbed a little raw, but that glowing burn deep inside was a new and pleasant thing -- definitely well-fucked was a feeling he wanted to repeat. Maybe they'd both last longer next time. He'd pushed Daniel to the edge too fast, admitting he'd never done it before. Daniel held him. Daniel kissed him and put his face against Jack's neck. He'd brushed his teeth or used the Scope while he was in the bathroom. Jack kept his arms snugged around him, kept their feet tangled. He thought about coffee. Soon. Daniel said, in a normal kind of conversational tone, "I made an assumption. I fell for the Colonel Kickass stereotype. Me, who should know better. I assumed that if you were a top you'd be much harder to convince to do that. I assumed that when you agreed immediately that you'd done it before. It's embarrassing to admit that I apparently have a bunch more assumptions that you do about what it means to bottom." Jack smiled. "Aha! Perhaps one unanticipated benefit of life as a closet case. I have no investment in the stereotypes of gay sex." Daniel chuckled. "Maybe... maybe in the past the guys who went for me, and there are just a few, not very many, and all overseas, a while back, maybe they assumed the same thing? And that's why I never did that. They took the lead, but they bottomed. I never questioned it. I was going along, doing this rare furtive thing. Just taking it when it came along, you know?" "God, Jack," and Daniel leaned back and looked him in the eyes again. "Can I say it again?" Jack said. Daniel looked puzzled. "I love you," Jack said. Daniel shook his head. He had a look of wonder on his face, and Jack knew that look -- it was how he felt when he realized his dreams were coming true, in flesh and blood, in living color, for real. Right here, right now. Daniel pulled him in again. Jack listened to their heartbeats. "But," Jack continued, and Daniel tensed. Oops. He hastily continued, "nothing bad, but my stomach's gonna start growling and ruin the moment. Let's get up and eat something. And I haven't had any coffee yet," he pretended to pout. Daniel slapped him on the ass, gently. "Whose fault is that? I made it and everything. Hours ago." "Well, you brought in the towel. I thought maybe the coffee service was another perk for the guy on the bottom." Daniel was rolling his eyes, grinning, as he pulled on the same pajama bottoms he'd worn earlier. Jack found a bathrobe. They went out to the kitchen, stumbling a little from walking too close and getting tangled in the narrow hall, both out of practice with that. They both had more coffee. Daniel made toast; Jack had a bowl of cereal. They sat at the bar. Jack contemplated Daniel's mussed hair, the golden shimmer of his morning beard, the way he picked up crumbs with a fingertip and poked them in his mouth, seemingly unconscious he was doing it. "I could step out and get the paper," Daniel said, but he didn't get up. Instead he reached for Jack's hand. Such a simple touch, and so, so stunning, just that. Just the caress of Daniel's hand on his, the sweet feeling of fingers curving around his, that careful, loving pressure. Mention of the newspaper took Jack's thoughts out of the bed, which he mentally had never left, and reintroduced the wider world to his awareness. More was the pity. "You still want to transfer to Atlantis as soon as possible?" Jack asked, making Daniel purse his lips. Daniel said, "You know this weekend changes everything. Doesn't it for you?" "Of course." Daniel regarded him, and the steely expression was back, but this time Jack was almost certain he knew what was behind it: Fear. "It doesn't matter what I want," Daniel said. "I can't go anywhere or do anything selfish until this Ori thing is over. Or at least contained." Jack sighed. Not the time to ask about transferring Daniel to D.C., then. "And when the Ori thing is over? There's always going to be the next enemy, Daniel. I thought you realized that. Student of history that you are." Daniel shook his head and looked away. Jack put a hand on his shoulder and leaned toward him. He knew Daniel felt extra-responsible for the Ori thing, but.... "You gotta seize the day. Don't you remember your Latin?" Daniel looked at him sidelong. "Latin or Ancient? I lose track." Jack leaned closer, cupped that stubborn jaw in his hand. Daniel burst out, "And we're back to this: How can you risk this? Personally, professionally, everything-ly." Jack said, "We risked it every day before, for all these years, without acknowledging it, and yet now that you can have what you're telling me we both always wanted, that's harder?" "Not harder. Scarier." "You know I have no more idea than you do how the latest war will end, or where. I don't know when we can quit or if we should, or what you should do in the meantime. I thought you were hellbent on Atlantis, for whatever damn reason, until the Ori thing got stirred up. If you want me to tell you how it's all gonna be, give you some kind of, of predictor, or guarantee, you know there's no such thing." "No, in fact quite the reverse," Daniel said, bitterly. "People could die. People have died." "So we do it together," Jack said, urgently. "Keep doing it, but together. More together now. That's all I got. We do it together." Daniel looked a little incredulous, perhaps at his pronouns. Their gazes held, the moment spooled out, and Daniel's face softened. "I'll try," he said. "That's good enough for me," Jack said, and leaned in and kissed him. Definitely it was a moment. The kiss was tender and long and it made Jack's dick stir again under the skirt of his robe. He shifted, and Daniel, reading his body language immediately, smiled against his mouth. "So, Colonel Kick Ass. In the spirit of no more assumptions, how do you feel about blow jobs?" Blow jobs were very very good. Jack actually, despite what he'd told Daniel about his history and about assumptions to be made about bottoming and topping and assertiveness, had figured out years ago how oral his sexual instincts were. Maybe it went along with smoking; who knew. But when they were back in bed, caffeinated and fed, Jack turned himself around to bring his groin to Daniel's face and vice versa, and from the sound of Daniel's delighted, appreciative moans, sucking while being sucked was on Daniel's list of specially fun stuff to do when you're having sex, too. Jack closed his eyes and hung on, wrapped in Daniel, filled with Daniel. No assumptions here, definitely, but it was simply beautiful. Easy to get lost in -- Daniel's mouth was so tight, so alive. Daniel's dick was hard and heavy on his tongue, and he tasted wonderful. It was hypnotic, to, finally, feel this in-sync. Toward the end, Jack slipped careful fingers behind Daniel's balls to press and touch -- no lube, didn't plan that well, but the catch in Daniel's breathing and the sudden extra hardening of his dick were very gratifying. And then when Daniel did the same to him, everything got red and blurry and even tighter, and all too soon Jack was coming, his climax triggering Daniel's. Huh -- even swallowing was like riding a bike.... Nobody was letting go afterward, either. Jack kept his eyes closed and kept himself wrapped up in Daniel's limbs, his head on a knee, his hands exploring the upsidedown curve of hip. The silence seemed peaceful and full. After a long time Daniel stirred, and moved around, and Jack opened his eyes. Daniel's face was so ... happy. Wow. Daniel settled against him face to face and pulled him close again. His voice was muffled in Jack's pillow. "You lose the habit, you know? Of reaching out." "Yeah," Jack said. "I know." Daniel felt splendid in his arms -- warm and strong and solid. "So," Daniel said, still not letting go, even a little bit, "still best friends too?" "Always." And Daniel's arms tightened even more, making Jack breathless. Then Daniel let go just enough to lift his head and kiss Jack on the mouth, with a sandpapery scrub of their beards. He didn't move away when the kiss ended, and so Jack opened his eyes to find Daniel looking at him, fondly, and now, at least for the moment, without fear. "You want to know why I never remarried?" Good thing he'd had a decade of experience with Daniel's non sequiturs. "Yeah." "You really didn't know why." Jack couldn't resist cupping Daniel's jaw again, running this thumb along Daniel's lush lower lip. "Enlighten me. No, wait. Don't enlighten me; enlightenment is way overrated from what I've observed. Just tell me your answer to this apparently non-rhetorical question." Daniel kissed him before answering, perhaps an acknowledgement of the sting of two ascensions, the reality of loss. Of uncertainty. Or maybe Daniel just felt like another kiss; who knew. Kissing was good. "I never got married again because I didn't have to," Daniel said, and then Jack knew what was coming, and he smiled against Daniel's mouth. "Because I already was," Daniel said, and oh yeah. Carpe diem indeed -- Latin or Ancient, who the hell cared. Because today was shaping up to be a hell of day for seizing, and because now was indeed the time.

"Do you want to go?" Mirka asked. She was holding his hand. It was notable because she didn't often do that. Roger looked down at her rings and her nail polish. "I do," he said, without looking her in the eye. "Why did he ask you?" Mirka said. "I don't know." His palms prickled with sweat. He put his other hand over hers, and then she did the same, so they sat with their hands in a small sandwiched-together pile. "I know…this is a difficult time for you." The conversation had begun innocently enough a little while ago-- about how much longer Roger might need to recuperate from the ankle operation-- but now it had slipped into deep waters, and unspoken things were swirling about like cold currents. He hated stuff like this. She didn't say anything about how long Roger had taken off from tennis, or about how it was almost following the same pattern as her own injury and retirement. They'd spent the last few months carefully never mentioning the 'R' word. Mirka freed her hands from his and stood. Her phone had begun to trill. "You should go, since he was good enough to invite you." She let out a deep breath. "I don't think he'd offer if he didn't really want you there." "Okay. I will. I'm going, okay?" "Yep. So, you'd better let him know." She picked up the phone and stabbed a button harder than was needed. "Don’t keep him hanging around." Roger flopped back on the bed and rubbed at his face and listened to Mirka talking to whomever it was. It sounded like a tour manager; she was telling him that Roger's calendar for the end of the year still wasn't set. No, he couldn't commit, yes, he was still in recovery, hadn't he bothered to read the press release? They couldn't say when he would return to tennis. His ankle twinged, as if just mentioning it made it hurt. The injury was ancient, from back when he was a teenager. The body broke down eventually, his doctor had said. The body is a fragile mechanism. Sometimes an athlete just had to stop, he'd also said. Roger didn't truly believe him, but he had stopped for three months, ever since crashing out in Miami. It was the first year he hadn't played Wimbledon for ten years. He hadn't got used to it yet. He watched Mirka moving about the room, getting her diary, making notes, not looking at him. Her hair was sleek and glossy, the colour of honey in a jar. On the mantelpiece a bunch of blushing pink roses sat in a crystal vase. He didn't remember Mirka getting them. Through the picture window, waves on the lake fluttered with white foam in the July winds. They winds came down from the mountains, driven by summer air currents. It was an odd feature of this place. "I'm going down to the court," he said. "On your own?" Her phone began to ring again and she sighed and picked it up. "You want me to come?" "I'll be fine. Don't worry." "Just be careful," she said. She walked back over and dropped a banana on his stomach, then began to speak to whoever was on the other end. Roger had no idea who it was this time, but she sounded happier to be talking to them. He took his kit bag and changed in the little pavilion down by the courts. He'd had it fully fitted with a gym and a steam room and a physio bench. He powered up the lights against the quickly fading evening light. He wrapped his feet and ankles tightly and put his shoes on. He peeled his banana and ate it while studying the exercise plan that Gary had emailed him last week. He plugged in the treadmill and walked for a few minutes, then broke into a jog, not too fast, only a slow easy pace. His legs were stiffer than they should be, and before very long his lungs and legs were complaining. He grimaced. It was unfair that everything should hurt so much. He switched off the machine and stepped off, breathing hard. He imagined Gary's disapproving face all the way through his stretching routine, then he grabbed a racquet from the locker, hoisted a basket of balls and trotted out into the cold to face the flat, grey, stone wall. It was an obliging hitting partner: silent, always available and it never complained when Roger swore at it. He should call Rafa and let him know he was coming. He should do that today. This evening. Without fail. Mirka had said it was okay. The racquet handle dug into his palm, eerily unfamiliar after six weeks of not having swung one even once. It might be the longest period of his life so far without one in his hand. His palm ached after ten minutes, and grew sore after twenty, but he kept on hitting because he couldn't stop, and the powerful swing of his shoulder felt good. He grunted through his teeth. He did it again, louder, and again, until he was doing it with every swing, until finally he threw the ball up, leapt into his serve and screamed. "Fuck," he yelled. "Fuck this." He pounded the balls against the wall until his arm burned, and when he ran out he slammed his racquet down so hard that the rim simply crumpled. He stood, panting. Yellow balls dotted the hardtop, almost glowing in the fading light. *** "You really coming?" Rafa's voice in his ear held tones of awe, or at least that's what it sounded like to Roger. Then Rafa was back to his usual blunt and practical self. "You come down to Ibiza. We stay five days. Okay?" "Five days?" "What? Is this a problem?" "No." It just seemed like a long time to Roger. Anything could happen in that time. Anything you want to happen, he told himself. "That's great. We can play a lot of golf, right?" "Yes!" Rafa paused and Roger heard breathing. "Mirka is coming?" Rafa said. Roger dragged a hand through his hair, hoping his voice sounded normal. He closed his eyes and wondered if they were just being crazy. "Not this time. She said I should come alone." "Okay." "Is it a problem?" "No, no. How is she?" "Good. Busy, you know, with stuff." "Xisca too, no? Always she—" Rafa stopped. "Whatever. You coming. This is the good thing." It was the good thing, he told himself, as he kissed Mirka goodbye the following Friday. She smelled sweet, of some new perfume, and he held her tight. "Will you be okay?" he asked, crumpling up her silk blouse with his sweaty hands. There was so much they hadn't said, it made his chest all tight, and he thought for one bad moment he was going to cry. "I'll call you." "Roger," she said, shaking her head. She pulled away and pressed the handle of the wheeled luggage into his palm. "I'll see you next week." Ibiza airport was full of sunlight. It gleamed on the white painted walls and on the chrome banisters. It fell through high windows and pooled in an unlikely shaft of golden light around Rafa. He was waiting for Roger just beyond the arrivals lounge, the tallest element in the middle of a small sea of kids. He was signing the front of someone's t-shirt. There were muffled squeals when Roger drew near, and Rafa looked up. His eyes widened and then he looked almost alarmed, and then he broke into a wide smile and held out his hand. The children parted around him. "Hey," Roger said, clasping his hand. "I made it." "Hey," Rafa said, tightening his grip until it almost hurt. He slid his other hand up over Roger's bare forearm. Their eyes met for a moment. "Hi, Roger." "You brought your mobile fan club," Roger said, nodding at the kids, and Rafa giggled, then let go and said something sharply to the kids in Spanish. They all shook Roger's hand and greeted him in various versions of wobbly English. "Come, we go now," Rafa said, shooing the children away. He took Roger's luggage and strode purposefully away, just as if he were walking along the baseline. Roger followed, putting on his sunglasses, and didn't look at Rafa's ass even once, apart from to admire the pocket stitching on his jeans and wonder which brand they were. The car was air conditioned and quiet. An empty Fanta bottle rolled around in the footwell, and the carpet was sandy. The back seat was a tangle of flippers, snorkel masks and beach mats. "How you getting on with your lefty?" Rafa said, as they drove out south along the coast road, the sunshine spilling over the sea and the dusty bleached roads. "My lefty? Oh, he went off to play proper tennis," Roger said. Roger had been training with Jesse again, before the injury at least. "He got bored with an old guy like me. We haven't played for months." Roger hadn't played anyone for months, not counting the wall. "You want play the real one?" He looked over at Roger, brows raised. He looked puppyish and hopeful and kind of impatient. His fingers tapped on the steering wheel, never still. "Can you?" "The ankle's nearly mended, yeah. If I'm going back on the courts, I need to do it soon," Roger said. "If?" Rafa narrowed his eyes. Really, his comprehension of spoken English was as good as Roger's. "What?" "If I decide," Roger said. "You know, to carry on." Rafa nodded, thumped the steering wheel and then drove one handed, gnawing on one thumbnail. He stopped doing that after a little while and put both hands back on the wheel, which Roger was glad about because the roads were scary. After a few minutes, Rafa sighed. "You retire? You come to tell me this?" he said. "No," Roger said. "I don't know. I haven't said anything to—anyone else." He looked across at Rafa. He hadn't even realised he'd been seriously thinking it until right now. Rafa was the sort of person who clarified a lot of things in Roger's head. "I haven't decided." "And Mirka?" "We haven't talked about it. But. There are things that, well-- things we don't need to talk about, you know? Sometimes it's like she can read my mind." Rafa nodded. His glance was sharp and brief. "Oh, yeah? More easy than explain. I know this." He stabbed at the satnav, and a cool female voice said something in Spanish. "I every time get lost in this part," Rafa said, and then he reached over and squeezed Roger's shoulder, just once. Rafa's house was long and low and built into the hillside. It was painted white, with pale wooden shutters. "It's very nice, very eco," Rafa said, letting them in. The air was cool after the oven-like heat. Everything was new and gleaming, although there were traces of Rafa's possessions; a single flip flop on the kitchen floor, an empty ice cream wrapper left on a white-painted windowsill. "You must see." "It's like a cave," Roger said, staring at Rafa's bedroom. A white painted cave. On the floor, a suitcase leaked clothes across the floor. "It is an actual cave," Rafa said. "Wow, it's amazing." The house had a shady terrace and a sunny pool, and a small lemon orchard with a smooth paved path that ran down to a small beach. Rafa took him down there, past an empty chicken coop and vegetable patches that were presumably looked after by someone who was not Rafa. The sea was a deep blue in the midday sun. The beach had a little wooden jetty, and out in the small bay a white boat bobbed by itself. The nearest other house was on the headland. At the back of the house, surrounded by high link fence and artful shrubs, was a brand new blue-topped tennis court. "Is very nice, no?" Rafa said, his face gleaming with pride. "Wow," said Roger, staring about. "It's great. This is amazing." "This place is special," Roger said, as they wandered back to the house, side by side. "I think this too. Is why I ask you," Rafa said, then stared at his feet. Rafa's 4x4 sat alone in the driveway. Roger's luggage still sat on the doorstep where it had been abandoned. They hauled it inside. "Where's everyone else?" he said. Rafa bit his lip. "There is no one else coming." Of course, Roger thought. He was aware of his pulse beginning to pick up. They were alone. "Just us?" Rafa nodded. His lower lip had disappeared, sucked up into his mouth. When he let it go, it was red and full and wet. "I hope you not mind?" "No, I don't mind." "You might be bored?" Rafa said. "Bored? When I get to play the lefty every day?" Rafa tipped back his head and laughed. "I'm not lefty at golf." When had they ever been alone together, properly, without eyes watching them or someone waiting for them? He tried to think of a time and couldn't remember a single one. Rafa's jeans were a little low slung, he noticed, and his t-shirt was made of some soft and clinging material that showed the tips of his nipples. He could smell Rafa's aftershave – something very masculine. He'd bothered to put some on this morning and it must be for Roger's benefit. The silence thickened. Rafa gazed at him, one hand hovering nervously over his stomach, fingertips plucking at soft fabric. Around them, the house was still and silent and Roger became aware of how truly alone they were. Through the sliding glass doors, over Rafa's left shoulder, he could see the white boat out in the bay, bobbing innocently in the sunshine. They'd manoeuvred themselves into exactly this situation. "I show you your room," Rafa said, smiling right into his eyes. "I think you like. Very nice for sleep. The quiet is perfect. Is next to mine." He followed Rafa through the house. His room was low-ceilinged with rough white walls and a large bed. The bed was made up with white sheets and four pillows, and at the foot sat a hairy red blanket, folded. There was an ensuite bathroom with a shower—"It uses the water from the rain"-- and a toilet that was apparently connected to some sort of complicated system of filter beds. "This TV, Roger, look. It runs with man power. We hook you to the treadmill," Rafa said, then failed to not laugh. "I wouldn't mind," Roger said. They were moving closer by degrees, with small steps. Rafa had folded his arms across his chest. "You can hook me up if you like." "Yeah? Okay," Rafa said. He was giggling breathlessly, and then they were so close that their shoulders were bumping, and Rafa was staring at him, smile sliding off his face to leave his lips wet and parted and serious. Roger reached out and put a hand on Rafa's shoulder, cupping the hard rounded bump of his deltoid. "Roger," Rafa said, in a soft choked voice. There were a thousand reasons not to do what he wanted to do, all clamouring in his head, and all the reasons why he should yelling just as loud: he's right there, he wants you to, he's waiting for you, you want him, you want him so much. Hadn’t they come here for this? Roger kissed him. Rafa's mouth opened against his, and then Rafa was sucking in a huge shuddery breath, almost gasping, like a fish pulled out of water, and then it turned into a hot little moan. His eyes were open, and he was watching Roger from up close, his lashes making dark spikes against his skin. His lips were soft, was all Roger could take in, unexpectedly soft and clinging and pliant. A curl of his hair brushed against Roger's cheek, and Roger reached up to touch it; it was soft and warm. He pushed his fingers through it and gently cupped Rafa's skull. Rafa brought his hands up to Roger's chest and gripped his fingers into Roger's shirt, pulling at it like he'd fall down if he didn't hang on tight. "Oh," Rafa mumbled. Roger began to get hard. Rafa had hardly even touched him. "Oh. Oh." They both pulled back, and there were a few seconds of wild staring when Roger thought that Rafa might run, or hit him, or something. "Rafa," he said. He realised he had one hand cupped around Rafa's bicep, squeezing him. "I'm sorry—" "No, no, no," Rafa said. "No." His eyes slid half closed; he was looking at Roger's mouth, dark and focused, so much that he looked almost blank. Roger recognised that look, from when Rafa flung a ball into the air to serve. It hit him then, what they were doing. They were only supposed to play tennis together, not do this. Rafa licked his lips. He pushed his hips against Roger's, enough for Roger to feel—Oh god—that Rafa was hard. "More," Rafa said. "If you're sure—I mean, you know—" "I am sure," said Rafa. They kissed again, moving closer together so that Rafa's chest was pressed to his. Rafa's lips were wetter this time, and their mouths slid together, opening wider, then wider still. The first touch of Rafa's tongue against his made him stiffen and moan. Rafa seemed to like that, because he melted closer, sliding his tongue deeper into Roger's mouth, licking over his tongue, his teeth, wild and messy and so very like Rafa that he wanted to laugh. Only, he couldn't laugh because he was too turned on. Rafa put his hands on his waist and began to push him backwards towards the bed, strong and decisive. His grip was delicate and controlled, powerful and yet gentle – a combination of things that Roger hadn't even known would turn him on. Rafa moaned into his mouth when the backs of Roger's knees hit the edge of the mattress. "Wait," Roger said. "You want wait? You want—not this?" Rafa's breathing was a mess and his pulse was visible in his neck. "You having second thoughts. I know. Is okay." Rafa's cock was a rigid line in his jeans, pressing against Roger's body. Looking down, Roger could see the thick bulge of it and could feel how Rafa was pressing it to him. Heat from it was seeping through their clothes to his skin. "I want your fucking dick in me," he said. He'd never said anything like it in his life. There was a silence where he heard Rafa swallow hard, then they were both moving, falling to the bed, and Rafa was kissing him again. He pushed his hands up under Rafa's t-shirt, drawing breathless little groans and moans from Rafa's mouth. His body was as solid and warm as Roger had always thought it would feel. Roger dragged Rafa's t-shirt up over his head, and Rafa helped him. Rafa began to pull at the buttons on Roger's shirt one handed. His other hand was down between their legs, tugging at Roger's belt, rattling it open, yanking down the zip. They couldn't get naked fast enough. Roger got his fingers under the waistband of Rafa's jeans and his underwear and shoved and pushed them both down, Rafa helping, until they disappeared somewhere, anywhere, Roger didn’t care, because Rafa was naked and hard and grinding against him. They wound close, arms around waists and shoulders, thighs pushing together, mouths meeting. Rafa's cock was digging against him, silky smooth heat and sliding wetness against Roger's own. This was insane. Over the tanned and beautiful curve of Rafa's shoulder, he could see his watch. They'd been alone together in the house for exactly half an hour. Roger clenched his fist. "What is it?" Rafa said. He put his hand on Roger's cheek and held him, thumb pushing up over Roger's cheekbone. Roger couldn't deal with how gentle his hands were or how melting was the look in his eyes. All his thoughts were snarling up. "It didn't take us long, did it?" Roger said. Rafa stared, then pressed his forehead to Roger's, and then he began to laugh breathlessly. His hand trailed down over the base of Roger's spine, smoothing down over his ass, then all the way back up to curl his fingers into Roger's hair. "No, Roger. It did not. It did not take us long." Roger put his hand on Rafa's chest, stroking over the muscles there. "We did this on purpose." "We did." Rafa wasn't laughing now. "We can undo it, also," he said, and his expression collapsed into a frown. "I take you golfing instead of the-- sex." Golf. They could just play golf. Some of the tension leaked out of Roger's chest. His thoughts cleared a little. "So, we're completely alone?" he said. "Si," Rafa mumbled, pressing his face to Roger's neck. "But everyone want to come. I tell them no. They think this-- strange." "Yeah, well it kind of is. Look at us." "Yeah," Rafa said, and he rolled off the bed and pulled Roger up by the hand, tugging him across the smooth wooden boards. "Come with me." He let Rafa lead him across the room, watching his bare skin catch the warm afternoon light. There was a huge mirror in the bathroom, filling the wall over the basin. Rafa stood behind him, his hands on Roger's waist. Their eyes met in the glass. Rafa's hair curled in a wild tangle around the sharp line of his jaw, his eyes dark and intense, his mouth— he had the sort of good looks that made Roger melt inside in a mixture of jealousy and lust. "Look at us," he said in Roger's ear. "Together. We look good, no?" Roger thought about their faces looking back from hundreds and thousands of photographs and posters and TV screens, but never like this, with Rafa naked behind him, with Rafa's hand going for his dick, to pull and to stroke it. Somehow, they looked even more naked than should be possible. He stared at Rafa's bare thighs. They were paler than the rest of him; the dark hair showed a little more obviously. Rafa kissed his neck, from the base up to his ear. Roger shivered. "You know how long I want you?" Rafa said. They did look good, Roger saw. He tilted his head to give Rafa's mouth more room and watched Rafa touch him. He still had finger tape on, one rough band around his index finger. His palm was callused and warm and strong. He raised an eyebrow and met Roger's eyes in the mirror, hot and direct. His palm was getting slick from precome, and Roger's knees were getting weaker. "Come here," Rafa murmured, and adjusted himself so that his erection nudged between the tops of Roger's thighs, then moaned and pushed forward. Roger leaned back against the solid heat of Rafa's body, letting his temple press against Rafa's. They watched each other. Rafa's mouth was open, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. His gaze moved slowly over Roger's body, over everything. "You want me in you?" Rafa said, rocking his hips. He bit at Roger's neck, sucking at his skin. His voice was turned on and teasing at the same time. "This is what you want?" "How long?" Roger said, although his voice wasn't even. Rafa jerked him steadily, making him squirm backwards. The pressure and slide of Rafa's cock between his thighs was so strange, so unreal, and so good. "Maybe for years," Rafa said. His breath was hot on Roger's face, his tone erratic. "Yes. Since the first grass game, and you move like a god." He kissed Roger's cheek, a delicate touch that drowned out everything else for the moment of its existence. "And—you such very, very-- nice person." His chin dug into Roger's shoulder. Roger reached behind to put his hand on Rafa's hip, anywhere, just to make contact. Rafa groaned his name and thrust his hips shakily. Roger watched him in the mirror until his own orgasm overtook him almost by surprise. He came into the porcelain basin, white on white, his voice cracking upwards in a high moan. Rafa made a muffled noise and ground his hips forward, and then Roger felt the slick warmth on his inner thighs. He could barely stand. "Roger," said Rafa, sounding dazed. His eyes were shut, his soft full mouth open slightly, nose pushed into Roger's hair. He looped his arms around Roger's waist. "Ahh, Roger." "I'm going to collapse if I don't lie down." Rafa dragged him back to the bed. They tumbled down, side by side. "Siesta," Rafa mumbled, and he put his hand on Roger's stomach, heavy and possessive, and began to softly snore. Roger woke up to raised voices in the house, in the kitchen. His bedroom door stood open. Beyond it was another white painted wall with a painting of the bay, and a white and blue clay pot on a dark wooden table. Roger listened, but could hardly catch any of the dialect. He heard Rafa, and a woman's voice. He lay back on the pillows, for a moment too sleepy and dazed to properly even worry about it. He looked at the pillow next to him. There was the indentation caused by Rafa's head, and a single long black hair curled there. He'd had sex with Rafa. They'd had sex, on purpose. They'd come here for this, and it'd happened. And then they'd gone to sleep together. "Oh my fucking god," Roger said, and put his hands over his face. A door slammed, and footsteps slapped towards the room. Rafa appeared, in just his jeans. His colour was hectic, and his hair was a crazy tangle, which he made worse by jamming his hand through it. He stood at the foot of the bed and pinned Roger with an angry glare. "The maid came. This Lucia. I never even know her! With her own key!" Roger pushed himself up. The room was cool, and he shivered. He saw Rafa's gaze drop to his chest. "Did she see us?" he asked. There wasn't a delicate way round it. Rafa looked at him, then came to sit on the bed. He put his hand on Roger's duvet clad thigh. "No," he said, very seriously, gazing into Roger's eyes. "She never got this far." Roger shifted on the sheets. They were sticking to him in places they'd never stuck before. There was still Rafa's semen between his thighs, damp and making his skin itch. Rafa was watching him, his mouth turned down. He looked sorely confused. Roger touched his shoulder. "Do you want some food?" Roger said. "Ah, uh, okay." Rafa watched him dress, then followed him to the kitchen. There was a toaster and there was a small loaf of brown bread. Roger found a knife and a chopping board, sliced bread and dropped it in the toaster. "I have a coffee machine," Rafa said, warily, tapping a black and sleek object that squatted on the slate countertop. "It's this one." Their eyes met. Rafa looked so young and scared for a moment that Roger felt actually sick. "Can I make you coffee?" Rafa asked. "You sure you can work out how to use it?" Rafa's lips twisted in a reluctant smile. "Yes," he said, and stabbed at a button. It lit up red. Roger found butter in the fridge and four jars of nutella in one of the cupboards. The scent of brewing coffee filled the kitchen, along with toasted bread. They calmed him, the scents of every day, of getting up on the weekend and having some hours to themselves to read the newspapers and eat and talk about nothing. That was with Mirka though, not Rafa. She hadn't asked him to phone her. Conspicuously had not asked. Roger plastered everything on the toast, sliced it, and took it to Rafa. "Eat this." Rafa devoured it in a few seconds, then nodded and rubbed at his face with his hands. "Thank you," he said. His eyes were soft and pleading. "Sorry, Roger." "For what?" "This maid. It could've been very bad." Roger made himself shrug. "It happened. We're okay." He pushed the other slice of toast at Rafa. "You need more food." Rafa made him coffee, carefully asking how much milk he liked, if he wanted sugar—brown or white-- putting it in a nice cup and saucer. Roger made them more toast, and they took it out to the patio. The wooden chairs were warmed by the sun. There were beetles and butterflies moving about in the clumps of fat orange flowers by the path. The sea was a deeper blue now, and the air smelled of salt and baked earth and the faint spicy smell of thyme and lavender. The sun gleamed down on Rafa's bare chest. "The maid comes every day?" Roger said. Rafa gnawed his thumb and shot Roger a dark glance. "I tell her not to come back." "You mean, you're going to make me do my own laundry?" Rafa chewed on his lip like he hadn't understood at all, and then he leaned right into Roger's space and put a hand on Roger's cheek. "I can't believe this, you know?" he said. The profile of his nose was set against the blue of the sea. "You—here." He stared hard at Roger. "Everything." Roger thought of the mirror in the bathroom and what they'd done together in front of it. He wondered if Rafa were thinking about that too. Rafa smelled good, even if not very clean. He reached up and took Rafa's hand in his. "Do you want to play golf?" "Yes," Rafa nodded, squeezing his fingers with what felt a lot like relief. "With you." Out in the bay, a small boat whizzed along, its engine droning, and Roger couldn't help but turn his head and stare. Rafa dropped his hand and sighed. "I lied," he said. "To the press." "What about?" Roger said, warily. "Where I built my house. It's on the other side of the island. This is what they think. I buyed one there also." "What? That's totally crafty." Rafa looked pleased. "Is clever, no?" They went inside to wash and to change. The shower in Roger's bathroom was slightly too low, so that he got a blast of water directly on the top of his head. He leaned into it and washed his hair and his face. The shower gel smelled expensive, the same scent as Rafa's hair. Water drummed against his skull. He wondered what his mother would say if she knew what he was doing. They'd be disappointed in his attitude. Rafa was waiting in the kitchen, sucking a fingernail. He was back in the same clothes, with that t-shirt that clung a little too much. Not that Roger minded, at all. Rafa leaned close to him, in his space. "You need golf shoes. You can borrow them there, no?" He grinned and quirked his mouth, tilting his head to look into Roger's eyes. "You have the big feet." "Big everything, you know?" Rafa went red, slowly and very beautifully, but he kept his gaze steady. It flickered with heat, and Roger got a tight feeling in his stomach, like he needed to sit down. "I—yeah. I know this now," Rafa said. The golf course was around the headland, set very close to the rocky coast. Sprinklers were on, and the clubhouse was sleek and chic in dark glossy wood and pale marble. The manager came out, there was smiling and handshaking. Roger admired the place, and the manager seemed overjoyed. He told Roger he was looking forward to his return to tennis. "Me as well," Rafa said, pointedly. A guy appeared with a small camera, the cheap snappy kind. "I can say them no," Rafa said. Roger thought about it, and as he did his heartrate picked up, unexpectedly and overwhelmingly. Almost no one knew they were here. This was their secret. "A few snaps are fine, right?" he said to Rafa, and Rafa nodded, holding his gaze. They posed side by side and then they were allowed to escape. The manager insisted on them having a golf cart. Rafa was pretty rubbish at golf, and it showed in his sulky face when Roger beat him on nearly every hole. A breeze blew in from the sea, getting choppy now in the afternoon as the currents changed. The sun made his skin tingle and the colours seemed extra bright and clean and solid. They talked about Rafa's new orthotic insoles, Novak's latest publicity blunder, football, Roger's physio's advice for ankle strengthening—everything apart from what they'd just done in Rafa's spare room. The sun and shadow made Rafa's face look carved out of stone, except when he smiled, which was mostly when he looked at Roger. On the last hole, when he came in at 4 under par and Rafa at 13 over, he put his hand on Rafa's shoulder. "I'll make it up to you later," he said. Rafa stared at him. The moment stretched out, and Roger was glad that the fairways were deserted. "I want you," Rafa said. *** Rafa woke him at 6am with slow wet kisses, already rubbing himself against Roger's thigh. A few hours before, Rafa had fucked him, slow and gently the first time, harder the second. "We fish later, no?" he said. "If we have to." "I make you, yes." They stayed in bed for hours, again, until Rafa dragged them both up and out and down to the beach. The sand was blinding and burnt his feet before he skipped into the water. No one was about, at all. Roger could look at Rafa's body all he wanted. He was allowed to stare. "Do you know how sexy you are? Roger said, watching Rafa do something complicated with a fishing net and some sort of pin. He was sitting on an unturned lobster pot, one that was fuzzy with frayed orange rope. Rafa looked up, under the curls of black hair. His toes were dug into the pale sand. He looked pink and glowing and also kind of tired. "Huh," he said, with a sharp smile. "Maybe I know. So, tell me of the ankle. I want to know everything." Words flowed between them, as they always had done, broken and jostled by half learned languages. There was a lot to talk about. Everything, in fact, apart from what they were doing here. They spent an absorbing three hours discussing a new structure for the entire tour. Roger ran back to the house to get a pen and some paper so they could make notes, and Rafa made a diagram. "Wait, we want we join up with WTA?" Rafa said, at one point. "Yeah, of course. It makes the most sense." "You watch the women's tennis?" "Of course I do. You don't?" "No. I too busy. And there is football." "Maybe you should watch it sometime, it's good." "You watch with Mirka?" "No," Roger said. "She barely watches it these days. She also says she's too busy." Rafa fiddled with a sea smooth pebble, then flipped it out across the sand to the water's edge. "We have something in common," he said. "Yeah," said Roger. "You do." It rained later. Roger hadn't known it could rain on the beach. It'd never happened to him before, so he let himself stand and get wet. Rafa stared at him hungrily, then pulled him back up to the house. He led Roger inside, just to the hallway, then with a groan he knelt, hooking his fingers around the waistband of Roger's shorts. He pulled them down and pressed his hot wet mouth straight to Roger's cock. "Oh God," Roger moaned, staring down. He gently touched Rafa's head, stroking his hair back from his face. "That's so good," he said, stiffening between Rafa's lips. "Rafa... you feel so good." Rafa's eyelids fluttered and he made a low sound deep in his chest. He held onto to Roger's thighs, stroking at them with his hands, pushing his shorts further down. He moved his tongue and lips slowly and with a lot of care. Roger gazed at him, hardly daring to move in case Rafa decided to stop. Rafa's dick stuck up inside his thin shorts, tenting them, moving slightly each time Rafa dipped his head. Rain splattered on the door. Roger remembered they'd left Rafa's diagrams out there, and they were probably ruined. It didn't matter, he thought, letting Rafa's hair fall through his fingers. They could do it again. Rafa was sitting on his knees, feet splayed awkwardly, and Roger could see the curl of his toes. He worried that Rafa might be uncomfortable. "Are you-- okay? Rafa?" Roger managed, and Rafa nodded, speechless and with his mouth full, nails scratching on Roger's skin. He pulled back a couple of inches, enough to free his mouth. "I always think of this," Rafa said, in a thick, hoarse voice. "You in my mouth." Roger stumbled back two steps until he hit the wall, because his knees weren't feeling so strong anymore, and Rafa followed, sliding close. He thought about doing the same for Rafa. They could do it together, to each other at the same time. Rafa stroked him and sucked the head of his cock until Roger's hips jerked forward. His shorts gave up and slid to the floor, leaving him naked. "Oh, Jesus, Rafa," he gasped. "Mmmh," Rafa said, and pushed closer, putting his hands tight on Roger's waist, holding him to the wall as Roger came in his mouth. Roger touched his hair and his face, and then helped Rafa to stand up. They clung together in the hallway, propped against the wall. "Let's go to bed," Roger said, his hand travelling down the long sleek curve of Rafa's waist. "That would be very nice," Rafa said, very breathlessly. "Yes." They stumbled out of bed later, as the sun set. Rafa rattled around in the kitchen, scratching his chest and muttering something about dinner. Roger wandered down to the beach and found the soggy remains of the tour diagram. It had a small blotchy drawing of each player. "My nose isn't that big," he complained, a little later. Rafa was leaning next to the microwave, defrosting some peas. Fish grilled on the stove, and the air was fragrant with cooking smells. "Do you really think it's that big?" Rafa poked at the pasta and raised his eyebrows. "Big nose is lucky in Spain." "You're making that up." They ate on the sofa, watching random things on Eurosport while commentators yelled. Tour de France, rally, snooker. Rafa had opinions on it all, and strong ones. There was tennis, inevitably: Andy Murray crushing Rafa in Miami. They watched in silence, until Rafa sighed. His upper arm was wedged up against Roger's and his foot was curled under him and nudged carelessly against Roger's thigh. "What do you think of this?" said Rafa, as he watched himself. Roger cleared his throat. "Of you? Or the match. Or Andy?" Rafa shrugged. "Andy first." "I mean, he's really your main rival now." "For sure," Rafa said, briefly scowling. "He's like you. The late developer, no?" Rafa picked at the seam of a cushion, watching at his own failure on the screen. That was the bad part of tennis; there was nowhere to hide, ever. You were served up just like the yellow ball. Some people, it just ate them up. "It was a poor loss," Rafa said. "No. It was a good win for him. But you didn't play that good, it's true." Rafa turned his head and gave him a lingering look. "I like it that you don't lie." "Rafa. I hate lying. What's the point?" Rafa settled against him. He leaned his head against Roger's shoulder, tentatively, then more heavily when he realised Roger wasn't going to object. "Say me some more about how I play," he said. Roger looked down at the top of his head and had to smile. "Sure. Where do I start?" He started with Rafa's service games and didn't run out of things to say until hours later. He talked about Rafa's movement (very good) and about his own shortcomings (not that many) and how they compared generally and then more specifically, and then he found himself telling Rafa what he could do to get better. What he needed to do to beat practically any player Rafa could name. Rafa laid his head in Roger's lap and listened to everything. "Did you decide yet?" Rafa said, finally. It was late enough for the moon to be high up over the sea. "About what?" Roger said, lifting a strand of hair away from Rafa's eyes. "The tennis. Your tennis." He was staring up at Roger with a disturbing expression. Roger couldn't work out if it was irritation or awe, or both. "You tell me this stuff, about how I can beat you, everyone—how I get better." His voice was still throaty, just like it'd been this afternoon. Roger slid his hand under the neck of Rafa's shirt. "It's like— " Rafa waved a hand, "-- gold and diamonds. Too valuable." "What's the point of keeping it all to myself?" "You talk like you never need the strategy again." Rafa sat up and swung his feet to the floor. He stretched and yawned and contrived to press up against Roger once more. "You sleep with me," Rafa said, more statement of certainty than request. His nose was about three inches from Roger's. "Do you ever want something and then not get it?" Roger asked. Rafa's palm was warm in his. "All the time," Rafa said, and they walked together through the house, holding hands. *** "Be gentle with me," Roger said, as they walked onto the court the next morning. Birds were singing. The sky was the unlikely blue of full summer. Rafa was dressed in all white. "Oh yeah, I will, no?" said Rafa, and his smile became more bashful. Roger remembered him last night, in bed, hands moving over Roger's body like it was the most precious thing he'd ever held. Rafa was gentle with him, taking him through a routine that Roger recognised. He'd watched Rafa hit like this with Toni. When they stopped for water, Roger made himself ask. "Does he know about this?" Roger said. Rafa flopped down next to him on the wooden bench. He put his elbows on his knees and ran a hand over his wet forehead. He bumped his knee against Roger's. Sweat was running off them both. Rafa's left foot was jiggling up and down and he made a sound somewhere between amused and appalled. He shook his head. "Does Mirka know why you come here?" he said. Roger picked at the handle of his racquet. It was suddenly fascinating. "Does Xisca know?" "Eh, not exactly," said Rafa. Of all the places they could've picked to have this conversation, a tennis court bench was weirdly appropriate. "This is where it gets complicated, I guess," Roger said. He flicked a small pebble off the court with the tip of the racquet. "Gets?" said Rafa. "All right, continues to be." "So… " Rafa said. "I think she knows." "Oh," Rafa said. He sounded a bit shaky. They didn't talk about what was going to happen at the end of Roger's stay, or afterwards. Roger guessed this was by silent mutual agreement. Roger had no idea what to say. After a few moments, Rafa squeezed his knee. "We should train more." "More?" "You very slow. Kind of clumsy too." Roger chased him round the court, just to show him. The days passed in Rafa's house, each one different and seeming to last longer than normal days. From the banal to the sublime, he did things he'd done every day for years, and also things he'd never dreamed of doing. They read the paper, watched TV, Rafa made him put creosote on the fence behind the vegetable patch. They didn't go shopping or answer the few phonecalls that came through. "I couldn't ever live like this," Roger said, when they were in the garden in shorts, getting splashed with sticky brown creosote. Rafa dropped his brush and gave him a horrified look. "Huh? You what?" "I mean-- because of the secrecy," Roger said. "The lying." Rafa screwed up his nose. It just made him look cuter, Roger thought, whatever he did. The bastard. "Lying seems to be very-- necessary," Rafa said at last. He scratched at his eyebrow and huffed a sigh. "Doesn't it? For the sakes of the other people that we love." Roger nodded, and they let the conversation drift to something else. *** Lying on his back in Rafa's bed the day before he was supposed to leave, with Rafa dozing next to him, Roger thought about Rafa saying he'd wanted this for years. He hadn't slept next to anyone but Mirka for most of a decade. The thought flooded him with guilt, as it had done all week. It made his skin burn, like a sudden fever. He shook Rafa's shoulder until Rafa sighed and smiled and opened his eyes. "Rogelio," he murmured. He looped an arm around Roger's neck and pulled him close, so that Roger's face was pressed to the join of shoulder and neck, his nose squashed against Rafa's collarbone. Rafa dug his hand into Roger's hair and rubbed at his scalp with strong fingers, not hard enough to hurt, just enough for Roger to feel it. "That feels good," Roger mumbled. He'd said that a hell of a lot this week. He played with the sparse hair on Rafa's chest until Rafa took hold of his fingers and kissed them. Rafa's chin was rough with beard growth, and his nose was slightly burnt from the hours they'd spent in the sun yesterday; tennis, training, fishing, swimming. Roger rolled fully on top of him, enjoying Rafa's surprised squeak, then took his wrists and pinned his arms above his head, on the pillow. He looked down at Rafa's body, admiring the long stretch of his ribs and underarms. They couldn't stay here. Roger tried not to think about how much his life was going to change. "Roger?" Rafa said, softly. He'd spread his thighs almost unconsciously, sliding against Roger's. "You want me this way?" he said, very quietly. "Maybe. Can I?" Roger said, and tightened his grip on Rafa's wrists. He pushed down with his hips. "Uuhn, fuck," Rafa whispered. "Si, yes, yes. Anything." "You know, just because I gave you that advice, don't think I'm going to let you win everything." Rafa opened his eyes wide, staring. "This means—" he searched for words-- "you stay with the tennis?" "I don't want to talk about tennis right now," Roger said. They'd done things together this week that were going to make Roger blush to remember them when they met in public. That was going to be awkward, he thought, as he let go of Rafa and picked up the lube. He watched in something that felt like awe as Rafa slid his feet apart, pulling ripples across the white sheets. Roger put some lube on his fingers and knelt closer, leaning over him propped on one hand. "Tell me if you want to stop." Rafa nodded, watching him, his hands floating down to rest lightly on his chest. Roger distracted him as much as he could with kisses, but he drank in Rafa's soft surprised moans and his half whispered curses and gasps as he slid his finger inside him. They clung together and both of them moaned. Until a week ago, Roger hadn't had the faintest idea about how to go about this. Rafa had been very gentle and caring and unsurprised at Roger's lack of knowledge, and Roger had wondered what that meant about both of them. In the end he'd decided he wasn't going to worry about it. Rafa found his lips and kissed him, breathing his name as Roger rocked against him. He was blindingly hot inside, tight around Roger's finger. Rafa moaned, pushing with hips. "Can we?" he said. "Can we? Like this?" "It's not the easiest position, you know," Roger said, smiling down at him, and Rafa muttered something in Spanish, half cut off by another small moan. "I not want 'easy'," he said. "Do you ever?," Roger muttered. They kissed, long and hot and messy. Roger eased Rafa's legs back, not too much because Rafa wasn't the stretchiest person, and Rafa made a muffled cry when Roger finally pushed into his body. He flung his head back on the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut as he took it. "Does it hurt?" Roger said, thickly. He slid his hand up the back of Rafa's thigh to the tight skin at the back of his knee. The hollow there was warm and smooth, like velvet. "Rafa? Tell me." "Nooo, no. Is okay. Is—good." Minutes seemed to pass with no movement, only breathing and kissing, until Roger's pulse evened out, and Rafa began to move against him, only small rocking motions, but it was enough to make Roger think he wasn't going to last long. Rafa was clenching down with his body, impossibly hot. "Yeah," Rafa mumbled, as Roger held onto his hip and eased in deeper, stretching him wider. "Oh, si, like this, inside, it's good… " They moved a little more. Roger began to thrust, taking it as slow as he could. Rafa gazed up at him, mouth open. His hands drifted back up to the pillow, palms up. Roger stared at them for a moment, then flattened his palm across Rafa's wrists, pinning them as best he could. The awkward angle made it difficult to use any real pressure, but all the same Rafa responded with a small shaky moan, rolling his head to one side to muffle it. Roger tightened his grip and Rafa moaned again, still muffled. "Who's going to hear you, Rafa?" said Roger, staring at the strands of wet hair that stuck to Rafa's cheek, curling to his lips. "No one's here." He leaned lower, sinking in deeper. His heart started to pound, and he bent over and pressed his forehead to Rafa's. "Be as loud as you want." Rafa gave him a wild dark look and clamped his lips tight, then he let out a tight moan. "Roger," he said, louder. His caught fingers curled in tight and he twisted his hips, rocking himself harder onto Roger's cock, his moans becoming sharper and louder until they filled the room and seemed to bounce off the walls. He groped for Roger's free hand. "I need—Roger—Si, please—I need it— Do it-- " "Shit, sorry." Roger palmed his cock, rubbing the length, and Rafa's mouth stretched in something that looked like half laughter and half sheer joy. It was possible to forget the outside world and everything beyond the bedroom, even beyond the bed. There were only Rafa's eyes and lips and heat. Roger came before him, holding him down and fucking into his body in just a few hard, short strokes. He stared down at Rafa's spread ass, at the way his balls bounced against Rafa's skin. He had him spread open and pinned and Rafa was nearly screaming for it. He blanked out for some moments, everything fizzing to white noise, and then he became aware of Rafa saying his name. He looked down to see a little white lake of come on Rafa's stomach, pooling around his belly button. Rafa was panting, and his face was bright pink. Roger let go of his wrists, kissed him and stroked his damp hair, then pulled out slowly. Rafa winced and wriggled and made faces, then found a stray sock and wiped off his stomach. He pulled Roger close, so that their sweaty thighs stuck together. Rafa's stomach was still sticky. They both smelled pretty bad. "I—take it in the ass," Rafa whispered, across the pillow, exactly as if he was saying something romantic. "I like it." He gave Roger a sweetly bemused smile. "I need to learn Spanish," Roger said, touching his mouth. The world still seemed very far away. "Por qué?" said Rafa, taking his hand. "I get the feeling you're more eloquent in Spanish." "Eloquent? Ah. You mean, with expression?" Their fingers laced together and Rafa moved closer, closing the already tiny gap between them. "Yeah," Roger said. His eyes were beginning to close. "That." He drifted off to Rafa telling him things in Mallorqúin, he didn't know what. He got the feeling that he wasn't meant to understand them. *** Rafa's house had a wine cellar. Rafa's dad had insisted on it, apparently. It was a small dark room with red tiles on the floor and two small racks of wine. A crate of champagne stood in one corner, half empty. "We only need one bottle," Rafa said, then raised a dubious eyebrow at Roger. "No?" "We don't drink very much, do we?" Roger said, and Rafa shook his head. "Hardly nothing." "White wine? What about this chardonnay?" Roger said. For their last dinner together, Rafa was cooking fish and rice. It was exactly the same meal they'd had all week but Roger didn't mind. He was impressed with Rafa's skills; they were a lot more advanced than his own. Mirka despaired of him ever learning anything beyond toast. But what was the point when there was room service or eating out, or, well, Mirka. He flushed with guilt again. Rafa leaned down and pulled out a bottle of champagne. "This one," he said. "We should have this." Roger would be leaving in the morning. Neither of them had said much about it, apart from Rafa asking what he'd wanted washing. He'd put in a load of laundry, and now it was drying on the line in the garden. Roger's underwear and tennis kits and golfing clothes. He hadn't worn much, really, the past few days. Rafa put a hand on his waist and kissed his cheek. "The sun is setting," he said. They watched it from the beach, sitting together on a half shredded sisal mat. They drank the champagne from plastic glasses that had tacky pink and blue flowers on, the sort that came in cheap plastic picnic sets. The champagne was cool and buttery and rich, and the bubbles made his tongue prickle. Rafa said they should drink to the future, and to tennis, and to themselves, so they did. "Where are you going next?" Rafa said, after a little while, twisting one finger into the sand. "Dubai." Roger said. "I'm going to start training." He couldn’t miss Rafa's smile; no one could, even if they were sitting on the other side of the bay. "This is a great idea for you. Masters Cup is still possible. You can do this, I know it." "Yeah? Well, we'll see." They'd played yesterday, not as hard as they could've. He'd taken Rafa in two sets, but only just. When it came down to it, 27—so very nearly 28—was along way from 23. Two more slams felt as daunting as a mountain range. "Where are you going to be?" Roger asked. Rafa shrugged. "Mallorca, same thing as you. Training. Toni say me I have to come home tomorrow. My relaxing is over." Roger half wanted to ask what Rafa was going to tell people about his holiday. I had sex with Roger all week long. He finished his glass and felt his skin prickle. What was Mirka going to want to know? All of it? None of it? They'd have to talk about it. He wished there were rules for this kind of thing. Rafa nudged his arm and filled up his glass again, fishing the bottle from its plastic bucket. "You thinking too much," Rafa said. "I always see with you." There was sunset light caught in his eyes. It made them glow gold. The laugh lines around his mouth and eyes were getting deeper. He touched his glass to Roger's and they drank. Rafa poured them more. "How can you tell if I'm thinking to much?" "Is simple, for sure," Rafa said, making an expansive gesture with his hand. "The eyes in your head go blank, the brain begins to make the ticking noises, is obvious. You working out how to beat me. Then you beat me. Or you lose bad." "Okay, so Mr Backhand wasn't so clever yesterday. It doesn't mean anything." Rafa slung an arm around his neck and dug a finger into Roger's rib. Roger squirmed back on the sand, making a bad girly-sounding squeal. "Señor Backhand was terrible." "No, ahh! Don't, that-- tickles. Jesus you're strong." "Stronger than you, no?" "Get off, stop!" Fighting off a half naked Rafa was almost impossible, and anyway his heart wasn't in it. They rolled in the sand. Roger got what felt like about half the beach down his shorts. Rafa found a tiny squashed crab stuck to his shoulder and was sad. Finally, they lay flat on the cooling sand with the stars gleaming down at them. The sky was an impossible cobalt, deep and vivid. "Is easy to forget something," Rafa said, breaking their silence. He turned his head in the sand. "Will you remember this?" He reached over and dropped something on Roger's chest. It was small and cool – a pale bleached seashell. It was pink and glossy inside, smooth and hard when Roger touched it. "Yeah," Roger said, looking down at where it sat in his palm. "I'll never forget it." Their conversation meandered back around to tennis, as it always did. They drank another glass each. Rafa's head was on his shoulder and Rafa's breath was warm against his neck, his fingers stroking an unsteady line down Roger's stomach. They were outside, unprotected by any walls. It dawned on Roger how vulnerable they were. For a crazy stupid moment, he almost longed for them to be caught on some paparazzo's super long lens, revealing them as lovers. He was pondering the outcomes of that, digging his toes into the cool sand half in terror, when Rafa spoke. "So look," Rafa said, then sighed impatiently, like he was struggling to think "My English—shit. I want to be with you more." "You're serious?" Rafa turned and sat up to face him. A small shower of sand fell from his shoulder and he frowned deeply. "Yes. I would not say this." Rafa's face was so open and honest. It seemed ages before either of them looked away, but Rafa did first. Roger caught his hand, and Rafa looked back. "I thought a week might be enough," Roger said, and prayed that Rafa understood what he meant by that. "For us." "Yes," Rafa said, nodding. "Me as well." "That didn't work so well." "Not very well." Rafa gripped his hand more tightly. He brought Roger's fingers to his lips. He kissed them, like he was kissing something precious or bestowing a blessing like a priest. Roger's skin tingled. The ground seemed not as steady as it should. "Hey, Raf." "What, Roger?" Roger sat up and shuffled closer on his knees, until he was almost sitting on Rafa's lap. He put his hands on his shoulders, fiddling with the ends of Rafa's hair and running his fingers over the hard muscles of Rafa's neck. Rafa gazed up, slightly open mouthed. "I never even kissed another man before this." Rafa put his arms around Roger's waist. "Oh my god," he said, sounding totally not shocked. "I never believe this." "You could tell, right?" Roger said. "Only when you not know anything about gay sex," Rafa said, squeezing him. They went indoors after that, because it was getting late and Rafa's stomach was making a lot of noise. They ate quickly, with fork and fingers, standing up in the kitchen. Roger was starving for carbs, he realised, and Rafa was too. It must be the alcohol. Maybe all the sex too. And the healthy sea air, as his mum would say. "I should pack up my stuff soon," he said, when they were done. "I don't have much time in the morning." "Is sensible," Rafa said, with a twist of his mouth. "Yeah, sensible." They loaded up the dishwasher. Rafa tidied around, beating the sofa cushions into shape, putting the magazines into a pile, picking up the random socks and shorts and t-shirts that were roosting on chairs and under tables. Roger brought the laundry in. He dumped it on the bed in his room, thinking about what he'd wear tomorrow. He rolled up his t-shirts and shirts and jeans feeling like somehow he had changed his entire life, almost with his eyes closed. He wasn't going to retire. And there was Rafa. He heard Rafa singing to himself in the kitchen, banging things about. It'd be a good thing to leave, to get a clear head. He rubbed at his face and sighed, and then carried on packing. Why had be brought all these shoes? He sensed Rafa behind him rather than heard him. He turned and Rafa was just there, watching and waiting. "Come to bed with me?" Rafa said. He held out a hand, looking worried like Roger might say no. Roger tried to imagine it and failed. He hugged Rafa to his side, an arm round his waist and they hobbled uncomfortably through the door—it wasn't wide enough for the two of them side by side-- and along the corridor. They didn't speak. Rafa melted against him, saying everything with his body that might not be possible with his words.

I was enjoying a rare quiet day, tucked into my couch with a good paperback and a cold Coke, feeling utterly lazy and content with my place in the universe when someone started pounding on the door of my apartment with the urgency of someone who really desperately wanted in. So... probably not the pizza delivery guy. Great. I had to go and tempt fate by being smug about my day off. I shot a glare at the ceiling before I grumbled and folded a page in the book to mark my place in it then setting it down on my couch. I’ve never been one for bookmarks. I looked over at Mouse as I got to my feet but my dog, who also did time as a small gray fur covered mountain, kept sleeping away on his rug in front of the fireplace. If whatever was at the door wasn’t setting off his spidey-senses enough to wake him up then it wasn’t something evil wanting to eat my face. Probably. Whoever it was, they hadn’t set off the warning spells I’d littered around the surrounding neighborhood of my building, either. So that was an added indication that it wasn't something supernatural. Still, I approached cautiously. A friend would have called me beforehand. A client would have come to my office. Or left me a message through the number I advertised in the yellow pages. Thomas and Molly didn’t need to knock because they had keys. The only other option was an enemy or a complete random stranger. I braced myself and tugged at the door which groaned with its usual noises of protest before reluctantly opening. The groans made me wince as they always did. I hadn't let down the wards yet so I was pretty relaxed about facing what was on the other side without my blasting rod. And it helped that my staff was only a couple of feet away in its usual resting place in the popcorn bin by the door. As it was I barely managed to suppress a panicked yell when I finally saw who was standing on my doorstep. It was Marcone, Gentleman Johnny Marcone, mafia kingpin of Chicago and a good chunk of the rest of the United States. One of the deadliest persons I had the misfortune to know and had ever met. And he was standing here at my door, so my freaked out reaction was perfectly excusable. Well, it's not the sort of thing that happens to me everyday, even in my life. That’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it. “Dresden,” Marcone’s voice was low and harsh. But his eyes, his pale green eyes looked strange. Sort of stunned and... and... ravenous. He looked like his control was fraying. I had never seen him like that before. Even when Marcone had been kidnapped by Nicodemus he’d still been perfectly calm and unfazed. Not even being strung up over a huge pit to dangle as bait and waiting for monstrous loup-garou to arrive to eat him had destroyed his cool facade. Hell, even when I’d caught him at his most vulnerable and shaken, in front of a long term care facility that held someone infinitely dear to him, he’d still managed to control himself and his impulse to kill me when he thought I posed a danger to her. The man’s soul was a freaking stainless steel fridge. He was that cold and controlled. So, something was wrong. Very, very wrong. “Dresden,” Marcone said again, his voice growing raw. “Let me in.” The desperate tone of Marcone’s voice had me very worried, as I said there aren’t many things that get to him. For something to scare him so badly it had to be so bad on a monumental scale that my mind boggled trying to imagine it. And I’ve seen some incredibly horrific things in my life. I was just starting to wonder where in the hell Marcone’s bodyguards were, as I lowered the wards, when Marcone launched himself across the threshold at me. My eyes widened and I tried to grope for my staff but I couldn’t reach it in time, those last couple of feet might of well have been miles considering how fast Marcone could move. He slammed into me and I closed my eyes. I braced myself for something, for a knife, or for hands around my throat. Something. But all I felt was a kiss. A kiss that was hard, hungry and unrelenting. My senses were instantly overwhelmed. Whatever else you could say about John Marcone, he was one hellavu good kisser. And God, I could feel how incredibly turned on Marcone was from the way he was pressed up against me. I was stunned. For a moment, all I did was stand there and let him kiss me. I just couldn’t move for what seemed like an eternity. I flailed my arms and my squeak of surprise was muffled against Marcone's mouth, before getting a hold of myself and managing to shove Marcone away, just far enough to stagger out of his reach. Okay, what I said before about expecting mob bosses on my doorstep? Expecting same mob boss to kiss me breathless is even lower on the expectancy list. Hell, it was so unexpected it hadn't even made the list. At that point, I wouldn’t be surprised if the pink dancing elephants started showing up. What exactly had been in that soda can I’d been drinking? I thought the addition of illegal substances had already been outlawed and taken out of soft drinks by the time I was born. I took another step back but Marcone was just too freaking fast. I was quick on my feet for a guy of my size but Marcone made me look sluggish and clumsy. This time Marcone’s pounce drove me down onto my floor and I swore in surprise. I’ve never been more grateful that I kept the concrete floors thickly carpeted otherwise that would have hurt. Only throwing out my arms to absorb the impact kept me from bruising. Thank you, falling lessons from Murphy. I tried to twist out of his grasp but he must have gotten more fighting lessons than me because Marcone managed to suppress them with ease and used his knees to lock my legs down. Marcone also used his body weight to keep me from buckling him off, and his hands were holding down my forearms so I couldn't even leverage him off. He looked down, and that’s when I made a small mistake, because I opened my mouth to yell at him to get off. And he kissed me again. With the same desperate and deep hunger. I was starting to suspect a theme here. A not-so-happy suspicion about his actions was starting to grow in my mind. But that’s when Marcone chose to start attacking my clothes, while still managing to hold me down with one hand. The strength of him startled me. While I may have a few inches on the guy, Marcone definitely had more muscle packed onto his frame than me. I also wasn’t used to being kissed by many people who were strong to subdue a guy my size, especially not with one hand. The last person had been Susan and she’s been tied up at the time so her super-strength and urge to bite me wouldn’t hurt me. Or her. An idea struck me. I managed to move head enough to get my mouth away from Marcone’s kiss which broke off with a really obscene wet pop. It didn’t stop him. He just sucked the curved edge of my, now available, ear into his hot mouth. I went cross-eyed for a moment. I shook it off, and with the little breath I had left after being kissed so intensively, I focused and gasped out, “Manacus.” A silver rope that glittered electric blue slithered up from my lab and wound itself around Marcone. He was so wrapped up in pressing biting kisses to my neck, he didn’t notice. I focused my will. “Forzare!” Well, he definitely noticed when the rope yanked him back onto an armchair, tied him to it and used the last foot length to secure his hands. I lay on the floor, panting and feeling ravaged. My jeans were undone and Marcone had just started to get his hand down them when I called for the rope. I shook my head to try to control myself. “Harry,” Marcone growled deeply. Wow. How in the hell did he manage to make my name sound so sexy? He gave it just right amount of ‘grr’ that it tingled down my spine instead of chilling it. It was the sort of skill I’ve only seen White Court vampires manage to pull off. And even then the creepy ’they-want-to-eat-me-and-not-in-a-fun-way’ factor killed the tingle pretty damn fast. “Don‘t call me that,” I said weakly. I managed to get myself to my wobbly feet after a little pep talk to my legs to convince them not to buckle. Marcone was looking me up and down in that way that let me know that he was mentally undressing me and the fierce way he was tugging at the rope said that he was also very much looking forward to doing it for real. I tried not to squeak again, and with my cheeks turning red, I zipped up my pants and tugged my shirt down so that it would cover my groin. Not that it was much of a shield against Marcone’s eyes but it made me feel less exposed. My timing was perfect for once because that’s when a tall blonde Amazon named Gard walked into my apartment through the still open door and still downed wards. Well, limped in was a more accurate verb. My eyebrows rose, but before I could comment, Hendricks followed her in. He was sporting a set of the nastiest black eyes I’ve ever seen anyone wear. And I was counting myself in that pool of injured. If you knew anything about my history of getting injured, you’d know that was saying something. “What the hell happened to you?” I asked them both in fascination while trying to ignore the heated looks Marcone was still sending me. Hendricks was a small mountain of muscle topped off with a peak of red hair cut to a military buzz. And Gard was true blue Valkyrie, whom I’d seen fight after being practically disemboweled, and putting herself together with super glue and sheer grit. Anything that tangled with both of them and managed to injure them wasn’t something I wanted to mess with. “It was Mr. Marcone,” Gard answered me, as she looked around and caught sight of her tied up boss. Hendricks and she both looked relieved to see him in one piece. While I just about fell over in shock from her words. “No way.” Marcone would rather lose an arm than hurt someone in his pay. His employees were some of the best protected law-breakers in the country. At least, anyone who was loyal to him. If they were trying to take him down, that’s another story. Then not even a nuclear bunker could save you from him. “Dresden,” Gard snapped. “He‘s not in his right mind at the moment. Or haven‘t you noticed?” My lips, and other parts of me, tingled with memory of Marcone‘s intense kisses and warm touches. “Oh, I noticed,” I muttered. The looks Gard and Hendricks gave me damn near made me squirm in embarrassment. I managed to resist the urge but I had the feeling my still redden cheeks gave me away. I cleared my throat and did my best to ignore their expressions. “So, will someone please explain to me what the hell is going on?” That’s the moment Mouse chose to pop his head into view from behind the couch. I grumbled at him. “Oh, now you wake up, fur face. Some guard dog you are.” His pink tongue rolled out in that doggie smile and I knew my dog was laughing at me. I have the feeling my day is only going to get worse from here on out. It usually did. Gard stepped past me towards Marcone. “Err, I wouldn't,” I said, making her pause. “I want to check him over,” Gard told me, tension in her shoulders. “Okay, but don't loosen the rope,” I said, “I don‘t think I‘ll be able to catch him twice with it.” Have I mentioned how fast Marcone moves? I didn’t want to test my rope against him when he knew it was coming and had a chance to get a hold of any of the numerous knives he carries on his person. The chances of me getting enough unicorn hair to make another one where pretty slim right now. The Summer Court of the Sidhe and I are not on the friendliest terms at the moment. It’s a long story. She nodded and knelt by the chair. Marcone gave her a cool glance, before turning his gaze back to me. The heat flooded his eyes again. I squirmed and turned away only to catch Hendricks giving me an uneasy look and from the way his fingers twitched I could tell he wanted to pull his boss out of there. Or pull a gun on me. It could go either way with him. I scowled at Hendricks. The faster these two got Marcone out of my place the better. *-*-*-* It didn’t take Gard very long to explain what had happened, by saying as little as possible, of course. She wasn’t going to risk slipping something to a Warden of the White Council. Especially if it involved some shady magic and even less so if it involved Marcone's business. Pretty much all I got from them was that Marcone had gone to a meeting, set up to strike a deal for something. I didn’t get that detail. But instead of the object, he got splashed with a clear liquid, fast enough that it had caught Gard, Hendricks and Marcone off guard. The liquid had sunk into Marcone’s skin in an instant. They got out of there as fast as possible and Marcone had been fine, at least at first. But after an hour he went nuts, slugged Hendricks, and nearly wrenched Gard’s knee out of place in getting away from them. “That's when he made his way here,” I summed up. “Correct. He is clearly in the grip of a lust potion. He must have come to you for a reason, so you‘re going to have to have sex with him,” Gard said to me. I gaped at her. From her cool expression she didn’t look like she was kidding. Hilariously, Hendricks looked like a man who wanted to kill himself but was stuck trying to decide which one of his guns he wanted to use to accomplish the deed. I tried to not to feel sympathetic. Or ask that he shoot me first. “Whoa, whoa before we do anything rash just give me a moment to try to analyze the potion that hit him. Let’s not make hasty decisions we‘ll, no doubt, later regret. Regret a lot,” I said, holding my hands up to stop this mad idea. I shot Marcone an involuntary glance. The man was still eyeing me with the same kind of look I’d last seen on a hungry tiger that had just been given a bloody piece meat for it‘s lunch. I shivered. And he was still tugging at the restraints. Relentless, thy name is Marcone. People called me the stubborn one. I sent Fix a mental thank you for the unicorn hair rope. At least, I know that Marcone wouldn’t be able to get out of it, or loosen it enough to get to any knives to then cut himself free. I grabbed a pair of scissors I had stashed by the phone before walking over to snip a bit of hair from him. I barely managed to avoid getting caught between Marcone’s legs. The rope wasn’t long enough to tie his legs down too and he had no compunction about trying to reel me in with them. As I mentioned before the man was freakishly fast, and apparently part octopus. Hendricks and Gard both looked unhappy at the tuft I held in my hand. I rolled my eyes at them. It wasn’t like I was going to use it to kill their boss; I was trying to help him. “Will you both stop it. I thought last time pretty much proved that I‘m not going to kill him,” I grumbled and headed down to my lab. “I want that back as soon as you‘re done,” Gard demanded, behind me. Yeesh. What did a wizard have to do to get a little trust from those two? *-*-*-* “Wait,” I said, holding up my left hand while rubbing my forehead with the other. “It‘s what type of what?” “It’s a ‘Fuck or Die‘ curse.” Bob, my part-assistant, part skull, part all-around-pain-in-my-ass was sniggering. My head was threatening to start aching. “You‘re joking. Lust potions don‘t work that way. They pretty much just wear off, they don‘t kill people.” My voice was reaching an embarrassingly high range. I cleared my throat. “Haven‘t you been listening, Harry? It‘s a spell, not a potion.” Bob rolled his eyes, which was always a sight to see in a skull. “The spell was tied to the liquid which was the carrier but it‘s not a potion. It‘s the same principle as a cursed object only the ‘object’ in question is the liquid. And once it got on Marcone? Presto! Instant cursed mafia boss.” Okay, yeah. I hadn’t really been listening; I kept getting distracted by the memories of Marcone’s kisses, his tongue and the feel of his warm hands sliding down my pants. It’s been months since I last got laid and it was showing. I needed to get a grip and stop thinking about how good being touched again felt. How good he felt. “This is a dark spell. Real black magic stuff,” Bob said seriously. “It ties itself directly to a person‘s nervous system. Ramping them up higher and higher with lust until they can fuck it out of their system.” “And if they don‘t, they die,” I added flatly. “It shreds their brain, their entire nervous system, in a horribly painful way and they die,” Bob agreed cheerfully. “So, I can just send Marcone off to enjoy one of his own high-end brothels and that‘ll be that.” I sighed in relief, stomped down firmly on the little bit of disappointment in my gut, and headed for the stairs. “Oooh, Harry. You haven‘t heard about the little extra surprise this curse has.” I froze. “It gets worse?” I yelped. Of course it gets worse, who was I kidding? It’s practically my motto these days, it always gets worse. I’m thinking of getting pillows made. Bob was back to sniggering, interposed with moments of leering. I was used to his ways but his enjoyment was really starting to freak me out. “Oh, yeah. Whoever came up with this little curse is a down-right nasty bastard. There‘s a component which makes the spell unbreakable unless the one be-spelled does the bedroom tango with someone he actually wants. Someone, he really has a hankering for but thinks that he can’t have, for whatever reason, before he got whammied. No one else will do. So…isn’t it interesting that Marcone heads straight-” Bob snickered at his choice of words. “-for you.” That made me blink. “What?” “Marcone wants to screw your brains out. Do the nasty. He wants to dance around your meat pole.” I scrunched my eyes closed for a moment and groaned into my hands. “Never, ever say that again. As long as I live, never say those words to me ever again. And he does not.” I looked up to glare at Bob. He just gave me that look, the look that said I was once again being an absolute moron. It was hardly a new look. I got it all the time from my nearest and dearest. “He came here. To you. While high on the lust spell,” he smugly pointed out. I’ve been hoping that if I ignored that it would go away, thank you, Bob. I didn’t need a reminder. “There‘s nothing we can give him to break it?” I asked, a little desperately. Okay, a lot desperately. This was Marcone. I have no problem admitting to being more than a little freaked out. Bob shook his skull in denial. “If tonight was a full moon, there would be a slim chance that he would last long enough to gather all necessary spell components before he died. But from how long you told me it‘s already been. He has maybe two hours left. Or one. Or none. ” “Marcone‘s plenty tough,” I said. “I‘m betting on more.” I rubbed my head again, trying to kick my addled brain into some semblance of order. But before Bob or I could say anything else. I heard Mouse whine and Gard start shouting from above. I rushed up the stairs. And stopped at the top, in shock. John Marcone was convulsing. *-*-*-* It was a panic inducing kind of moment, different in various ways than the sort of terror-filled moments I was used to dealing with, where I had to shove aside my surprise to unfreeze and get the rope off Marcone. With Gard having to lay him out flat on the floor while she checked that he didn’t choke, while Hendricks and I held down his arms and legs to keep him from hurting himself as his body twisted and bowed against his control. Even Mouse helped by acting like a pillow and kept Marcone from cracking his head on my floor from the force of the convulsions, because carpeted or not, he would have concussioned himself. It lasted an eternity. It lasted forty-five seconds. It was a terrifying and long forty-five seconds, where none of us could do anything but wait it out. There are too many times in my life were all the magic that I know is utterly useless. I really hate those moments. And I really, really hate it when it involved people I know. Marcone woke up from the seizure after only a couple of minutes, frankly it felt more like an hour. He looked around in a dazed and confused fashion which I wasn’t at all used to seeing on the crime boss. The familiar flame of anger rolled in my gut. Whatever the hell kind of curse this was, no one deserved to be inflicted with it. Not even Gentleman Johnny Marcone. “John,” I said catching his attention. His gaze fell on me and his expression sharpened. “Dresden,” he said, sounding like himself, calm and collected, for the first time since he walked through my door. I was relieved. Then, I quickly explained everything Bob had told me about the curse, ignoring the pained noises from Hendricks. I didn’t know how much longer Marcone would remain in his right mind, and I wanted him to get the facts. All of them. Something, I had been pushing out of my mind, around the same time that Marcone had been pushing his tongue in my mouth for the umpteenth time, was that if anything happened between us while Marcone was under the spell, it would be rape. No matter how hard he was throwing himself at me, it wasn’t really him. It was the curse and it wouldn‘t be consensual. Even if Marcone did want me, he wasn‘t in control of his actions because under ordinarily circumstances he wouldn’t have done anything about it. Hell, I wouldn’t even have known how he felt, that he wanted me, if the spell didn’t have its nasty twist that Bob managed to catch and explain. So taking advantage of the situation would have made me scum. Lower than scum. And not the sort of guy I could stand to be around. This would make living with myself a little difficult. I refused to be that. I’ve spent too much time fighting my dark impulses to be sideswiped by a lust spell. Even if it wasn’t inflicted on me. Marcone had to make the choice now, if he wanted this, while he was still lucid enough to make up his own mind without the influence of the lust spell. It was his life, his choice. I refused to take it out of his hands. There was also the nasty fact that Marcone could have me killed if he really wanted to and he was good enough at what he did that I probably wouldn’t see it coming. If I did, it wouldn’t be for very long. There was a moment of silence as Marcone processed what I told him. I could see Gard frowning from the corner of my eyes, as she too thought it through. Yeah, the implications that the spell was most likely intended to kill Marcone, as opposed to just embarrassing him, that it was specifically created to have him dying in one of the most painful ways possible, wasn’t the sort of news that would please one of his bodyguards. Especially the one that was supposed to provide the magical protection. Marcone looked at me again and whatever he saw in my eyes made up his mind. He told Hendricks and Gard, “I need you both to wait back in the car.” He paused and then added, “And have someone return the motorcycle to it‘s rightful owner.” That made my eyebrows rise. Gard had said that Marcone had found a way here. She didn’t mention the interesting little fact that Marcone had gone and stolen a bike. They left without protest, though I could tell Hendricks wanted to kick up a fuss, but he was just too loyal and used to obeying his master’s orders. Good Cujo. “This wasn‘t the sort of situation I saw myself in today,” Marcone told me as soon as we were alone. “And I did?” I snorted. I stood up and offered him my hand. “All I wanted was to enjoy my day by reading a book and not have the world end. Obviously, it was too much to ask for.” He used my hand to pull himself up but didn’t let go as soon as he was standing. If anything he tightened his grip, as if to keep me from running off. I bit back the urge to point out that this was my home and no mob boss, no matter how scary or deadly with a knife, would scare me away. It usually took a demon or horde of zombies to do that. I tried not to squirm again at the piercing look he gave me. “You don‘t have to do this. You don‘t owe me anything,” he said quietly. His grip on me wasn’t loosening, I noticed. Whatever else, he did want this. And he thought he would never get it, I remembered. I scowled and glared at him. “I‘m not going to let you die. Not when I can do something about it.” “You have never even slept with a man before,” Marcone said bluntly, his eyes still on me. I twitched in surprise then flushed red. That was true. But then no man had really gone and tried to get in my pants before either. Nor have I ever been to college and given that infamous college experimentation thing a try. I hadn‘t even graduated from high school and getting a GED doesn’t exactly come with those sort of experiences. I had discovered my interest in sex at roughly the same time as I had found my first love in Elaine. So, there had never been much of a reason to so much as look at other people, let alone men. It simply wasn’t an opportunity that had come up since. Oddly enough, it seems most men aren’t interested in a tall, gawky wizard for a bed partner. Color me surprised. But Marcone’s kisses and fondling had felt too good for my own peace of mind. And if that had turned me on, there was a pretty good chance that sex with John Marcone would work out just fine to my satisfaction. There was also the added factor of Marcone being someone I knew and respected. Sure the guy also scared the hell out of me and his business made me sick for numerous reasons but he’d also saved the lives of me and my friends when he didn’t have to and didn‘t stand to gain from it. I’ve trusted him to fight at my side. I’ve trusted him with my life, and even more importantly, I’ve trusted him with the lives of others, of innocents. There weren’t many people in my life I could say that about. And of the ones that I could, they were among my nearest and dearest. Marcone was an odd exception. “Yeah, I don‘t think that‘s going to be a problem.” I told him. His expression remained skeptical. I rolled my eyes and used his grip on my hand to tug him closer to me and for the first time I initiated the kiss between us. I started it slow. I admit I’m shy, and not one to go shoving their tongue down other people’s throat willy-nilly, unlike some people I could name. So, I kissed him gently, slowly coaxing him into relaxing and meeting me at the same pace. I could feel his heart speeding up, from where my hand was placed at his neck, tilting his head to make us fit. Marcone’s hands tightened on my hips, pulling me closer to him until heat of his body seeped in through my jeans and shirt. He groaned and opened his mouth. I slowly lapped at his teeth, teasing the corners of his mouth and letting him back into mine. When I pulled back to breathe and Marcone followed me to press another kiss on my mouth before also pulling back. I could see a flush starting in his cheeks, and his breathing was growing more rapid. “Like I said John, it‘s really not going to be a problem,” I repeated, after clearing my throat. It still came out pretty hoarse. John Marcone licked his lips and nodded slowly, finally accepting that I meant what I said. Took him long enough. He was usually a lot faster on the uptake than this, but I was willing to let it go. That curse was frying his brain after all. And speaking of the curse, there really wasn’t much time left. I tugged him in the direction of my bedroom. Might as well do this properly. Anyway, it wasn’t the sort thing I wanted to inflict on Mouse’s innocent eyes. The lust curse spell started revving up again as soon was we walked into my bedroom. I could tell because of the way John started ripping at my clothes, and tearing off the buttons of my shirt. It was that special ability that I had to catch such subtle clues which made me a kick-ass gumshoe. I pretty much left him at it. He was getting my clothes off faster than I could get them on. Instead, I tried to see if I could get him out of his suit. I was not going to be the only naked one here. That just made things awkward in my opinion. I can tell you that it’s certainly interesting taking off a tie from this side. It definitely took more concentration that I would have thought such an action entailed but then I kept getting pretty distracted. The sheer number of knives sheathed around his body made me pause more than once or twice and no, I can’t say how many I found. I lost track of them, because the weapons weren’t the most interesting thing in the room at that moment. John kept pressing hot open-mouthed kisses to my neck as I tried to think if I had the kind of supplies a guy needs for this sort of activity. As, I said before, it’s been several months since I last got laid, so my memory was rather fuzzy about such details. I had to settle for some lube that was still within its expiration date and a condom that nearly wasn’t. Like I said, it’s been a while. Fortunately, what I lacked in experience didn’t seem to be a problem for John because he was certainly responding with enthusiasm, more than could be accounted for from the curse alone. That was rather flattering. And disconcerting. It wasn’t too long before I was sprawled on back, feeling like a bag of catnip, from the hungry way that John was now nuzzling at my exposed collarbones and bare chest. His hands kept moving, as if eager to map every single inch of my skin while he still had the chance. He lingered over my scars and I was rather grateful that he’d seen the mess that was my hand before today. It had been so badly burned that I could barely use it, and even now with it healing slowly but steadily I was embarrassed to go out in public without it covered up in a glove. Marcone didn’t even pause at the mass of scar tissue that passed for a hand at the end of my wrist. If anything, I could tell from the way he looked at me, with his eyes blazing, that he was burning this moment, every detail of me, into his mind with all the intensity he could bring to bear. It was a rather humbling realization. I couldn’t help but reciprocate, taking in his body with the same attention he was paying mine. John Marcone certainly kept himself in great shape, and he was nearly as scarred as I was. That surprised me, but knowing what I knew about his life, it really shouldn’t have. He had old knife wounds, faded gun shot scars and even odd jagged lines that I couldn‘t even begin to guess the origins of, scattered across his chest, arms and even on his thighs. They stood as proof that he had treated his body nearly as harshly as I treated mine. The only one whose story I knew was the one that formed the top of his torn ear. The others rather intrigued me. This secret history of John Marcone’s life, written on his skin. Not the sort of thing that you would be able to guess of him from his expensively tailored suits and custom leather Italian shoes. But I’d known from first meeting him, from when I first locked eyes and saw into his soul, that John was a fighter, a cold warrior, who did what he needed to do. His body just reflected what I had seen all those yeas ago. “Harry,” said John, the desperation in his voice kicking me out of my contemplation. He was panting and his eyes were glazing over as the curse took greater control of him. I pulled him against me, his hard erection settled against my own. His hips stuttered against mine and I gasped at the silken hot feel of him. His hands slip down my chest to tighten on my hips, his thumbs digging into the hollows. “Harry,” he said again. I blinked at him; he was looking at me hungrily. “Please, Harry.” I swallowed as I realized what he wanted and fumbled for the lube. Right. Now came the unexplored territory part that made me wish I had been more inventive in the bedroom in the past. I could have used the experience. I’ve never been shy in bed, leading up it sure, but not once the action started. But there are things I’ve never tried and only knew about from reading. You pick up a lot of random details from books, let me tell you. And this is was definitely a case where practical experience trumped book learning. Trust me, I knew what was coming next, but I didn’t know know it. It made me more than a little nervous. I uncapped the tube of lube with shaking fingers, swearing a little as I realized that I should have gone for the condom first. I grabbed the little plastic square and had to tear it with my teeth because my fingers were too slippery. John’s breathing hitched as I rolled the condom over his hard and leaking cock. I barely had finished putting it on him when John pushed me down onto my back. Kissing me again, using his thigh to part my legs and his hands to hitch my hips up. “Whoa, wait. Lube!” I said. I grabbed the tube and squirted a good dollop of the slippery stuff onto my fingers and palm. I reached between us and coated the latex of the condom over the crown of John’s cock, closing my fingers in a circle so my entire hand closed on him. John gasped and then groaned at my touch. The wildness in his eyes grew to greater levels, and I knew I was tearing apart any measure of control he had with my touch. But the lube was necessary. Just because I had a high pain threshold didn’t mean that I liked pain. I wasn’t going into this without a lot of lube greasing the rails, so to speak. Yeah, I really can’t help it; I make jokes when I feel over my head. John flipped me onto my stomach in a lightning fast move that made me yelp in surprise. He pressed a palm flat against my neck, sliding it down my spine, surprisingly gentle, until it hit the curve of my ass. Then his other hand slipped between my cheeks and I nearly jumped at the cool slick feel of them. I stopped breathing at the feel of his fingers just pressing in. My tension made John pause. “Harry,” he gritted. “You have to relax.” I looked over my shoulder at him. I could see the effort to control himself and not just press into me was making him shake. He was biting at his lower lip hard enough that it would soon start bleeding. Right, I had to relax. I forced myself to take a few deep breaths, letting my muscles go from rigid to jello in about three seconds. I never thought I’d used such mental techniques for this. Once, I was certain I was as relaxed as I was going to get, I languidly spread my legs wider to let him know. “Fuck, Harry,” John growled. I was blinking my bemusement at my pillows at the sound of John Marcone cursing, when the head of his cock pressed against the ring of muscles at my ass and breached it. I gasped and my back arched, even as relaxed as I was, the penetration was a still shock of unfamiliar sensation to my system. John panted and slowly, so freaking slowly, slid into me. It hurt less than I thought it would, but then, pain and I were too well acquainted in the past. The stretch of him inside me felt more like a sting and low burn, than anything that would make me want to stop. It also helped that John was clearly fighting the curse, tooth and nail because he was a lot more considerate and gentle than I’d thought he’d be. More than I thought I could be if in his place. Some measure of sanity returned to him, as he rested fully inside of me. He looked at me with this glimmer of hot amazement, which made me want to squirm as I caught it out of the corner of my eyes. I pretended I had not seen it. “If you could only see how I see you, Harry,” he murmured against my neck. He pressed open mouthed kisses to my shoulder. I could feel every centimeter of his cock and it was all I could do not to yell at him to hurry up. I wasn’t able to bite back a groan though, nor the small hitch of my hips jerking towards him. But all he did was tighten his grip on me, stilling my movement. “Damn it, John,” I moaned. Who was the one inflicted with the lust curse here? It felt like I was the one that was going to die. “Move!” All I got for an answer was a low growl that sent my heartbeat skyrocketing to higher speeds. He started a slow but steady pace, shoving me back onto the pillows of my bed with every deep thrust. I braced myself with my forearms, and dropped my head at every jolt of electrical pleasure that shot through me. Which only intensified when Marcone shifted me to my knees and reached around to grab my erection. It seemed to last an eternity, the feel of him pressing in and out of my body, his thrusts turning short but powerful. I honestly lost track of time, too involved in indulging in the pleasure and feel of another human being. Of enjoying the simple human act of sex that was older than recorded civilization. It wasn’t just my normal senses that were being overwhelmed even my magical ones were buzzing. Until we reached a crescendo of energy and movement that shattered into an orgasm so intense I lost my breath. John wasn’t far behind me, and I could feel the dark energy that had been powering the curse shift out of his body and into the air before dissipating like a faint stream of smoke, until no trace was left. I blinked in surprise, and tried to force my fuzzy post-coital thoughts into some semblance of order. John pulled himself out and off of me, making me grumble just a bit. He sprawled at my side, pulling off the condom and tying it off, dropping it into the waste basket at the side of my bed. That seemed to sap the last of his energy, for he barely had wrapped an arm around my shoulders to pull me close to him that he dropped off into sleep. I considered the wonderful idea that this was and followed his example. A nap did sound like heaven. *-*-*-* When I woke up again, it had only been about an hour since I’d fallen unconscious in the first place. I spent a few minutes, staring in amusement at big bad Johnny Marcone, sleeping with his face tucked under my chin and his arms wrapped firmly around my waist. I pondered the blackmail potential the knowledge of a cuddling John, but I regretfully let the idea go. Who would I threaten to tell? And how would I explain how I came upon such knowledge? Really, I should just let my amateur black mailing skills lay fallow. I squirmed out of his grip, grabbed a clean pair of boxers from my dresser drawers and pulled on the jeans that had been crumbled onto the floor. I found my scissors and I took another hair sample from John. I guess the guy was pretty worn out because he didn’t so much as twitch. I wasn’t exactly being stealthy about it either. I headed back down to my lab for a quick test. I wanted to make sure that the curse had run its course. The last thing I needed was for it to start up again unexpectedly and I needed Bob to make sure that I didn‘t miss anything. I was fairly certain it was gone, but this definitely a case for being safer rather than sorry. I regretted going down there at once. Because as soon as I was off the stairs, Bob started wolf-whistling. “Congratulations Harry! Becoming a male moll to Chicago‘s premier mafia lord. Talk about picking the best possible sugar daddy!” Bob grinned at me, one of the orange lights in his sockets blinked out for a moment before flicking back. Did Bob just wink at me? I scowled. What the hell was a male moll? And sugar daddy? I was not that hard up for money! “Bob, don‘t call me that.” I finally said indignantly. My eyes narrowed into a heated glare. “Keep it up and you‘ll be sleeping with the fishes. Or maybe, I’ll find a pit of drying cement to throw you in.” Bob shut up, with an audible click of his jaws, and a rather cowed expression on his bony face. I grinned widely, and got him to start the test. As, I waited on the results I thought hard thoughts. If there was a dark sorcerer out there I’d have to go after him or her. Though, the chances of getting John to tell me what the hell was going on was pretty slim. The man did try to keep my nose out of his business as much as possible these days. By the time I was dragged in, everyone was up to their asses in crocodiles and the water was beginning to boil. Maybe just this once, I could get in before it got to the point where the city was in danger of being blown off the map. Hey, it could happen. I got the results from Bob, which came out green across the board. There wasn’t a chance of the curse resurging later on like some curses could under the right circumstances. The results also told me what I pretty much suspected; whoever came up with this little slice of evil intended it to kill John. They would definitely learn of the sort of repercussions that came from practicing dark magic where a Warden of the White Council held territory. I’d probably be the better alternative to a pissed off Gentleman Johnny Marcone, anyway, even with the automatic death sentence that this spell would guarantee the sorcerer. I nodded to myself, decision made and headed up the steep stairs to try to talk John into letting me in on this battle. I had become involved from the moment he’d shown up at my door, and I would end it. I found John still sleeping in my bed and debated whether I should wake him. I wimped out and went back to my living room to check up on Mouse. It was about time he got out to take care of his business. Mister should be coming back soon from his evening patrol and terrorizing of the neighborhood pets. I was also grateful for the extra time to get my thoughts together. I wasn’t too sure how to handle this morning after. On average, I don’t do one night stands. I get too emotionally invested. This thing with John felt like it could be more than that. I wasn’t too sure how to deal with it. So, I was hiding. Well, as much as a guy could hide from another man while in his own apartment. I was just hanging up the phone from calling the pizza place with my usual order when John padded out of my room, barefoot and still disheveled, wearing his inner shirt but those jeans were definitely mine. It made me pause. Honestly, I was expecting to see him back into his armor, because that’s what it was, that impeccable exterior and expensive suit said ‘Look But Don’t Touch’ as loud as any billboard advertisement with flashing lights. I wasn’t expecting to see him with his defenses down. It totally knocked me on my ass, emotionally speaking. Though, it probably would have quite literally if I hadn’t been sitting on my couch. Sleepy eyes, stuck up hair and a loose emotional barriers. Heat pooled in my gut and my mouth went dry. Okay, so apparently that worked for me. John sat next to me and raised his hands up to my face to cradle my jaw in his palms. He looked at me for a moment, staring into my eyes, searching for what I did not know, but before I could ask a smile curled up on his mouth and he held me still and kissed me. I kissed him back. He took that as an invitation to practically crawl into my lap, pushing me back into the sofa cushions and just about devouring me with his mouth. The hardness I could feel on my hip told me he was more than up for another round. I know, I’m punning again, I blame the endorphins still rushing happily through my system. I indulged in the delightfully satisfying feel of human warmth against my body before pulling regretfully away. “Harry,” John scolded. His pale green eyes were going fierce with lust again, I noted. “We need to talk first,” I insisted, though my own erection was making it hard to remember why I needed to have this conversation. I shifted, wishing I hadn’t put on my jeans again. I should really have chosen something with more give. John took that pause to grind down against me, making me lose my train of thought for a couple of minutes. Oh, right, dark evil wizard who nearly killed the man in my arms. Right. “John,” I groaned. My hips lifted up against his utterly against my own volition. “I want you to fuck me,” he growled, his mouth barely an inch from my own, his eyes were like green lasers, burning me with their gaze and intensity. I gaped at him, all mental processes utterly wiped out with those words. My eyes closed and I moaned. Just the idea was more than I could take, and it took every centimeter of self-control I had not to hump against him. I had to remind myself that I had used the last of the supplies earlier. I also had to ignore the part of my mind that was insisting it would be easy to make substitutes. I wrested my libido under my control. “Fuck, John. Yes, but later. Rain check?” I asked weakly. My hands gripped the couch cushions in a white knuckled grip. If I reached out to him, I’d be lost. John paused and shifted away from me, not going far, just simply sitting next to me. I opened my eyes to see him looking surprised then his eyebrows raised and a thoughtful look to his eyes that caught my attention. “You want to do this again?” I blinked at him. There was an odd tone to his voice that took me a moment to place as hesitancy. I had startled him with my offer. I was reminded all over again about the twist to the curse and that from John’s point of view I had only indulged him to save his life. That I had also enjoyed myself had only been a happy coincidence. “Yeah,” I said and cleared my throat. “That‘s one of the things we‘ve got to talk about.” I could almost see the defenses coming up with my words. The mask of cool indifference settling on his features like a physical object. I scowled and hauled him to me for a fierce kiss. He resisted me for all but a moment, before his ice melted away, and he kissed me back. “And that‘s another of the things we got to talk about,” I said, gently against his mouth. I held him against me, dropping my head down to nuzzle at his neck. “I‘m not going to change,” he said, knowing exactly what I meant. “The things I do and how I do them, are necessary.” I sighed, “I know. I‘ve seen that in you.” This was a conundrum. I tilted my head back, John settled against me, his hands stroking my sides. “I can‘t stand your business. But there‘s no reason why we can‘t have an alliance.” John chuckled. “Are you talking business, Harry? I wouldn‘t have expected that of you.” I grumbled. Why did no one think that I could be mature and act in a rational manner? “I was thinking of it being an alliance between Lord Marcone and Warden Dresden and a more personal relationship between John and Harry,” I continued. “I offered you something similar before,” John said. I snorted derisively, “No you didn’t, you wanted me working for you. This isn‘t going to be that sort of thing. No money, no contracts, just…just us.” John was silent. I could see that the idea of leaving himself so open to betrayal was making him uneasy. He had to trust me, trust my word that I would help him when he needed it, that I wouldn’t leave him to face the oncoming fire without providing cover. “We spend enough time as it is saving each other lives at one point or another,” I argued. “Only you‘d actually be able to call me up for help before you get to the point where you‘re about to get kidnapped by the forces of evil.” John’s mouth quirked at that. “And I have the man-power to provide quite a lot of resources at your behest.” I nodded and looked into his eyes with all the intensity I could bring to bear. “You want to protect Chicago as much as I do. Help me protect its people from the monsters, John.” He drew in a sharp breath. “If I agree to this alliance,” he said as he pulled himself back into my lap, still staring into my eyes. He continued, “What about this?” His hands came up to my face, tilting my head back. His thumbs drifted lightly against my bottom lip. “I would not easily give you up,” John said quietly. There was a dangerous air about him, and I was reminded yet again, how easily this man found it to kill those that got in his way. I raised my eyebrows at him. “I don‘t exactly jump from bed to bed like a playboy.” He stared at me. “We can give it a chance,” I finally admitted slowly. “That‘s all I can promise you.” He nodded in agreement. He was still in deep in thought, weighing the pros and cons of what I’d proposed when the pizza arrived. I took the moment of paying for the pizza, setting aside the extra box for Toot Toot and his friends before getting back to the couch, to settle my own nerves. What I was asking was a radical change in our dynamic. Usually, he showed up unexpectedly and I grumbled about it. The rest of the time we didn’t so much as cross paths, much less talk to each other if we could help it. This thing, a relationship between us would be new. New and quite possibly, insane. “Also, there‘s a dark wizard out there, the one who made that curse, that I need to take down. Before he comes around checking to see if his little spell worked. I don‘t want to have to replace my door. Again,” I said, after I swallowed down my bite of a fifth slice of pizza. Physical exertion makes me hungry. “Your door needs to be replaced, anyway,” John said. He’d heard the effort I’d taken to shove it open when the pizza arrived and hadn’t been impressed. “Hey, the difficulty of getting it open is a safety feature,” I said with a mock offended tone and eyed him with narrowed eyes. A man’s home was his castle, he didn’t need to make fun of my castle. John shot me an amused look. “So, what do you say? Are we teaming up?” I asked. “You have stated more than once what you thought of me, of the things I do,” John said quietly. “Yeah,” I said, even though it hadn’t been a question. But if anything the last couple of years had shown me, that when it come to the magical forces of darkness, we were both on the same side. Evil would gun for us equally. Pooling our resources together now would actually be more beneficial in the long run than simply waiting for us to be forced to work together just to survive the current crisis. There was also the fact that I wasn’t the same rash wizard who’d first been forced to make John’s acquaintance in the back of his car. My views on darkness, and evil had developed more shades of grey than I was comfortable admitting. John was harsh and ruthless, capable of cold calculation that I couldn’t begin to grasp, but as much as I disagreed with his methods I also knew he cared for innocent bystanders and would rather suffer himself than let them be hurt. I admired that. I had learned more of the motivation that drove John, since that initial meeting, than I had ever learned from the soul-gaze. I’d also faced such evil, truly evil beings, that John’s brand of darkness looked pale in comparison. I could live with John, the man, even if Marcone the mobster drove me up the wall. “This isn’t a one time offer,” I said, as I wiped my greasy fingers on a napkin that held the logo of the pizza place. I didn’t want to pressure him. I really did want him to think it through. I had a feeling we’d be leaning on each other a lot in the future if he did agree, so I wanted him to be sure. I continued, not looking at him as I did. “You don’t have to give me an answer about it now. That’s business. On the personal note, well… you already have my answer.” I had to fight off a blush. You’d think that after what we did in the bedroom I wouldn’t be blushing now. I really hated how easily I did that. John chuckled at my side and I flickered up my eyes to see him smiling at me, in a pleased and hungry way that had nothing to do with the pizza. I turned a brighter shade of red, and made my escape to get dressed for the outdoors. I half expected him to follow me to my bedroom, but he understood my urgency at going after this dark sorcerer and left me alone instead of trying for round two. I was a little disappointed. Hey, I’m only male. I shook off those thoughts and tried to plan some sort of strategy. The faster I struck to take down this dark sorcerer the better. I had the element of surprise on our side. He, or she, since evil really was an equal opportunity kind of occupation, had to think that John was down for the count, and with him went the knowledge of where to find him. As for me, they would either think I was utterly unaware of the presence of dark magic so close to Chicago, or had been there to see John die a nasty screaming death. Which, would be enough to throw me off balance. No matter what, they wouldn’t see me coming that was certain. A rather hot glow of satisfaction filled me at that thought. It wasn’t often I got to shock the hell out of the bad guy. I was rather looking forward to it. I pulled on my duster, gathered a few magical doodads I thought I would need, made sure my shield bracelet was firmly tied around my wrist and got ready to kick evil ass. I came out of my bedroom to see John setting down the phone back onto its cradle. I raised my eyebrows at him. “Transport,” he said. “I don‘t trust your… automobile to make it down the block, let alone to the outskirts of Chicago.” First insulting my home and now my car? Why did I save this guy again? “Ms. Gard, and Mr. Hendricks will be joining us shortly,” he continued. “We will be joining you in taking down this sorcerer.” Alright, so John had a point when it came to the Blue Beetle. Four tall people is my small car was just inviting the clown jokes to start. “Mouse is coming along,” I warned him, after a moment. I thought about arguing about him joining me, but that was would be a rather stupid argument considering I had just been trying to convince him of the idea of an alliance between us. So, I bit back my protests. My dog’s head came up, his jaws dropped into his doggie grin and he looked beseechingly at John. I just knew that John had no ability to resist that adorable furry face. “Very well,” John said, he stood and vanished into my bedroom. To finish getting dressed I guessed. I armed up with my gun, staff and blasting rod. I had to drop down to the lab to fish out my kinetic rings from where I had left them on my desk. I’d been trying improve the speed on which they absorbed energy so they wouldn’t take so long to recharge. They were a little better now, but nowhere near where I wanted them to be. Bob canned the commentary for once, but his low snickers weren’t as inaudible as he thought they were. I ignored him and headed back upstairs. I dreaded to think what was going through his little perverted mind, and I really didn’t want to know, or hear it, either. Ms. Gard and Hendricks couldn’t have gone far when they left my apartment earlier, because it was mere minutes after the phone call that there was a knock on my door. I opened the door cautiously, just in case, I had enough surprises today, but it was just them. I didn’t even have to call for John before he made it out my bedroom, back into this Gentleman Johnny Marcone mode. I tried not to grimace. I do have some measure of control when it comes to my smart ass remarks, when I can be bothered to remember to use it. I just usually don’t. I bowed mockingly, holding the door open for him. He gave me a look, his mouth curving just enough to show me he was amused at my antics. Hendricks looked pleased that his boss was intact and back to normal although he kept shooting me dirty looks. I got the feeling the didn’t want me tagging along on this shindig. Well, tough. I glowered right back at him as I pulled my grinding door close behind us. John, Ms. Gard and Mouse ignored us both. Clearly, they were the more mature ones here. “Time to make someone else have a really, really bad day,” I told my dog, as we trailed after John and his people to a black, and no doubt heavily armored with bullet-proof panels, SUV. I wondered how wizard-proof it was and how long it would last before I killed it. When it died I would try not to gloat too openly, I solemnly promised myself. Though I probably would for the honor of the Blue Beetle. John glanced back to me and my insides quivered. A warm feeling suffused throughout my body but I refused to smile like a besotted teenage girl where Hendricks could see it. Okay, so my quiet day hadn’t been completely wasted. I tightened my grip on my staff and smiled. End.

Irvine knew his weaknesses well, although he generally tried to ignore them. They seemed to centre around the theme of excess, usually sexual, and although it was true that he had once or twice missed duty because someone had fucked his brains out the night before, it was only once or twice, and Xu had been very forgiving. Eventually. One of the least problematic of all was his obsession with Squall's ass. Or at least, it had seemed harmless. It was a comfort to him, on more than one occasion, especially during boring meetings with Odine, or when on magic-drawing duty during a battle, to while away the moments watching the shift and curve of buttock through tight black leather. Where was the harm in that? He certainly didn't expect it to kill him. But it did. * * * * * * * It wasn't a particularly dangerous mission. Just part of the routine clean up of the lunar cry in Esthar. He was working with Squall and Rinoa, which, although pleasant, usually left little for Irvine to do. Pitting the slayer of Ultimecia against a few mesmerises and a turtlepod was overkill to start with, and by the time there was a sorceress in the mix, even the best sniper in the world was somewhat redundant. So Irvine stood a little behind the other two as they decimated the monster population, and entertained himself with plans for later. Particularly plans involving a hot tub, a lot of ice cream and possibly a snorkel. Oh, and champagne. And Squall's ass, obviously. Which is how come he missed the pair of imps sneaking up behind him. It was over so quickly he wasn't even completely sure how it happened. He felt the terrifying wash of a death spell, and something else, poison, maybe - and then the world faded to black. Next he knew, he was standing on the lawn outside a formidable looking building, in a haze of cherry blossom. Of course, he didn't realise he was dead at first. His first thought was that he must have been teleported somehow, some side effect of that Ragnarok disaster a couple of years back, or perhaps he was unconscious and this was a dream. That would make the most sense, he decided. In which case, he may as well take a look around. He turned towards the building with the aim of doing just that, but came immediately face-to-face with an absolutely stunning, beautiful man. Dark hair tumbled into bright, violet eyes, and a gorgeous, generous smile. "Hello," drawled Irvine, matching the smile with his own, and extended his hand. "Irvine Kinneas." "Tsuzuki Asato," said the stranger. "Call me Tsuzuki." "Tsuzuki. Um... this sounds a little odd, but... I don't suppose you can tell me where I am?" A shadow passed across the beautiful violet eyes. "Oh. You don't know?" Irvine shook his head, and something in Tsuzuki's expression frightened and saddened him to the bone. "This is Meifu," said Tsuzuki, gently. "I'm afraid you... what's the last thing you remember?" "I was fighting monsters, with friends of mine. There were these imps, and..." "They hurt you?" Tsuzuki prompted, meaningfully. "Well, yes, I... oh. Oh. Is this... I must be dreaming. Or something." He reached out a hand, and stroked Tsuzuki's hair. "You're beautiful enough for a dream." Tsuzuki blushed delightfully, and looked a little startled, but he didn't move away. "No," he said. "Not a dream." "Then..." "I'm sorry, Irvine," said Tsuzuki, sadly. "I'm afraid you're dead." Irvine blinked at him, the idea failing to register with his mind at all. "Dead? I can't be dead, I-" He was distracted by a young man running across the lawn towards them; he had the biggest, most vivid green eyes Irvine had ever seen. "Tsuzuki? What are you doing out- oh. Who are you?" "This is Irvine," said Tsuzuki. "Irivne, this is Hisoka." Hisoka didn't offer his hand, but he smiled. Irvine smiled back, a little weakly. "Irvine's just... arrived," said Tsuzuki. "Arrived?" "From... where did you say you were from?" "Galbadia. Balamb. Somewhere round there." Irvine's voice sounded distant to him, as if it belonged to someone else. Perhaps it did. If he was dead... did the dead have voices? "But that's... we usually only deal with Japan," said Hisoka. "I spent some time in Japan once," said Irvine, wistfully. A sudden memory of a huge bed and Yohji's big, soulful eyes flashed to mind. He ached. He missed them still, wondered what they were doing. Dead? Could he really be dead? "But Galbadia... that's not even the same universe," said Hisoka. "There was an accident. Mad scientist. You have those here?" "Oh yes," said Hisoka, with feeling. "Maybe that's it," said Tsuzuki. "Stranger things have happened, after all." "He can't be on the register," said Hisoka. "Or someone would have been sent." "I could check with the Earl," said Tsuzuki, unhappily. "Let's start with Tatsumi," said Hisoka. "It'll be alright," he added, to Irvine. "Don't be frightened." "I'm not, I-" "Yes," said Hisoka firmly. "You are. But that's normal." "It'll be alright," said Tsuzuki, kindly. "Come with us." Irvine smiled weakly, and followed them into the building, absently brushing cherry blossom from his duster. He was led down endless, faceless, depressing corridors, with labels in Japanese that Irvine couldn't read properly. Squall had been the one who'd bothered to learn, in long sessions poring over the worktable in the Koneko after hours, Aya's head close to his, cherries and dark chocolate. How could he survive without Squall? How did survival work in the afterlife? If this wasn't a dream, if he really was dead... They finally came to a door and stopped. Hisoka rapped smartly on it, and Irvine heard a gruff response from inside. The door swung open, and Tsuzuki and Hisoka led him through. Irvine found himself face to face with a tall, spectacled man in a dark brown suit. Powerful, dependable-looking, and astonishingly beautiful. It occured to Irvine that all of the people he'd met so far in this place, wherever it was, were unaccountably attractive. If he really had died, maybe this was heaven. Oddly, the thought held little comfort. "We think we found an anomaly," said Hisoka. Irvine bristled a bit, not sure he found it altogether friendly to be described as an anomaly. "My name's Irvine," he said, pointedly. "Don't mind Hisoka," said Tsuzuki, with a warm smile. "It's just his way." "He is an anomaly," said Hisoka, irritably. "I'm just telling the truth." "It's not always the best-" started Tsuzuki. "How about you start at the beginning?" Tatsumi interrupted, with a meaningful glance at the others. "I found Irvine outside," Tsuzuki explained. "He's dead, but he's not from Japan. Or the Earth, actually. He's from Galbadia." One of Tatsumi's eyebrows shot up. "Another universe? My, that hasn't happened for a long, long time..." "I'm not sure I'm dead, actually," Irvine said, suddenly finding his voice. "I could be dreaming, or-" "I'm sorry," said Tatsumi, with kindly but absolute authority. "But Tsuzuki's right. Come here." Irvine stepped forwards, and Tatsumi reached out a hand, slipped it warm and firm through Irvine's hair to cradle the back of his skull. "Look into my eyes," he said, softly, taking off his glasses. "You know who I am, and what it means. If you look, and let yourself see." Irvine looked deep into the endless blue of Tatsumi's eyes, and, with a deep, heart-wrenching sense of loss, he knew he was dead. "Shinigami," he breathed. "You're... I'm..." He fought back tears. The dead cried, then? Cried and breathed, and his heart still felt as if it were beating, and he felt the vague thrill at Tatsumi's touch, and yet... he was dead. "I'm sorry," said Tatsumi, his hand dropping back to his side. "I don't know why you're here, your world deals with these things... differently. But you're a human soul, and we'll care for you as best we can. Alright?" Irvine fought down his fear and grief, and nodded, once. "Thank you," he said. He plunged his hands into his pockets, so these strangers wouldn't notice they were shaking. He was dimly aware of Hisoka taking a step backwards, and at the same time, of Tsuzuki coming forwards, reaching out to him. "Would you like to sit down?" he said. "Can I get you anything? A glass of water, maybe?" Irvine blinked at him. "I didn't think it would be like this," he said, weakly. "I thought... well, I don't know what I thought. That there was nothing, like sleeping, or that you were born again and didn't know... I..." He found himself sitting in a big leather armchair, a glass of water in his hand. Tsuzuki perched on the arm of the chair, and was holding his hand. "There are as many ways of being dead as there are to die," said Tsuzuki. "I've been here for a lifetime already. You might end up somewhere completely different. It's very complicated, but it's alright. It's not usually as bad as people expect. It's... different." "Can I go back? There's people, I-" "You can, but we strongly recommend against it, and those you love wouldn't be able to see or feel you. Of course, it might work differently on your world. You left loved ones?" The compassion in Tsuzuki's voice was deep and intense. Irvine didn't think he'd ever met anyone who seemed to care quite so much for someone he'd only just met. "Yes. Yes, very... loved." His mind was full of the sound of Selphie's laughter, the scent of strawberries, and more than anything the warmth of Squall's smile, his comfort, his strength. His fierce, unconditional love. Tsuzuki squeezed his hand. "I'm sorry," he whispered, from the heart. Tears spilled from Irvine's eyes, a sob escaped from his throat. Tsuzuki took him in his arms, and held him while he cried. * * * * * * * As if being dead wasn't weird enough, now he was talking to a chicken. And, more to the point, the chicken talked back. At least he liked what it seemed to be saying. They were huddled around the chicken's computer in a huge room full of leather-bound volumes and dusty files. Hisoka was flicking through a database, while the chicken hovered at his shoulder. "So he shouldn't be dead at all?" Tsuzuki said. "Not in this world," said the chicken. Whose name, Irvine reminded himself, was Gushoshin. He should try and remember that, because, chicken or no, he liked him. "But he died in his world," said Hisoka. "Surely he should be dead there? Ow!" Hisoka clutched his ankle, and gave Tsuzuki a hard stare. "That's where it gets complicated," said Gushoshin. "Watari should be here soon, he has a theory." "But if he died there... shouldn't we hand him over?" said Hisoka. "I'm sorry, Irvine, but there's no point getting your hopes up." "That's the intruguing thing," said Gushoshin. "Gushoshin's been emailing his world like a demented bird all morning, and they're quite convinced he shouldn't be there, either. At least, not yet." "Hang on," said Irivne, "I thought you were-" "Twins," supplied Tsuzuki. Irvine snapped his mouth shut. Twin talking chickens with the same name and computer skills. He might have guessed. Maybe the price for a life as a slut was an afterlife of perpetual confusion. With chickens. He was dimly aware of the heavy thunk of a door behind him. "What seems to be the trouble?" A soft voice, an unusual accent, and a twang of cheerfulness that had been sadly lacking in Irvine's experience of Meifu so far. He turned to find an expansive cloud of gold-blond hair and a huge smile. And an owl. But he could overlook that for now. "Hello," said the vision of golden loveliness. "I'm Watari. You must be Irvine." Irvine grinned. "Yes," he said, reaching out his hand. "Nice to meet you." Watari squeezed his hand gently. "I'm 003," said the owl. But Irvine tried not to think about it. "Don't worry," said Watari. "We'll get you home." For the first time since the imps, Irvine started to relax. "Is that home alive, or home dead?" asked Irvine. "I don't want to appear ungrateful, but it makes a difference." "Alive, by the looks of it," said Watari, cheerfully. "The Meifu of your world aren't interested in you at all, not until you're old and grey and surrounded by great-grand children." "I don't even have any kids yet," said Irvine. "So that sounds very encouraging." "Actually you ha-" started Hisoka, who was still scanning the computer data, but Gushoshin shut him up with a frantic flurry of wings. "We shouldn't tell you anything about your death, though," Watari added. "So keep it to yourself, okay? Think of it as compensation for mistakenly dying at the wrong time." "Sure," said Irvine. "So... what do we do? How do I get back?" He hardly dared hope. "I don't know," said Watari. "I think what happened to you was a direct result of the accident that brought you to Japan. You see, according to the theory of-" "Oh no," groaned Tsuzuki. "Not the science bit." "No, actually," said Watari, pushing his glasses up his nose. "I was going to say the theory of office management." "What?" Irvine wondered how baffled a person could get before he actually went insane. "Your files got lost," said Watari. "They forgot you'd gone back, so they didn't save you." "What?" "I'm sorry," said Watari, sympathetically. "This must be awfully confusing for you." Irvine nodded, mutely. He noticed, somewhere in the fuddle of his brain, that Watari had the sweetest smile. He clung to that thought like a life raft. "Oh," said Tsuzuki. "That would make sense. What were you doing when... when it happened, Irvine?" "We were killing monsters, as usual." "Were you distracted? I mean, were they particularly fearsome beasts, or-" "Oh, no. Irritating, sure, but I've killed plenty of them. Yeah, I guess I was distracted. Not paying attention." "There you go," said Watari, triumphantly. "You were just overlooked!" Irvine looked helplessly at him. "Overlooked?" "They should have saved you," said the owl. "You know that feeling," said Tsuzuki, "when you're miles away, and all of a sudden you sense danger and come back to yourself? Just in time? Like if you're crossing the road and dreaming of sponge cake, or..." "Oh, yeah," said Irvine, eager to talk to someone who didn't have a beak and feathers. "Or watching someone with a really cute butt?" Tsuzuki looked a little disconcerted. Watari sniggered. "Could be," said Tsuzuki. "Well, that's when the APD team step in." "The APD?" "Avoidance of Premature Death," said Watari. "They make sure people don't die by accident. Unless they're supposed to." "And they lost my file?" Irvine had always hated paperwork. Now he knew why. "Yes." "So... can I go home?" Hope surged through his heart. *Squall. Selphie.* "That's more difficult," said Hisoka. Irvine was really starting to hate the kid's flair for honesty. "Difficult, but not impossible," said Watari. "Research," said the owl, and nudged Watari's neck with its beak. "I'll help," said Irvine. "Anything. Only, I'd really appreciate it if you could send me back." "You miss life a lot," said Watari. An observation, rather than a question. "Like you wouldn't believe," said Irvine, passionately. "Then we'll get you back there." Watari squeezed Irvine's shoulder, a warm, reassuring gesture. "I promise." "Promise," said the owl. * * * * * * * Research to Irvine was usually something that other people did, and he heard about later. Most often in the form of mission briefings, or occasionally weapons magazines. It had certainly been a long, long time since he'd been inside a library with the actual purpose of finding a book. Watari, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at home. He hummed happily to himself as he rifled through the shelves, 003 watching with interest from her perch at the top of the stack. Every now and then he found something that made him give an excited little gasp, and that tome was handed to Irvine to carry carefully to the large, wooden table in the centre of the room. Watari had worked out early on that actually asking Irvine to look for specific volumes met with blank, if apologetic stares, and henceforth set him mostly manual tasks. Which suited Irvine. He had a lot to think about, and it was reassuring, in a way, to be doing ordinary, everyday things. He was slowly coming to terms with the idea that it could take a while to send him back. But at least there was hope, and for Irvine, a little hope went a long way. It also left his mind free to think about his new surroundings, and his new friends. He felt fortunate that at least they were friendly, even the down-to-earth Hisoka. And astoundingly beautiful, to a man. Even the birds were pleasant. Reassured by the promise of ultimate escape, Irvine allowed himself to watch the grace with which Watari moved, and the swish of his luxuriant golden mane. He didn't know if it was normal for the dead, or whether it was because he wasn't, after all, legitimately dead, but there was something about the shinigami in general, and at this moment, Watari in particular, that made him tingle in a way he firmly associated with being alive. "Here." Watari turned to him and handed him yet another book. "Put this on the A-pile." His hand brushed Watari's fingers as he took the tome from him; he dared to linger for a moment. Watari's eyes met his, and Irvine felt a familiar, unmistakable spark. "Oh," said Watari, as the book fell to the floor, and their hands twined together. Surprise. Recognition. And, to Irvine's joy, desire. It had been a long day, the biggest emotional rollercoaster imaginable, and Irvine had very little self control left. Or, come to that, rational thought. All he knew was that his attraction to this - well, quite literally, god - was as strong as his need for comfort and affection, and it was a very simple matter to pull Watari into his arms and kiss him. Or it would have been, if Watari hadn't got there first. Irvine surrendered happily to the subtle pressure of Watari's lips, and the warmth of his body. "I've got to ask," he stammered out between kisses, "sorry, but do you... here... is there... do... can you..." "Can I what?" Watari pulled back a little, his amber eyes smouldering with lust. "Fuck?" said Irvine, hopefully. "Or, um, anything." His usual charm had clearly deserted him, but given the day he'd had, he hoped Watari would make allowances. "Oh yes," said Watari, cheerfully. "Like rabbits," said the owl from the stack. "Mmm. Rabbits..." "Thank Hyne for that," said Irvine, resolutely ignoring the owl. "Only, I thought with... um..." "With being dead?" Watari supplied. "No, we do all the usual things. Eating, sleeping, making love." Something about the way Watari said 'making love' made Irvine melt inside. "Oh good," he said, and pulled Watari back into kissing range. "Just one thing," said Watari, the second before their lips met. "What, Wat, er... what?" stammered Irvine, transfixed by Watari's luscious mouth, longing to taste him again. "We're in the library," said Watari. "Anyone could just..." "Oh, that's okay, I've done libraries before," said Irvine, pausing for a nibble at Watari's lower lip. "Is it busy?" "No," said Watari. "Oh, my." His eyes fluttered shut as Irvine planted little kisses along his jaw, nuzzled into his neck. "Can the owl do look out duty?" "Yes," said the owl, with a "t'woo" that sounded remarkably like a long-suffering sigh. "Then we'll be fine, we can just hide in the stacks. I love your hair," said Irvine, snaking a hand around Watari's waist, under his heavy lab coat, swiftly hitching up his sweater to feel the silky skin underneath. "Me, too, yours," panted Watari, releasing Irvine's thick, rust-coloured hair with a deft flick of his wrist. Irvine kissed him, long and deep, and carefully manoevred them both back along the stack until they met the wall. Watari kissed with such tenderness, his mouth soft, his hands soothing the knotted muscles of Irvine's shoulders and back, that Irvine started to regret that they weren't in bed, where he could cherish and give him the attention he deserved. It seemed somehow disrespectful, to take such a beautiful creature in a heated rush against a hard wall. Irvine pushed the lab coat carefully over Watari's shoulders, not really meaning to undress him completely, at least not at first. But Watari's skin was pleasingly soft and his body underneath seductively hard, and his nipples were so stiff and just begging to be licked... before he remembered they were in public, Watari, at least, was topless, and Irvine was teasing his pink little nipples with teeth and tongue as he deftly undid his pants. It was just too tempting to resist unwrapping him completely, and Watari certainly wasn't protesting. Irvine darted a look to the owl, who was dutifully watching the heavy wooden door to the library. Maybe a fully intelligent, talking owl had its advantages after all. Irvine tugged Watari's pants and underwear off his feet, and set about kissing and licking his way up his long, finely muscled and faintly trembling legs. Finally he reached his long, pretty cock, fully hard and leaking a little at the tip. Irvine settled himself on his knees, rested his hands on Watari's hips, and nuzzled gently at his balls. Watari gasped and tangled his fingers in Irvine's hair; Irvine looked up and winked at him as he licked up the length of his cock, dropped a kiss on the end. He watched Watari's face, flushed with pleasure, as he grasped his new friend's erection by the root and slowly took the head in his mouth. He'd just started to suck, when the owl squawked loudly. "Gushoshin." Irvine jumped guiltily and let Watari's cock fall from his mouth; Watari scrambled desperately for his clothes. Still fully dressed, Irvine took a deep breath, and walked as calmly as possible to the end of the stack. "Hi," he said, as calmly as he could manage. "Hello," said Gushohin. As far as Irvine could tell from his extremely scant experience of reading chickens' facial expressions, the bird didn't seem unduly suspicious. "Wat's, um, looking really hard," said Irvine. "Might take a while. On this, um, shelf." "That's okay," said Gushoshin cheerfully. "I'll be over there in the general reference section. How's it going?" Gushoshin tried to look over his shoulder; Irvine leaned as casually as he could against the stack to block his view. "Good. I think. You know how it is. There's... um... all these books." He nodded in what he hoped looked like a studious manner. "Lots to do. Reading. Hm." The chicken blinked at him for a moment. "So. Don't let me keep you," Irvine said. "You must be terribly busy." "Oh. Yes, we are. Well, Good luck with the search!" "Thank you." Irvine smiled encouragingly, and Gushoshin went on his way. Irvine watched the chicken disappear around the corner of the stack, in amongst the encyclopedias and dictionaries, before he turned back to Watari, who had managed to get his lab coat on in the confusion, but not a scrap else. Irvine was about to suggest maybe they could go somewhere a little more private to finish what they'd started, but he didn't get the chance. Watari grabbed him, kissed him til his knees went weak, and started urgently to undo his jeans. "Chicken," murmured Irvine, vaguely. "Oh no, I'm braver than I look," whispered Watari with a smirk, wrapping his fingers carefully around Irvine's straining erection. "No, I mean... chicken. Gushishonshinthing, talking chicken. Round the corner. Reference section." Irvine's eyes fluttered shut. "Oh, gods, but that's good." "Oh, Gushoshin? Well, we'll just have to be quiet." "You mean..." Irvine recognised the glint in Watari's eyes."You *want* to... here..." A grin spread slowly across his face, and Watari winked at him. "I like you," said Irvine. "A lot." Watari glanced up at 003, who ruffled her feathers some. Presumably agreeing to keep watch. "I like you, too," he said, with an affectionate squeeze to Irvine's cock. "Are you sure..." Irvine fervently hoped he was. He wasn't sure he was actually capable of stopping. Watari was so appealing, with those cute little scientist-glasses and gorgeous golden hair, all naked under his lab coat and all... "I'm sure," purred Watari, strengthening his grip. "Besides, chickens have terrible hearing." "As do humans," murmured 003, disconcertingly. They both elected to ignore that. Irvine slid his arms inside Watari's labcoat, and kissed him again. He was so deliciously naked and warm. He took Watari's cock, still rock hard and leaking, and clasped it to his own, rubbed them gently together. Watari unfurled his fingers and linked them with Irvine's, their hands circling their cocks as they rubbed together. "That's good," whispered Watari. "A little harder, perhaps..." Irvine happily obliged, pushing him back against the wall as he started to rock his hips, sliding his erection more firmly against Watari's. Watari moaned, softly at first, and then loudly enough that Irvine had to kiss him to muffle the sound. Which was no hardship, to be sure; Watari's mouth was soft and wet and inviting, and he sucked gently on Irvine's tongue in a particularly inspiring way. The owl squeaked, and they froze instantly, Irvine's heart pounding in his chest, a mixutre of panic and excitement rushing through him. "Sorry," said the owl. "Something in my throat." Irvine could swear the bird was smirking. "Oh my," murmured Watari. "We'd better make this quick," Irvine suggested. Fun though it was, he really didn't want another scare like that, and however exciting it was that they might get caught at any moment, he didn't want to risk scandalising or offending his new friends. Besides, Watari's long fingers were working like magic on his tender flesh, and his cock was aching for release. "Hm," Watari agreed, and they picked up the pace. It took no more than a dozen rapid strokes before Watari came, Irvine covering his mouth with his own just in time to swallow a groan. No sooner did Irvine feel the sticky-wet of Watari's semen coating his own cock and fingers than his own pleasure overtook him. They shuddered together for a few moments, before collapsing into each others' arms. Irvine turned his head towards the owl, which had discreetly turned its back on them. "Thank you," he whispered. 003 turned her head around, in that disconcerting way owls have, and he could have sworn she winked at him. "You're welcome," she said. And shuffled up towards the end of the stack to check around the corner. "You'd better get dressed," he said to Watari, who had fished a handful of paper towels out of his pocket for them to clean up with. Watari cleared his throat, a little sheepish. "Yes," he said. "Um." Irvine smiled at him. "Are you alright?" Watari asked. "Fine," said Irvine. "I-" Then he caught the look in Watari's eyes. Concern. Wisdom. Compassion. The smile faded and Irvine struggled to speak, his throat suddenly constricted with grief and panic. Despite what they'd just done, how close they'd been, the pleasure they'd shared, he'd never felt more alone in his life. As beautiful and kind as Watari was, he was a stranger. "I think we've done enough research for today," said Watari. "Would you like to come back to my apartment? We could get something to eat and... maybe you could tell me about your homeworld. I'd really like to know." "Yes," said Irivne, gratefully. "I... yes, please." Watari brushed Irvine's cheek with his fingertips. "Good." * * * * * * * Watari's apartment was large and airy, and suspiciously tidy. Watari confessed that he spent little time there, and was usually found in his lab when he wasn't on assignment. Nonetheless his quarters were comfortable and inviting. Almost as comfortable and inviting as Watari himself, Irvine mused, as he followed Watari to the main living area. 003 squawked happily, and perched on the back of a sofa, worn to comfort by years of contact with her sharp little claws. "She likes being at home," Watari said, scratching the little owl's chest feathers. She fluffed herself up, eyes squinched shut with pleasure. "She's always complaining I spend too much time at work." "How did you... um... she..." "That's a long story," said Watari. "Do you like birds?" "Oh, yeah, sure," said Irvine. "I'm just not used to them talking, as such. It's a bit... unnerving." Watari smiled. "A lot of things round here must seem strange to you." "You could say that. Although the people... people are much the same, wherever you go." "You've travelled a lot?" "More than you'd think possible," said Irvine, with considerable feeling. "Hm. Are you hungry?" "Yeah." Irvine thought back, and realised he hadn't eaten in probably near to eight hours. Not to mention the fact that the episode in the library had given him a sudden appetite. "I thought maybe I'd put something in the oven and get a bath." Watari's eyes met his. "You're welcome to join me." A little thrill shot up Irvine's spine. "Thank you. I don't want to be any trouble." Watari smiled. "You're not." "He's no trouble," added 003 for good measure. "He's very quiet." "Not always," Irvine said. "But I'll try to behave myself." He reached out to tickle her behind the ears. "Oooh," said 003. "He can stay." Watari laughed. "Why don't you go and run the bath while I get dinner started? The bathroom's through that door just behind you." "Okay." "Oh, and don't mind the penguins." "Penguins?" said Irvine, weakly. "You'll see." Irvine cautiously opened the door, and found himself in a large bathroom, almost as large as Selphie's. The tiled floor was covered with soft rugs, and there was a huge sunken bath in one corner, equipped with a range of candles in little glass dishes. It was only when Irvine had put the plug in the bath and turned on the taps that he noticed the frosted glass bricks which formed the wall opposite the bath. On closer inspection, it had a sliding door in the centre. Irvine opened it a crack and peeked through. He blinked. Adjoining Watari's bathroom was what appeared to be a fully equipped penguin enclosure. There was a large, deep pool, surrounded by rocky platforms and little caves. There were at least three penguins, huddled together at the far end of the pool, preening each other. Irvine very, very quietly shut the door, and went back to lighting candles. Penguins? It would be so easy to believe this was all a dream. If he hadn't looked into Tatsumi's eyes... Irvine shuddered. "Hey." He turned to see Watari in the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame, watching him. "You really do have penguins," Irvine noted. "I love birds. They started out as an experiment, but..." Watari shrugged. "We get along. I've had worse room-mates." Irvine decided that coming to terms with talking chickens and owls was enough for one day, without inquiring any further into the abilities or habits of Watari's penguins. "Bath's nearly ready," he said, brightly. "Good," said Watari, pulling his sweater over his head, shaking his hair free, soft down his back. "There's some lavender oil there somewhere. Put some of that in, it'll help us relax." Irvine found the little glass bottle on the shelf, and poured a few drops into the bath, swirled it around in the deliciously warm water. "Smells good." "So do you." Watari draped himself over Irvine's back as he leaned over the bath, brushing his ponytail to one side to kiss his neck. "Oh," said Irvine, the touch of Watari's lips tickling the soft hair at the nape of his neck and sending shivers down his spine. "This must all seem very strange to you," said Watari. "Try to relax." He slipped Irvine's vest up his back, kissing the newly-exposed skin as he went. Irvine let Watari undress him, his body thrilling at the other man's considerate touch. When they were both completely naked, Watari slipped his arms around Irvine's middle and hugged him, his chest warm against Irvine's back, his cock hard and silky smooth against the crack of Irvine's ass. "I'm so grateful," Irvine murmured. "You're being so good to me." "It must be... I can't imagine what it must be like," said Watari, kissing the sharp edge of Irvine's shoulderblades. "Except that I remember how it felt to die." Irvine recalled, with a shock, that this warm, loving, happy man really was dead. It seemed impossible. "I'm sorry," he said, twisting around in Watari's arms to look at him. "How long..." "A quarter century or so," said Watari. "It's not so bad, you know. I missed people, at first, but... I have good friends here. I like my work. I can do science here that back in the living world I wouldn't have dared to dream of. I'm happy here. But... I still remember how afraid I was, at first. Remember, it's not your time yet. We will find a way to send you back, I promise." Irvine felt tears pricking at the back of his eyes; Watari was so damn kind and nice. "I believe in fate," he said. "If I'm here, there's a reason. Whenever I've ended up anywhere before, there's always been a reason." "That's a good way to look at it," said Watari. "I know it's important to keep positive," Irvine said. "It's just hard, without..." "... the people you left behind." "Yes." They got in the bath, which was deliciously warm and fragrant. Irvine sat cradled between Watari's knees, his back to Watari's chest; Watari put his arms around Irvine's middle and held him, kissing his hair. "Tell me about your friends," said Watari. "Where do you live?" "It's called Balamb Garden. It's a training facility, of sorts." "You have family there?" "No. I lost my parents when I was a baby. But my friends are my family, really. We grew up together, most of us, and we're so close... like, it's my birthday tomorrow, and my girlfriend was planning this surprise party... she's not very good at surprises, but she's very good at parties, and..." "You have a girlfriend? What's her name?" "Selphie. And... Rinoa." "Two girlfriends. I see," Watari smiled into Irvine's hair, and splashed water gently over his chest. "And Squall." "Three?" "Squall's a man, actually." "Aha. I see. So you have a harem." Irvine managed a chuckle. "I suppose it does sound like that," he said. "You could say I'm a bit of a slut, I guess." "Or that you're very popular," suggested Watari. "Yeah," said Irvine, finding that idea rather appealing. "That sounds a lot better. And-" He paused for a moment, noticing a faint hum in the back of his mind: familiar, but he couldn't quite place it, like a half-remembered song. Then it was gone. "What about you? Anyone special?" he asked, the feeling slipping easily out of his mind as Watari stroked his wet skin. It felt good, and his cock was mostly hard, but he felt happy for now just to lie here and talk, and he guessed that Watari felt the same. "Not at the moment. I don't get much time, with my work and everything." "So 003's right to worry about you, then." "Perhaps." Again, Irvine felt that stiriing in his mind, but again it slipped away before he could properly register it. "What do you like to do?" Watari asked, stroking Irvine's damp hair back over his shoulders. "I like my job. And people. I've always loved people." "You must miss your friends." "A lot. Especially... well. More than that, though, they'll be so worried and sad..." Irvine felt the grief welling in his chest, and yet again a ripple in his mind, a quiet surge of need. "You have to remember that this isn't permanent," said Watari, soothingly. "But they don't know that." "Not now, but... how can I put this. Um. Does the phrase transitory temporal transergence mean anything to you?" Irvine ran his finger in little circles on Watari's knee. "No," he said. "I would have to say it doesn't. Science isn't my, um, strong subject." "Time travel?" "Oh yeah. Time compression. Definitely. Been there, done that." "Really? You're travelled through time?" Watari sounded very impressed. "Yeah, like, we went to the future to kill a sorceress who was doing bad things in the past. I think that was it... I never quite got the hang of it, to be honest, but it seemed to work out okay." "Goodness. What was it like? How did it feel?" asked Watari excitedly. "Weird. We didn't get much chance to think about it, to be honest. It was like being stretched, and then pinged back like an elastic band... unreal. I think there was water, and a desert... and a lot of fighting." "And this time compression... it was like a fold in time?" "Yes, sort of. Like I say, it's not my thing, science." "So it does work," Watari murmured. "That's our solution," he said, mostly to himself. "If we can send you back in time, and you can avoid the distraction... when you time travelled before, were you aware of the past? Or the future? Or did you forget what hadn't yet happened?" "Yeah, I remembered," said Irvine. "Are you saying you know how to send me back?" "Oh yes," said Watari, with confidence so absolute that Irvine had no choice but to believe him. "I've done experiments in time travel, and if it really works... I'm pretty sure I can send you back. The only problem now is the multi-universal element. We need to move you back to your world, or else you'll appear in the past, but here in Meifu. That requires magic, and none of our shikigami have the ability to travel between dimensions, at far as I know. That's what I was planning on researching today." "Before we got distracted." "Hm." Watari planted a kiss on Irvine's neck; the memory of their furtive encounter in the stacks sprang fresh to Irvine's mind, which, together with the delicious feeling of Watari's length stiffening against his ass, spread a particular kind of warmth through Irvine's belly. "What are shikigami?" he asked. "What?" Watari seemed distracted, although whether by his theories or the appeal of Irvine's body was hard to tell. "The shikigami?" "Oh, they're creatures, strong, powerful creatures with magic from another plane, who can protect and help us." "Oh, we have them. We call them Guardian Forces. I've got one called... damnit! *That's* what it is!" "That's what what is?" "I've had this kind of background noise in my head, and I couldn't work out what it was, it sounded familiar but somehow different... and of course, it's Ether! My Guardian! He must have found me!" "You have a shikigami? It followed you here after your death?" "Feels like. I didn't think it could do that, usually when people die they're released, but...." Irvine tentatively tested his junction; it was definitely there, although very weak. "Looks like it took it out of him, thought. He's pretty much knocked out." Irvine felt comforted to have at least something from his old life with him, even it was a near-unconcscious Guardian. He sensed Watari's excitement, and twisted round to look at him. "What's up? Are these shik... shin... shig... whatever you said - really rare here or something?" "No, but Irvine, don't you see what this means?!" Irvine stared blankly at him. "Your shikigami *followed* you here! It must be able to pass between universes!" "Oh. Yes. Don't yours do that? I found it on another universe altogether, as it happens. But I thought... Er... why was that important again? I'm really not that good at science," he added, apologetically. Watari smiled indulgently. "It'll help to get you home," he said. "Give me a week to do some final experiments, and I think with the help of your shikigami, we'll have you back in the right place,*and* the right time, so you can stop your death. "A week?!" Irvine flung himself at Watari, splashing puddles onto the floor in the process, and kissed him delightedly. Watari caught his excitement, and hugged him. "We'll have to find a way to wake up your shikigami. Any ideas?" A happy grin spread across Irvine's face. "Oh, I have a feeling he'll be just fine," he said, swooping in for another kiss. Watari murmured approvingly and wound his fingers in Irvine's hair. Irvine knelt up with another slosh of water, pulling Watari close to him, and let his hands start to roam over his perfect, damp body. "Are you hungry?" gasped Watari. "Depends what you mean by hungry," teased Irvine. "Can you wait for dinner?" Watari's eyes pleaded with him. "I think so," Irvine grinned, slowly licking his lips. "Oh good. I want to make love to you," breathed Watari. "Is that alright?" "Oh yes," said Irvine, feeling suddenly weak at the knees. "Here?" He kissed Watari's kneck, gently flicking away the wet tendrils that clung to his skin. "Bed," said Watari." "Why, afraid you won't be able to stand up afterwards?" "Something like that," breathed Watari. "Wise," said Irvine devilishly. "Very wise." They fell out of the bath in a frenzy of kisses, pausing only to grab towels before staggering, still kissing, to the bedroom. Irvine let Watari push him down on the big, soft bed, happy to submit to whatever the shinigami had in mind. Watari was possibly the most generous lover Irvine had ever known. He spent a long time stroking Irvine's skin, kissing him tenderly and tickling him with his beautiful hair. Whenever Irvine tried to reciprocate he was gently but firmly refused, and Watari would find some new pleasure to distract him. He licked his way down from Irvine's mouth to his belly, lapping at his skin like a cat, and took Irvine's cock between his lips. His tongue was wet and firm, and his hair soft over Irvine's thighs. It was a simple matter to scoot around so he could return the compliment, pulling one of Watari's long legs over him so he straddled Irvine's head, and Irvine could suck that delicious, elegant cock into his mouth. Irvine suckled happily, his fingers gently teasing Watari's balls and anus, and the sensitive ridge of flesh in between. It was perfect; he distracted himself from the intense sensations Watari was treating him to by concentrating on the pleasure he was bringing to his lover, and it felt like he could go on forever. He reached through his junction with his Guardian into the corner of his mind where Ether rested. ~Ether? Can you hear me?~ ~Sniper?~ Weak, faint, like a barely-conscious thought. ~Can you feel this, Ether?~ There was a long pause, before Ether finally said: ~Not Lion.~ ~No, but feel how lovely he is.~ Irvine felt the beginnings of a familiar purr. ~Sage.~ ~I call him Watari. Isn't he beautiful?~ ~Sniper. Sage. Want.~ ~Take all you need, Ether. This is for you.~ ~Not all for me~ said Ether, wryly, but Irvine could sense his Guardian's hungry appreciation. ~Join us, Ether.~ Slowly, at first, Irvine felt Ether's presence grow stronger in his mind, sensing his lust, drawing on it and at the same time enhancing it. He closed his eyes, and with the flat of one palm in the small of Watari's bck, pulled him down, sucking his cock deep, right down his throat until his nose nestled in soft blond curls. He heard Watari gasp, his fist tight around the root of Irvine's cock, as Irvine started to fuck him with his mouth. Ether was purring loudly now, rewarding Irvine for his gift with a magical edge to his pleasure. Watari was pulsing hard in his mouth, a living, throbbing thing, matching the rock of Irvine's head with strong but careful thrusts. Irvine gradually became aware of something wet and slick being applied to his own anus, and then of one slender finger worming its way inside. ~Sniper. Sage. Good.~ Ether murmured. Already he was getting stronger, the tingle of magic spreading trough Irvine's veins. Watari had stopped thrusting, and was pressing a jar into Irvine's hand; he took the hint and allowed Watari to pull out until only the head of his cock was in Irvine's mouth, licked around the ridges and teased the little slit at the top as he slicked Watari's entrance with cool gel that smelt of rose petals. He channeled a little of Ether's power through his fingers to relax resistant muscles, and wriggled two fingers inside. Warm and tight. Delicious. Watari was fingering him slowly, plunging lazily in and out, pausing once or twice to explore. He found Irvine's prostate and tapped it, then settled to a gentle rub. Irvine returned the compliment, twisting and stretching his lover, Ether strong enough now to flow through his touch and share their pleasure. "What on earth..." murmured Watari, pausing in his ministrations as Ether touched his mind for the first time. "My Guardian," said Irvine, between long licks up Watari's shaft. "It's getting stronger. This is how it feeds. Is that alright?" He felt a tremor in Watari's body as a giggle escaped around Irvnine's cock. "Mmmgh vrry gghngd," mumbled Watari. Ether sighed happily. As wonderful as it was to lie here and touch and taste Watari, the urge to get more than a couple of fingers inside him was growing fast. Thing was, from way Watari had moved from sucking Irvine's cock to kissing his balls, and now to holding them gently out of the way so he could reach Irvine's ass with his tongue, Irvine realised he couldn't make any assumptions as to who was going to fuck who, exactly. Ether certainly didn't seem to care, lost as ever in the ripples of pleasure flowing through them. Before he could will himself to take Watari's cock out of his mouth to raise the topic for discussion, however, Watari took the initiative, gracefully rolling them over and swivelling around so that Irvine knelt astride his belly, with Watari's cock gently pushing against the crack of his ass. Watari gazed up fondly at him, a hand on each of Irvine's thighs. "Can I?" He asked, breathlessly. "You can do me afterwards, if you'd like, but I just have to have you. Please?" He was warm and happy, lying on a soft bed, with a beautiful man begging to fuck him. If only Squall had been here, this really would be heaven. Ether protested mildly at the melancholy thread in Irvine's thoughts. Squall would understand. And if Squall were here... with Ether's help, Irvine turned his longing to fantasy, looked down at Watari and smiled. "Yes," he said. "Please." He reached back to guide Watari's erection to its target, and slowly sank down on it, an inch at a time. It felt thick and warm and alive inside him, and he had to gently remove Watari's hand from his cock for fear he'd come straight away. "We'll switch," Irvine said. "I want to feel you first." Watari nodded. He was biting his lip, his eyes closed, cheeks flushed with pleasure. Ether sang. Irvine raised himself a little so that Watari could take control, thrusting up into Irvine's body in long, measured strokes. He made very little noise apart from the occasional gasp or sigh, but his fingers shook as they caressed Irvine's thighs, and his belly fluttered. It was all Irvine could do to resist taking his own pleasure; Watari was so beautiful, so hot and hard inside him. He watched as Watari's breathing grew faster, his thrusts more frenzied, and at the last minute, when Ether's voice was swelling in his head in that particular way, and he could feel the throb of Watari's cock deep inside him, he stopped, plunging down hard on Watari's hips so he couldn't move, couldn't take the final few thrusts to completion. Watari's eyes shot open, a mixture of disbelief and outrage flickering in his amber eyes for an instant. "My turn," said Irvine, with a wicked grin. He slowly and with extreme force of will pulled himself off Watari, and gently parted his thighs. "Okay?" "Oh," Watari managed, arching his back with a soft moan as Irvine settled himself between his legs. His hand snaked down to his cock, but Irvine smacked it away. "Bad Shinigami!" he teased. "See, this is going to feel sooo good..." He nudged at Watari's entrance with the head of his cock, and gathered Ether's power to focus in his mind. "You ready?" Watari nodded. "Please," he murmured. "Oh, please." Irvine pushed gently, and at the same time, released Ether in a surge of magic. As he slowly entered Watari's body, Ether entered his mind, binding them together, opening channels of thought and feeling. "Irvine?" breathed Watari. ~We can stop if you want.~ He knew Watari didn't want to, he sensed it, but it still seemed polite to ask. Watari just smiled. Watari's mind was a contractiction of order and emotion, logic tempered with vivid imagination and affection. Irvine had rarely found such contentment and happiness in another human being. He basked in it. Ether surged energy through them, and Irvine started to move. Watari reached up and tugged his head down to kiss him, and Irvine lost himself in feeling: the tight heat of Watari's body; the warm affection of his mind; the wet cavern of his mouth. It was bright and intense, and he knew it wouldn't last. But that didn't matter. ~Sniper. Sage. Magnificent.~ Irvine felt Watari's orgasm approaching again, and this time he didn't try to stop it. He wrapped firm fingers around his lover's sex and pumped in time with his own thrusts, coming himself the split second after Watari's first spurt landed on his chest. He lost sense of who was coming where and how, feeling Watari's pleasure as deeply as his own, and revelling in filling him, as deep as he could. Watari's legs were wrapped around him, and they were still kissing as they shuddered together, and Ether sang strong and powerful in their minds. They kissed for a long time, even as the struggled for breath, even after Irvine had slipped from Watari's body, and Ether from his mind, and they lay cuddled in each others' arms, a tangle of limbs and hair, bright copper on gold. Their kisses slowed with their breath, until they settled, still and close. "If it's your birthday tomorrow," Watari whispered, as they were dropping off to sleep, "we must celebrate. Is there anything you'd particularly like to do?" Irvine thought over his day in Meifu: Tsuzuki's kindness, Hisoka's honesty, Tatsumi's powerful tenderness. Watari's love and affection. "Oh," he smiled into Watari's hair. "I'm sure I can think of something."

Seeing Xan on spice is the most frightening thing I've ever had to deal with on a mission. It's one thing to see a knight or a master in battle, even being shot, but seeing Xan take in something as dangerous as spice on purpose -- when he has things to manage like his cover story, looking after me and Obi-Wan, coming up with a way to find the operatives who've gone missing -- gave me cold chills. It really brought home the sorts of things I'll have to do if I want to continue in covert ops. Compared to spice, seducing Jassock's second-in-command and hacking into his terminal will be easy. Obi-Wan and I found a quiet corner while Xan was purging the spice from his system and came up with a plan. My job was to go find Tam and lure him back to his room; Obi-Wan's job is to show up while we're in the middle of the action -- hopefully before I have to do anything too drastic -- and bring along something we can use to knock Tam out. So far, so good. Tam's lips are on mine, and his hands are all over my body. We're making our way down the hall, and it's taking some time, because every time we get more than two or three steps, one or the other of us is giving a grope or a kiss or a tickle, and it turns into something more. This is particularly interesting, because given the way he was staring at Xan when we first got here, I was sure he wasn't interested in me. But it looks like I've finally run into a man who isn't slack, which is a nice change of pace. We're only three doors away from his room now. I wonder if we're going to end up fucking out here in the hallway. I never really expected to have to fuck someone in order to get a mission objective completed, but he's not half-bad looking. He's young, his body's nice enough, and those braids of his -- well, they're just adorable. I twist my fingers up in them, and he lets out a soft chuckle. "Like braids?" he murmurs. "Oh, I like lots of things," I purr at him. "Come on, aren't we there yet?" I pout my lower lip out at him, and he leans forward and sinks his teeth into it, tugging sharply. I have to curl my fingers into fists in order to keep from shoving him off me -- that hurts, damn it. Ugh, maybe this wasn't such a perfect plan. Still, if I can get him into his quarters, and if Obi-Wan manages his end of the plan, that's all that matters. Tam pulls away and heads to his quarters, and he keys in the combination -- one-six-seven-six-two-three-one -- and then tugs me inside. "Come here, baby," he growls. A little overdramatic for my tastes, but that's all right. He pulls me through the outer room toward his bedroom, and on our way there we pass his terminal. Ah ha. It's an older model, a Philon 1938-x, and if he hasn't installed the fifteen firmware upgrades for it -- and I'll bet he hasn't -- there's a nasty security bug in that thing just screaming to be exploited. Perfect. I let him pull me into the bedroom and then watch as he climbs back into the bed. I stand at the side of it and draw my hands down from my neck, over my breasts, to my waist, and down to my thighs, undulating as if there's music. "Well, now," I tease, "whatever shall we do here? What's your fancy, big boy?" He's so not big. It's funny how men his size just love hearing that phrase. "I think I want to see a little show," he grins. "Take your clothes off for me and turn around." Oh, better and better. If he likes to watch, then the part of this plan that's going to happen with Obi-Wan here will work even better. I grin at him and run one hand back up the center of my body, skimming it over my stomach, my breasts, and then my throat, and I suck two of my fingers into my mouth. "There's no music," I pout. "I'd dance for you if there were music." Tam leans over to his nightstand and flicks on a battered radio. The sound quality is just awful, and it's not very loud, but at least there's a beat to it. I begin dancing for him, swinging my hips from side to side, caressing myself and using my hands to attract his attention to certain parts of my body. He smiles and settles into the bed to watch. There's only so long I can keep this up without actually removing clothes, but the vest I'm wearing has laces down the front, so I can make this little striptease last a while. I slowly untie the leather strip lacing it closed and slide it out one eyelet at a time. Tam watches and nearly salivates on his own chest. He's going to be easy. I finally get the laces pulled out, and toss the leather cord to him in the bed. He takes it and coils it up around a hand, leering at me, which makes me wonder if maybe I shouldn't have put that thought in his head. Now he's got something that could be used to tie me up. Oh well -- nothing to do now except continue the game, I suppose. I slide out of my vest and let it fall to the floor, revealing my breasts -- both nipples pierced now, which probably wasn't necessary for the mission but seemed like a fun idea at the time. Kenobi, where are-- The door buzzes, and I channel the sigh of relief I'd like to let out into a soft pout. Tam scowls and yells, "What do you want?" And to Tam's surprise, but certainly not to mine, I hear a teasing male voice respond, "It's a delivery call." "Delivery--?" Tam begins, but by this time I'm heading back to the door, tossing him a wink over my shoulder. He says "ohhhh" behind me -- catches on fast, doesn't he? -- and lets me open the door. It's Obi-Wan, of course, and the first thing he does when I open the door for him is stare at my breasts. Force, it's as if he's never seen a pair before. I guess he's never seen mine this close up, and never with rings through my nipples. At least he looks like he's stunned from lust and not like he's rethinking this whole plan -- probably just a good acting job. Well, two can play at that game. I run a hand up my chest and flick a thumb at my nipple ring, then wink at him. "Come on in, sweetheart. This party was just getting started." "Right," he says, a little rattled. He follows me inside, and I lead him to Tam, who's grinning even wider now. Obi-Wan goes straight over to the bed and leans over to kiss Tam's throat. No subtlety at all. "Well, hello again," Tam says to Obi-Wan. "Miss me?" "I didn't want to let Aris have all the fun," Obi-Wan grins. "Mind if I join you two?" "Not at all. Aris was just giving me a very pretty show..." Tam looks at me and twirls a finger in the air, as if signaling me to turn around. "Want to keep it up, honey?" "Sure thing, sugar," I grin, and turn around, looking over my shoulder and licking my lips for the boys. "I've got something else for you," Obi-Wan whispers. "Something from downstairs..." "Ohhh," Tam whispers. "You're such a good boy. Your boss must love having you... under him." "Believe me," Obi-Wan says, although I hear a slight element of dryness in his words. I turn around, still dancing, and Obi-Wan is pouring a bit of blue powder over his fingers -- Paradigm Shift, the first drug we could think of where cutting a bit of sedative into it and knocking someone out with it would make perfect sense. As the name implies, you never quite know what you're going to get with it. Rumor has it that you can get quite the hard-on from Paradigm Shift, but of course I wouldn't know. Tam licks the powder off Obi-Wan's fingers, and then draws Obi-Wan's hand down the center of his body, cupping his crotch with it and rubbing up against Obi-Wan's palm. Obi-Wan takes over, caressing between Tam's legs with nice firm movements. He chuckles and leans his head into Tam's neck. "Guess it's true what they say about Paradigm Shift," he murmurs. "Yeah," Tam whispers, "it's... mmm." And then he's out, falling back hard against the pillows. I grin at Obi-Wan. "Nice," I tell him. "Is he really packed?" "Yeah," Obi-Wan says, looking down at Tam with a small amount of regret. "Guess we'd better get started, huh?" I snort. "Just get him undressed while I get access to his files." I look at Tam's position on the bed and raise an eyebrow at Obi-Wan. "You know, it'd be more convincing if there were a spent barrier somewhere. You could grab one and jerk off..." He can't tell whether I'm serious or not, and neither can I. I raise my hands to ward off whatever remark he's about to make. "Or not. Maybe I should get to work." "Maybe you should," he sniffs, waving me toward Tam's terminal. I hotfoot it out of the bedroom, not bothering to pick up my vest. Obi-Wan will bring it out to me when he's done here. It pays having spent the last few months in close proximity -- very close proximity -- with the top-rated technical expert at the Temple. Well, top-rated padawan technical expert, but that's good enough. Keli knows things even his master doesn't. Breaking Tam's security system isn't as easy as it would be if I had a droid to do the dirty work, but thanks to the slightly obsolete hardware -- and Tam did not, as it turns out, apply all his firmware upgrades -- I know a number of tricks to get me through the security system and into Jassock's clientele files. Even with the initial security holes he's got at his terminal, though, bypassing the encryption algorithm isn't easy. It would be a two-hour job at the least if Keli hadn't taught me how to use a hexadecimal passcode key mirrored onto a simple query string. This mission has been one hell of an introduction to covert ops, I'll give it that. It's interesting not having the Temple to fall back on if we get in trouble. I doubt Obi-Wan has figured that out yet -- just how on our own we are. The fact that we ourselves are on a rescue mission does not change the fact that the master and padawan out here have been missing for who-knows-how-long, and no one knows what's been done to them in the meantime. They may not even be alive. Still, at least we know their cover names. Xan hasn't told us their real names -- even he doesn't know them -- but if I can just find any trace of a "Char Mentassa" or an "Olin Brann"... The console bleeps obligingly, signaling my access to the file system, and I jump a meter. "Delete audio," I murmur. New rule: whenever hacking into a system where it's vital I don't get caught, make certain the blasted thing doesn't have bells and whistles in the literal sense. Now, then. On to the search. My fingers pass lightly over the input panel, and I ask the computer to search for those names. Nothing to do now but wait. Obi-Wan comes up to me, holding my vest. "The, uh, cord for the front -- it's still wrapped around Tam's hand," he says. "Will that do for a souvenir? It's no spent barrier..." "It'll do fine." I shrug into the vest, not taking too much care about whether it covers my breasts or not -- honestly, seeing a breast or two would be good for Obi-Wan. It's one thing to be slack, but it's something else to be terrified by naked female flesh. I grin up at him. "You didn't do half bad in there," I say. "You didn't do half-bad yourself," he replies. "You could have a secondary career at Rising if you wanted one." I raise an eyebrow. "Oh, you're one to judge." "Well, it certainly seemed to be getting Tam off. And you dance better than a lot of the cage dancers I've seen." "I'm touched," I snort. "How's the search going?" he asks, taking an opportunity to change the subject. "Well, it's going," I tell him, pointing at the screen. There's a small bar at the bottom of the monitor that shows the progress through the file system; we're about a third of the way there, with no hits so far. "I'm starting to think you're right about that Force-search," I sigh. "It might almost be easier." "Ha. You and Xan didn't seem to think so earlier..." "Annix," I correct immediately, glancing back at the bedroom. Tam might be out, but we don't want to take chances. "You and Annix didn't seem to think so earlier," Obi-Wan corrects, rolling his eyes. "I thought it was a given that the Force-search wouldn't work. Between Force-suppressant collars and the chances of being caught..." "I love how now that I'm saying it was a good idea you're arguing against it," I sniff at him. Halfway through the search and still nothing. "Well, I'm good at playing devil's advocate." "You just like arguing. Especially with Annix. I swear, you two would find a way to disagree on the color of Coruscant's sky, just for the glee of disagreeing. And anyway, there's always the little matter of what happens if they're dead. A Force-search won't do us any good then." Obi-Wan winces. "I'd rather not think about that." "I'd rather not have to deal with it, but thinking about it is important. If we find out they're dead, we're going to have to make sure we go on as normal." Two-thirds of the way through, and still nothing. I make an attempt to lighten the mood. "At least we're trapped in a nice dark room together." Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. I wonder if I could get them to fall straight out of his head if I flirted with him enough. That'd be fun. But then he gestures at the console, and I look over. The search is done, and there are apparently four entries that reference one or the other of our targets. Obi-Wan leans over my shoulder and pulls up the log entries. "'...met a would-be dealer named Char Mentassa'," he reads. "'Young, and pretty enough. Would make a better pleasure slave than a dealer, though. We'll see.'" He turns and looks over his shoulder at me. "I don't think I like the sound of that. Do you?" "Actually, I do." I wave off Obi-Wan's frown and point at the screen. "It sounds like we've been asking the wrong questions. We should be looking at the pleasure slaves Jassock has. And I'm sure she wouldn't object if we went looking for someone to occupy us." "But what it means is that one of the operatives sent here might have been coerced into service as a pleasure slave--" "Which is better than his being dead. Imagine if the entry had said 'Discovered a new acquaintance is a spy. Shot him out an airlock.'" I shake my head. "The next one might," Obi-Wan points out. He navigates to the next log entry. His eyes narrow. "Oh, this is wonderful. 'Mentassa's young associate showed up today -- Olin Brann. Have arranged quarters for him near Mentassa's.'" He looks over at me. "So we've got a second pleasure slave. I think we'd better not stay here too long ourselves." "I'm beginning to agree with you," I tell him. "What do the other entries say?" He pulls them up and scans them, then shakes his head. "More of the same. 'Mentassa seems to enjoy his time here, for the first one, and Brann had an unfortunate encounter with a Harjabi; at least he's earning us enough to make up for it.'" He switches the console off and stands up. "Think it sounds like they're still alive?" I think about it for a few seconds. "Pleasure slaves tend to be expensive," I say. "Once you've got them where you want them, it's cheaper to hang on to the old ones than it is to go around buying new ones all the time. So if they are serving that function here, chances are they're still around somewhere. It'd just be a matter of tracking them down." "All right," Obi-Wan nods. "Which of us do you think should go to Jassock and ask for... er... entertainment?" "Both of us." When he rolls his eyes at me again, I push myself out of my chair and press my fingertips to his eyelids. "Stop that. You're going to sprain your eye sockets." "Don't you think one of us should stay available in case Xa-- Annix comes back?" "Available for what? Suppose the first person who wants our attention--" I clear my throat and nod at Tam's bedroom "--isn't Annix? We've only got so much Paradigm Shift." Obi-Wan's mouth opens, then closes. Apparently Mr. Perfect Padawan hadn't thought of that, either. "All right," he says at last. "It would probably be better if we were both looking anyway." "My thoughts exactly," I grin. I take his hand and tug him toward the doorway. "Come on." "Right. But your -- your tie-thing," Obi-Wan says, gesturing at my vest. "You'll need to change shirts." I shake my head and grin. "Looking at my breasts hasn't killed you yet." "The night is young," Obi-Wan deadpans. I cross my eyes at him and stick out my tongue. And we head out, back to the party. Next objective -- find out where one picks up a pleasure slave for the evening. Well, who better to ask than another pleasure slave? I wrap my arms around a girl dressed in a gauzy, flowing robe and murmur that my friend and I would like to seek the services of someone like her for the evening, and is there somewhere we can go to look them over? She looks over her shoulder at me with a very seductive grin. If we weren't on a mission, I'd be tempted. And she looks to be in fairly good health -- maybe 'Char' and 'Olin' are in better shape than I thought. "Are you looking for something in particular?" she asks. Her voice is like honey, and I can't help grinning. Obi-Wan's hand comes down on my shoulder. "Someone with endurance," he says. I look up at him, not having to fake the surprised expression on my face. "We don't want to wear him out." "Him, is it?" the girl sighs. "Ah, well. A girl can dream." Honey, I feel your pain. "There are a number of 'endurance' slaves here. If you go down to the fourth sub-basement, you can ask the guard there who's available for the evening." "Guard?" I ask. "Are some of the endurance slaves... troublesome?" "Well, you know how it is. Some of them are fighters." She grins, another charming little smile that makes me think about tugging her off to a dark corner somewhere and... I clear my throat and manage to pull my eyes away from her, looking up at Obi-Wan. "Fighters, huh?" I say. "Can we handle that?" "Better someone with a little fight to him than someone who gets worn out too fast." Obi-Wan smirks down at me. And then it hits me why he's asking for this particular variety of pleasure slave: any Jedi, undercover or no, would be able to tolerate a good deal more than most. It hadn't occurred to me to think Jedi would make good specialty slaves. I hope I'm covering my disgust; now I'm having the reaction Obi-Wan did when we found out Char and Olin might be pleasure slaves. Obi-Wan pinches me on the ass, and I yelp, frowning up at him. He shoots me a look -- apparently I wasn't covering my disgust quite as well as I thought. I stick my tongue out at him, which makes him grin. I'm going to be sorry to lose the piercings when we get back to the Temple. The tongue piercing in particular could have advantages. The tragedy of being in a profession where there's such a drab dress code. It's not as if I feel a need for bright green Jedi robes, but sometimes it's a bit disappointing that individuality is discouraged around the Temple. I wonder if Obi-Wan will miss his new getup -- all the piercings, the clothes, the piercings, the hair, the piercings... he never seems to mind the strict rules on behavior when we're "in uniform"; blowing off steam at Rising has always been plenty for him. But he's obviously enjoyed playing "dress-up" on this mission. Do the robes ever bother him? I'll have to ask him sometime. "Let me comm ahead to the guard on sub-basement four," the girl offers. "You can go on down. I hope you find someone you like." Her eyes dance as she looks at me. "If you don't... well. I'm not an endurance slave, or a 'him'," and she smirks a bit at Obi-Wan, "but for the two of you, I'd be willing to see what I can do." "You're going to make me hope we don't find what I'm looking for -- ow," I mutter, slapping Obi-Wan's hand away from my ass. "Thank you for your help," I finish. "Any time," she smiles, and we head our separate ways. "Cute," Obi-Wan murmurs in my ear. "Try not to get distracted." I pull him over to one of the lifts and wrap my arms around his neck, molding my body to his in the way we've been doing since we started this mission. He seems comfortable enough, wrapping his arms around my waist in return. I nuzzle up against his neck. "We're supposed to be distracted, remember?" I murmur. "It's why we're going to sub-basement four and looking for an endurance slave." "There's distracted," Obi-Wan whispers, "and then there's distracted." The lift arrives, and he lets me head in first. He wraps me up in his arms again until the doors finish closing, and then pulls away, his smile fading. "What do you suppose the worst-case scenario is?" he asks. "That they're dead," I answer immediately. "I only mean -- you've seen what happens to people in places like this. There are things worse than death." "Death's the one thing we can't fix," I argue. "Memory loss, physical damage, emotional scarring -- all of those things can be healed, given enough time. Let's see if we can find whoever it is we're looking for, and get him upstairs." "If we don't find him, we might have to... make do with someone else," Obi-Wan points out. "If we do find him and he's been brainwiped, we might actually have to use him for his, ah, intended purpose here, if he's loyal to Jassock for some reason. Are you ready for that?" "Are you?" I ask. I'm almost surprised he thought of that. These seem like the sorts of ethical questions he can't stand talking about in class. "Siri, I have no idea what one does with an endurance slave," Obi-Wan murmurs, tilting his head up to look at the lift ceiling. "I'm hoping we find him and he remembers who he is." I slide an arm around his waist. "There's nothing wrong with optimism," I tell him. "As long as you're ready to do the dirty work if the best-case scenario doesn't work." I give him a squeeze as the lift doors open, and he slides an arm around my shoulders, walking with me up to the guard desk. The guard looks us over carefully. I suppose we've already been approved for entry, though, because he stands up and turns off the security field, letting us in. Security field. To keep people out of the slave pens, or to keep the slaves in? Probably the latter, given where we are. All the doors in this hallway are open, covered only with more security fields. Tiny blue lines cross the thresholds of each doorway. No privacy, but I suppose that shouldn't surprise me. Some of the slaves are asleep, some aren't. Some are pacing the short distances of their cells -- quarters, I suppose the owners would call them -- some are still. A few glance up at us with sullen, almost angry eyes; a few are more seductive. I don't like any of them, and I have to make it look as though every one of them is worth considering. We need a few seconds at each doorway to look for armbands or collars that might be Force-inhibitive. Under his bravado, I can tell Obi-Wan is as nervous and uncomfortable as I am. I can at least understand why we're doing this, and I know if it comes to it, I can do what's required here. I have my doubts as to whether Obi-Wan understands any of this -- our mission, why we have to do things this way, why we gave up our lightsabers. He's going along with it, but this sort of mission isn't for him. Would he be able to perform here? Would he be able to fuck one of these endurance slaves if he needed to? Maybe not, and I don't know if putting him on the kind of drug that would make sure he can would be a good idea. I think I'm getting ahead of myself. We're not at that point yet. Obi-Wan's arm tightens around my shoulders when we reach the next cell. As soon as I look inside, I see it -- a dull grey collar around his neck. It's definitely a Force-suppressing collar, one of the cheaper models. I had one on me for a few minutes during a training session once. I spent the next several hours feeling nauseated. My stomach twists in sympathy as I look at him. He is obviously sick, and the collar's not the only culprit. He's either unconscious or barely-conscious, and he's shuddering. His skin is a dark bronze, but there's almost a green tinge to it, and he's shivering in his sleep. Or something. "This one," Obi-Wan says, raising his voice so the guard can hear. "How long has he been out? Think he'd wake up if we wanted to play with him?" "That one's trouble," the guard says. "He just got put back after a few days serving a crew that hadn't seen spacedock in a month. Thirty men and sixteen women and I hear he still managed to give the last of 'em a few bruises." "That's what we're looking for," I purr, my hand sliding over Obi-Wan's chest. I scratch fingernails down the center of his shirt. "Can we put him on reserve for when he's had enough time to rest up a bit?" he asks. "Wouldn't want someone fucking him up worse before we have a chance to play with him." "You wanna book him right now and let him rest here, that's up to you. Credits up front, though." I can just imagine Obi-Wan wanting to haggle here -- or worse yet, use the Force. We really don't have time for that. The sooner we find Xan, the better. "Fine," I say, before Obi-Wan has a chance to respond. I turn to the guard and slide my hand into my vest, giving him a glimpse of my breasts while I dig a credit chip out of the inside pocket just above the eyelets. The guard is practically drooling on me. "But you have to promise..." And I slide the credit chip out of my vest, trailing it up my neck. "No one gets him other than us." I put the credit chip between my teeth and lean forward, batting my eyelashes at the guard. The guard leans in and takes the credit chip with his teeth, careful not to bite down on any of the sensitive circuit areas. He reaches around me and squeezes Obi-Wan's ass, making Obi-Wan shove hard against me, startled. "Sure, baby. You know, if you need something to do in the meantime..." "If he put up enough of a fight to leave bruises with that crew, I think we need some rest ourselves," I purr at him. "But thank you." He scans the chip and reaches out, peeling my vest aside so he can find the inner pocket and replace the credit chip. Of course, this nets him a good long look at my breasts. I keep a seductive look on my face, but if he gropes me, I'm going to have to deck him. "Anytime. You come back here when you're ready to pick him up." He doesn't try to cop a feel, thank the Force. I wink at him, and it's time to go. Obi-Wan and I head back for the lift, tangled up in each other all over again. This time when the lift doors close, he doesn't pull away from me. Instead, he lets a long breath out into the back of my neck. Obi-Wan and I find ourselves a nice fluffy pile of pillows in the main room of Jassock's place, and settle in for the rest of the evening. Our little exploit in the slave's dungeon has gotten around, it seems, and we have to start shunning offers from other pleasure slaves. I shove Obi-Wan onto his back and sling my legs over his lap, and he doesn't even look startled by it. We seem to have gotten used to nearly having sex in public as a way to keep people from bothering us. He starts running his fingers up and down the side of my leg, and I start squirming. He gives me this look, one that says "Oh, stop it", and then smirks at me. As if he knows the difference between squirms that I'm putting on for show and ones that happen because he actually knows what he's doing. He's good, but I wouldn't call him an expert. I bet his idea of foreplay most of the time is tugging leggings out of the way. "How are you?" he murmurs. I shift my position so I can slide my arms around his neck, putting myself firmly on his lap. His eyes widen for a moment, and then he puts his hands on my hips, stroking his fingers against the bare skin just above the waist of my leather pants. "You feel good," he says, loud enough for others to hear if they're listening in. "Oh, I am good," I purr at him, just as loud. I lean in to brush my lips against his ear. "I'd be a lot happier if we knew where Annix has been all this time," I breathe. Obi-Wan drags his fingernails up my back. He drops his voice low enough that we're unlikely to be overheard, and begins grinding up against me. "We know he was drugged and taken somewhere..." "Right," I tell him, arching my back and groaning a bit for effect. "We haven't heard from him since..." "We don't exactly have the ability to check in with him every hour," Obi-Wan points out, lips moving against my neck. He licks at my skin, and I can feel his tongue stud moving against my skin. I've been with lots of beings who know just what to do with a tongue stud, but Obi-Wan isn't one of them. He needs lots more practice. "No. But now that we know what Jassock does when she finds out there are Jedi spies in her midst--" I arch up again, digging my fingernails into his shoulders, letting my eyes close and squirming in his lap. "Stop that." He puts both hands on my hips and holds me so I can't move, and it takes me a moment to realize he didn't mean stop talking, he meant stop squirming. I look up at him and can't help smirking a bit myself. "What's the matter?" I tease. "Am I getting you all hot and bothered?" I slide my fingertips around the collar of his mesh shirt, scratching his skin a bit as I go. He lets out a breath and rolls his eyes. "Come back and nibble on my earlobe some more," he tells me. "Gladly," I purr, and I lean forward to do just that. After all, if my lips are going to be here anyway, I might as well get some use out of it... even if his piercings do get in the way. "Tease," he mutters. He lowers his voice again so no one else will overhear. "I don't think Jassock would try to kidnap Annix. Not this soon." "Why not?" I whisper. My lips trace a path along the shell of his ear. He lets out a soft groan, and his hands tighten on my hips. "Because..." Obi-Wan growls a bit, finally twisting and reversing our positions. Now it's him on top, me under him, and my arms snake up around his neck as he settles himself between my legs. "She doesn't have his money yet." He leans down, and his voice lowers even further. "And I am not hot and bothered, I'll have you know." I gape at him. In this position, it's obvious his body's not objecting to me at all -- he might not be completely hard, but that's not a lightsaber in his pocket. "I agree with you about Annix," I tell him. "And there's nothing wrong with being turned on by a girl, Ben." Obi-Wan's cover name is the only one I have trouble remembering, since it has little in common with his real name, but he seems to answer to it readily enough. "Can we stick to talking about the mission?" He puts a hand in my hair and tugs lightly -- hoping to break the mood, maybe? Oh, he's just playing into my hands. We were looking for an endurance slave earlier. Maybe we like to play like this. I let my eyes flutter closed and wince alluringly. Obi-Wan goes entirely still and stops tugging at my hair immediately. Spoilsport. "All right," I mutter. I scratch at the back of his neck, and he starts up again, rubbing up against me -- no, that's definitely not a lightsaber in his pocket. "I think if Jassock found something out about Annix, we'd be next on the list," I whisper. "Because chances are, whatever interrogation techniques she had wouldn't work on him. She'd bring us in to use against him. Happy now?" "Not particularly," Obi-Wan grunts. "But that's probably true. How long do you think he'll be gone?" "Depends on what he's found." I muffle a groan and tighten both arms around his neck. "All right, you might not be getting hot and bothered here, but this is going to drive me insane. I think we need to stop. Or not stop. Whichever's easier for you." My knees tighten around his hips. "Listen -- it's not that I don't like you," he hisses. "If I were going to sleep with a girl, I can't imagine doing it with anyone else." "That's very flattering, but it doesn't do anything about the fact that having you between my legs is turning me on," I mutter at him. "Maybe you should climb off me now, hm? And we can 'get a room' or something." "Here's my problem," he says, and he grinds his hips down into mine so I can tell precisely what his problem is. "I don't really want to walk around like this." "Oh, and you think continuing to squirm on me will make that go away? I have news for you, Ben..." "Don't let me interrupt you," says a new voice, and Obi-Wan and I look up and grin. "Annix!" I say, tugging an arm free so I can wrap it around his neck. Obi-Wan wriggles half-off me and lunges for Xan, planting his mouth firmly on Xan's. Xan takes it all in stride, settling himself down next to me so his lips are within range of my ear and Obi-Wan can lie down across both of us. "Been having a good time, pets?" Xan asks, and his voice is easily loud enough for others to hear. "You have no idea," Obi-Wan tells him. "We found this gorgeous boy in the endurance slave pens..." For some reason I expect that news to make Xan tense a bit, but he doesn't. The consummate professional -- someday I hope my poker face is as good. "Endurance, huh?" he asks. "Where's the boy?" "Well, he was asleep," I pout. "What good's an endurance slave if the fight's already out of him?" Obi-Wan moves so he's fully on top of Xan, and I snuggle in beside both of them, running my hand down Obi-Wan's body and squeezing his ass hard. "Not a bad point," Xan smiles, leaning up to lick at Obi-Wan's lips. "He have a name?" "Who cares?" Obi-Wan growls, grinding his hips down into Xan. He whispers, "He's the one we want." "Then you'll have to have him, won't you?" Xan grins. The grin is vicious, and surprisingly attractive. "I picked up a nice little piece of ass myself. He's not talking much, but you wouldn't believe what he can do. I bought him." "You bought someone?" I can see Obi-Wan's cover fracturing a bit. He looks horrified. At first, I'm a bit shocked, too. But what reason would Xan have for buying a slave? I press myself close enough to both of them that the three of us could communicate through thoughts, and try to make it clear to Xanatos that I'm ready for that sort of interaction. We still aren't very good at sending our thoughts to each other unless Xan acts as a conduit. When Xan's between us, it's like talking in a crowded room. When he's not, it's like trying to mutter at each other at a distance of fifty paces. Underwater. "Bought someone?" I echo, lifting my eyebrows at both of them. "You've been looking for a new pleasure slave for a while, haven't you?" "You have?" Obi-Wan gasps. The shock is starting to get far too obvious. I try sending a thought to Obi-Wan -- Trust Xan! Do you really think it's a pleasure slave he's found? -- but nothing happens. I do my best to cover for his reaction in an external fashion, giving Xan a pout and leaning up to nibble at Obi-Wan's ear. "Does that mean you won't want us anymore?" I ask. "You'll still like us best, won't you, Annix?" "Of course I will." He pulls Obi-Wan's face down and kisses him hard. Obi-Wan doesn't pull away, but I can feel how tense he is. Oh, not good. I climb up on top of Obi-Wan, pressing my lips to the back of his neck. "It's all right," I murmur. "You know you're still his favorite." "You don't need a pleasure slave," Obi-Wan insists. And then he leans his forehead against Xan's and sends a thought. //Are you out of your mind? Slavery is illegal. That contract isn't binding on either of you, and what business do you have buying slaves?// It must be the anger giving him the necessary strength to do this. I'll have to keep that in mind. //Stop looking so horrified,// Xan sends back -- much more calmly than Obi-Wan. //He's the other Jedi. Think, padawan. What's the fastest way to leave with a pleasure slave? You buy him and bring him home. Everyone's happy. No one gets hurt.// //But--// //We think ours is the younger one,// I interrupt, blowing gently into Obi-Wan's ear. A shudder runs through Obi-Wan's body, and he presses down against Xan. Not acting this time. Disgusted, scared, uncertain, and sandwiched between me and Xanatos, so maybe there's a bit of lust there, too. Poor guy. Somehow I doubt this is how he expected to be dealing with his first covert op. "We need to get back to the ship," Xan says. "I don't think we need to give these people a show, do you?" "Definitely not," Obi-Wan growls. "Pity," I sigh. //Jal's on the ship already,// Xan sends as we pull ourselves off the floor. //Jal...?// I ask. //Char,// Xan corrects immediately. //The operative with the code name Char.// One arm around each of us, he begins leading us out of the room. "But our boy," I point out immediately -- and then I force my voice into a whine. I need to look like I'm pouting, not worried. "I don't want to leave here before I get to fuck him." "Later," Xan growls. I put a hand on Xan's arm. He needs the rest of the information. //We have a bid on his time. He looked terrible -- unconscious, shaking. Even if we'd been able to get him away from the guards, he wouldn't have been able to talk to us. That's the only reason he's not here with us now.// //All right. When do you need to fetch him?// There's a trace of disgust in Xan's thoughts, which startles me a bit. We haven't done anything he hasn't done. We found the second operative. //What's the problem?// I ask Xan. //Nothing,// he repeats. //When do we need to fetch him?// Nothing, huh? //I think it can wait until morning,// I send. //Siri, that's another twelve hours,// Obi interrupts. //We don't have to wait, do we? If we could get him to the ship, we'd have both of them. We could make a break for it.// //You can't simply leave a complex with a pleasure slave,// Xan interrupts. //We'd have to buy him. And we don't have the credits for that anymore. What I had to spend on Char nearly wiped us out.// //And it might look suspicious if a spice dealer comes in, buys two pleasure slaves, and leaves without finishing the drug deal,// I add. I can feel Obi-Wan's irritation. //But we have our mission objective staring us in the face. All we have to do is smuggle Olin out...// //Calm down, Obi,// Xan sends. //They've been here this long. Olin can wait. If you have a bid on his time, nothing further will happen to him before we see him again.// He hugs me tight and turns to Obi-Wan, planting a kiss on his forehead. //Patience, Padawan.// Obi-Wan still doesn't trust Xan. But Xan's in charge here. //All right,// Obi-Wan finally agrees. //Let's go back to the ship.// One arm around each of us, Xan helps us up and guides us to the airlock. At least we've got one of them out. We know where the other is. Now it's a matter of seeing whether or not we can get them both out without anyone getting killed. -end-

Part 8 “Whoa, there,” Nathan said quietly, leaning back into the reins slung around his body from shoulder to hip. The bay roan he had borrowed from the Rawlins family for the day, a laid-back draft cross with the unlikely name of Sandspur, stopped with a sigh and then Nathan reached for the rag in his back pocket to wipe the sweat out of his face. It had been a long time since he plowed a field and he wasn’t used to the work anymore, but he didn’t mind doing it as much as he might have in another situation. He was glad he was just about done, though. Three more long rows to go and the whole field would be plowed and ready to plant. After the heavy rains the day before, Mrs. Calhoun had been determined to get the corn planted before the ground could dry out again. Danny just wasn’t big enough to hold the heavy old plow steady and Mrs. Calhoun couldn’t walk very well without her walking stick, so they had decided to make do without the plow. When Nathan woke up and looked out of the loft that morning, Danny was in the field with a shovel, turning the ground by hand while his ma hobbled along behind him with a sack, using her walking stick to plant the corn. It took Nathan half an hour to talk her into letting him borrow a horse and do the plowing while Danny planted, but it was worth the effort. Mrs. Calhoun shouldn’t be working at all yet, even though Nathan figured he had about as much chance getting her to stop as he did getting the field to plow itself. She looked like a delicate lady and her accent made it plain she was Yankee, but it hadn’t taken Nathan long to realize she was a lot tougher than she appeared. She was doing a lot better than she had been even the day before, and with her ribs wrapped up she could hobble around pretty well despite her injured knee. “Can I get you something to drink, Nathan?” Mrs. Calhoun called from her seat on her front porch, watching him with a smile while she shelled dried purple-hull peas into a cloth bag. Danny had a similar bag slung over his shoulder as he walked the furrows Nathan had already plowed, planting corn while the ground was still damp from the rain. Mrs. Calhoun wanted to get in ten rows of corn, and the rest of the field – twelve more rows, when the last three were done – would be planted in peas, squash, and whatever root vegetables she could get started. “No ma’am, I’m fine,” Nathan called back, smiling. It had taken a few days, but Mrs. Calhoun had finally relaxed and started to trust him. She still jumped at unexpected noises sometimes, and anyone getting too close when she wasn’t ready for it always inspired a flash of panic, but most of the time she was doing well. Nathan figured she and Danny would be fine on their own at night once Chris and Vin got back with their wagon horse and the family rifle. The Calhouns couldn’t afford to replace the horse or the gun that the outlaws had taken from them, and Mrs. Calhoun was too proud to accept that much charity. She was only letting Nathan plow because he had insisted he missed being able to look at a plowed field and know that was all his work. Foxy nickered suddenly and Nathan looked towards the pasture to see what had caught her attention. He followed the direction of the bay mare’s gaze towards the treeline a few hundred yards away, where two riders had just left the trees and were cantering slowly downhill along the faint trail that served as the Calhoun driveway. He had no problem recognizing them. Even at that distance the blaze on Peso’s face was almost as distinctive as the fringed leather coat his rider wore, and Larabee’s flat-crowned hat, black clothes, and black gelding marked him just as well. Nathan smiled when he noticed there were two riderless horses following behind, one of them a flashy paint. Danny would enjoy that. The boy was horse crazy in a big way from what Nathan had seen in the last week, and bid fair to be an excellent rider if he got half a chance. “It’s Chris and Vin, and they’ve got Nellie!” Danny called as he ran up next to Nathan. “Want me to tie Sandspur to the corral?” “Might as well,” Nathan agreed, smiling down at Danny as he ducked out of the reins. “Need me to help unhitch him?” “Nah, I got it,” Danny said confidently. “I been hitchin’ Nellie up by myself since I turned nine. Sandspur’s a good horse, he won’t kick at me.” Nathan chuckled and offered Sandspur’s reins to Danny even though he knew the boy had only been nine for a few months. “He’s all yours then.” Danny grinned and took the reins. “Thanks!” He moved to unhook Sandspur’s chain traces from the plow and then hung them up on the hooks on the hip of the gelding’s harness before he gathered the reins, flipping them up to loop them over the hames on Sandspur’s collar twice to keep them from dragging the ground. The boy obviously knew what he was doing, so Nathan headed over to go sit a spell in the shade of the porch. He thought Mrs. Calhoun might feel safer if someone she knew well was close by while she talked to Chris and Vin. They were good men who would never hurt a lady, but Nathan knew they could sometimes be scary to folks who didn’t know them like he did. Chris had the kind of reputation that frightened some women right out of their senses, and Vin had a wildness to him sometimes after a hard trail that could make even ladies who knew him feel uncomfortable around him. Mrs. Calhoun stood just as Nathan reached the porch, leaning on her walking stick and smiling. “You take the chair, Nathan. I’ll go in and get a jug of water, I’m sure your friends will be thirsty after their long ride.” “They might be at that,” Nathan agreed, returning the smile even as he sat on the edge of the porch instead of taking the chair. “Thank you, ma’am.” “You don’t need to thank me,” Mrs. Calhoun protested softly. “You men have done so much more for my son and I than you needed to. Giving your friends a cool drink in the heat of the day is the very least I can do after the way they’ve risked their lives for us.” “I’m sure they’ll appreciate it, ma’am,” Nathan said with a smile, and Mrs. Calhoun just smiled and nodded before she walked inside. Nathan turned to settle more comfortably on the edge of the porch while he watched Chris and Vin approach. The horses looked surprisingly fresh, as were their riders, and it only took him a moment to realize they must have gotten in the day before. He figured they had probably stopped at Chris’ place for the night, which only made sense considering the general direction they started out tracking the outlaws. If it were Nathan that had to pass his home after a week on the trail when he didn’t necessarily need to hurry anywhere, he knew he would have stopped for the night to clean up and get some sleep in his own bed. Nathan waited for Chris and Vin to halt the horses and then said, “Looks like you found them.” “Yep,” Chris said, swinging down out of his gelding’s saddle and dropping the reins. “Took us longer than we wanted to, but we got the bastards.” Chris moved to untie the bay looking more pleased than Nathan had seen him in a long while, and Nathan decided the trip had done him good. Chris could get downright morose if he was left with nothing to do for too long, but a good fight or a hard ride chasing outlaws usually brought him out of it. It used to make Nathan wonder that killing a man cheered Chris right up, but now he thought he understood. Every outlaw Chris put a bullet into was – at least to Chris – one more outlaw who’d never kill someone’s family. Vin chuckled and slid to the ground, adding, “And we brought back their gear for Miss Lorrie. Figured she can sell it to help her out around here.” “That’s welcome news,” Nathan replied, smiling wider. “She and Danny sure could use the money.” Danny ran up, slowing far enough away not to spook the horses as he walked over to Chris. “I sure am glad to see you, and Nellie, too!” He patted the bay’s shoulder and Nellie turned her head to shove the boy with her nose, almost knocking him down as she nickered softly to him. Chris grinned at Danny as he untied the paint’s lead rope from Nellie’s neck, and then he offered both of the mares to Danny. “Looks like she’s glad to be home, too.” “She hasn’t been near that friendly with us,” Vin added, smiling at Danny, who just beamed as he took the lead ropes from Chris. Mrs. Calhoun came out of the house then with a small tray that held three tin mugs and a pitcher of water, limping and slow but smiling warmly. “I’m very glad to see you both back in one piece, Mr. Larabee, Mr. Tanner.” Vin turned towards the porch, sweeping off his hat with a smile. “Vin, Miss Lorrie. We been through that, remember?” “And I’m Chris,” Chris added, looking amused. “Vin and Chris, then,” Mrs. Calhoun agreed, smiling at them both. “Would you like a drink? I’m afraid it’s only water, but it’s fresh from the well and still cold.” She poured a mug before either of them could answer and offered it to Nathan. “Thank you, ma’am,” Nathan murmured with a smile, accepting the mug to sip at the cold water as he watched Chris and Vin talk to Mrs. Calhoun. They seemed to be on their best and most charming behavior and he was glad they had stopped the night before to get some rest. He’d seen both of them right off the trail and figured the smiling faces he saw on the men in front of him were due in no small part to a couple of hot meals and a good night’s sleep in their own bed. “Yes ma’am, that’d be real nice,” Vin said with a smile, dropping his reins to walk over to the porch. “It’s been a long time since we left Chris’ place, and the water in my canteen’s near as hot as I am.” Chris smiled and moved towards the paint mare to start unsaddling her. “I’d appreciate a drink myself, as soon as I get the gear off these mares. You’ll be needing to go through it, see what you want to keep and what you’ll sell.” Danny’s eyes widened, looking at the saddle and pack on Nellie’s back and then at the one on the paint mare. “You mean all that stuff is ours?” “Yep,” Chris replied, nodding. “The paint, too. And there’s another horse an' saddle in town at the livery. He pulled up lame this morning and we didn’t want to make it any worse with the long ride out here. His gear’ll be waiting for you at the jail next time you get into town, you can claim it then.” Mrs. Calhoun looked floored as she handed Vin a mug of water and then just stared at Chris and the two mares, so Vin explained gently, “There weren’t any warrants on those outlaws that JD could find before we headed out, Miss Lorrie. That means as the person wronged you get their gear and their mounts. They sure won’t be needing ‘em, and you and Danny do.” Mrs. Calhoun jerked to look at Vin, still surprised but suddenly a bit worried as well. “They have been taken care of? You’re sure?” “Permanently,” Chris said firmly, carrying the paint’s pack and saddle over to put it on the porch with a solid thump. “We buried ‘em a few days ago.” He took off his hat and smiled up at Mrs. Calhoun reassuringly, brushing back his hair with his free hand. “You don’t need to worry about them coming back ever again, ma’am.” Mrs. Calhoun silently offered Chris a mug of water, still looking as if she couldn’t quite believe it. Nathan spoke up then, smiling widely at Chris and Vin. “You two done good, but I expect you know that better than I do.” Chris grinned. “It was worth the ride.” He looked up at Mrs. Calhoun again and added, “That paint’s a real nice mare, ma’am. Vin and I have been thinkin’ she’d make a good riding horse for your boy. She’s got a lot of heart and a real good mind, and you’d still have the gelding we left in town to sell along with the gear.” Vin smiled and nodded. “Might come a time before too long he’ll need a good horse. Mrs. Travis is talkin’ about startin’ up a regular school this fall on some land she bought just in back of the church meadow, an' she’s real good at teachin’. She’d make sure the boy learns all he should.” Mrs. Calhoun looked at the two mares Danny was petting, taking in her son’s hopeful expression and the calm, interested look in the paint’s eyes, and then she smiled suddenly. “What do you think, Danny? Can you handle having your own horse? It’ll double your stable chores, and I’ll expect you to go to school once it starts. It’s been too long since you’ve attended a real classroom like you ought to, and it won’t hurt you to get up early enough to make it to class.” “Boy, can I!” Danny exclaimed, grinning widely. “I don’t mind the extra work, Ma, or even riding in to school. She’s a beauty!” Mrs. Calhoun smiled and nodded decisively. “All right then. We’ll keep her for now, see how you two do together.” “Yeah!” Danny crowed, bouncing in place and then turning to run his hand over the paint’s face, beaming as the mare snuffled at his hair. Chris handed his empty mug to Vin and moved over to strip the saddle off of Nellie, grinning. “I think you made a wise choice, ma’am. That mare’s tough and built real nice for a good using horse. She’ll do a solid day’s work and give you some nice foals if you want to breed her sometime down the road. Makin’ the ride to town and back every day won’t bother her a bit, even in foal.” “And the gelding back at the livery should be fine after he’s stalled a while,” Vin added, smiling up at Mrs. Calhoun as he offered her Chris’ mug for a refill. “He wore his feet down pretty short crossing the canyon country this week, and the guy ridin' him didn't feed him none too good, but give him a few weeks of rest and a set of shoes and he should be sound. You’ll make enough off of his saddle and the rifle on it to pay his board eight or ten times over, so no reason for you to worry with him at all until he’s sound.” Mrs. Calhoun refilled the proffered mug, smiling warmly at Vin. “Thank you. I don’t know what we would have done without your help.” She looked at Nathan, adding, “All of you. You men have been a godsend to my son and I.” “Happy to help, ma’am,” Vin said with a smile. “We didn’t have no other plans for this week,” Nathan added with a grin, pleased that Chris and Vin had done so well by Mrs. Calhoun. He had expected them to do their best for her, but there had always been the chance they would lose the trail or just flat get outrun. Vin was the best tracker Nathan had ever seen, but they had gone out most of a day behind and even Vin lost a trail once in a while in the canyon country. Some of those canyons out west of town had stone floors so hard a whole herd of horses could run through and not leave any sign to speak of. “We’d have just been sittin’ around town if we didn’t go.” Chris put Nellie’s saddle and pack on the porch by the other one and then accepted his mug of water back from Vin, grinning up at Mrs. Calhoun. “Gettin’ ourselves into trouble, most likely.” Mrs. Calhoun laughed softly. “I’ve heard about some of the scrapes you men get into. Danny’s full of stories he’s heard from his friends in town.” Her smile turned a bit impish as she added, “He’s even read that book about you several times.” Chris groaned at that and Vin chuckled. “We do try to keep a hand in, ma’am,” Vin said, grinning as he moved over to look in the pack Chris had taken off of Nellie, “but Steele stretched the truth as much as not.” Chris took a drink of his water, looking disgusted, and Nathan grinned as he remembered how much that little writer had annoyed Chris. There had been several times he thought Chris might shoot the man, or at least let someone else do it, but Chris had fought the urge admirably. “Even so,” Mrs. Calhoun said, smiling, “you are seven rather remarkable gentlemen. We’re lucky to have you in Four Corners.” “Just men,” Chris muttered, and Nathan had to laugh at the amused looks Vin and Mrs. Calhoun gave him. “I’m gonna go put the horses in the barn,” Danny said suddenly, still beaming happily. “I gotta clean out the extra stall for my mare, so I might be a while.” “Go on,” Mrs. Calhoun told him, smiling indulgently. “After you’re done, wash up for lunch. We can finish the planting this evening, when it’s cool.” “Yes ma’am!” Danny hurried off towards the barn leading one of the mares with each hand, chirruping softly to them to get them to move faster. Mrs. Calhoun just watched Danny go until he had led the mares into the barn. She turned her attention back to Chris and then Vin, who had found what he was after and was holding small leather sack. “If there’s anything I can ever do for either of you, please don’t hesitate to ask.” “Stay safe,” Chris replied quickly, “and send Danny to let us know if you need anything.” He grinned. “Nathan here’s not the only one who can push a plow, after all, and we usually have more free time than he does. Vin an’ I’d be glad to help out when you need anything done that Danny can’t handle.” Nathan chuckled at that and Vin grinned as he offered the leather pouch to Mrs. Calhoun, adding, “And use this to make things easier for you and Danny.” Nathan smiled at Vin and nodded to him, pleased they had brought back a little something to help Mrs. Calhoun and her boy through the long summer ahead, and Vin winked at him in reply. Mrs. Calhoun blinked, surprised, and turned a bit awkwardly to set the tray she was still holding in the nearby chair before she turned back to Vin and took the pouch. She opened it to look inside, and then tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh. Oh my.” She took a moment to get control of herself and then looked at Vin again. “There must be over twenty dollars here.” “Closer to forty,” Vin said, smiling at Mrs. Calhoun while Chris shot Vin a surprised look that made Nathan pretty sure that Vin had added some of his own money to it. It was just the kind of thing Vin would do; he had a real soft spot for widows. “That an’ what you get for the gear and the gelding in town ought to help out a bit. If you want, when you’re ready to sell him I’ll take him to a trader I know over to Eagle Bend. He’s a decent enough horse to make it worth the ride to take him to Ray, and he'll get you the best price for him. The gelding’s not near as nice as that paint, but he oughta bring fifteen dollars, easy. More if Ray knows someone looking for a flashy sorrel with four stockings. Folks who like the look will pay extra for it.” Mrs. Calhoun closed her eyes for a moment again and then smiled at Vin, eyes shining with tears that didn’t quite fall. “Thank you, Mr. Tanner. You’ve taken a huge weight off of my shoulders. I had wondered how Danny and I would get by until the crops are harvested.” “Wasn’t my doing, ma’am,” Vin said quickly, “or not mine alone anyway. Chris was right there by me, helpin’ me get shot at and ridin’ from sunup ‘til hours past dark. You could just as well thank our horses, we ran ‘em hard catchin’ those bastards.” He realized what he’d said, blushing and obviously embarrassed as he added hurriedly, “’Scuse my language, ma’am.” Nathan had to work at it not to laugh at how sheepish Vin looked. Vin didn’t seem to even notice when he cussed around Nettie or Mrs. Potter, but evidently he considered Mrs. Calhoun to be a lady more of Mary’s stripe. Vin got tongue-tied around Mary sometimes, trying – often unsuccessfully – to keep from cussing around her, especially if Billy was with her. Nathan found that most amusing of all because he’d heard Vin cuss up a storm around Billy more than once without ever seeming to even notice he’d done it. Nathan sometimes thought Billy had learned half his cussing vocabulary from Chris and the rest from Vin, the way the boy idolized them. “But don’t even think about offering any of that to us,” Chris added, smiling at Mrs. Calhoun. “We were just doin’ our jobs like Nathan here, and we get paid plenty by the town. You and your boy need that money a lot worse ’n we do.” Mrs. Calhoun just stared at Chris and Vin a moment longer, clutching the leather pouch of coins, then smiled warmly. “Please tell me you’ll at least stay for lunch. There’s fresh bread, and the leg of lamb I put on the spit earlier should be done any time now.” Chris didn’t even glance at Vin. “We’d be proud to join you, ma’am.” Nathan grinned and stood. “Well then, I think I’ll head to the barn to give Danny a hand with the horses. That extra stall’s got a lot of odds and ends piled in it.” Vin nodded, smiling at Mrs. Calhoun as he picked his mug back up and finished off the water, then he leaned to put the mug on the tray and grinned at Nathan as he jammed his hat back on. “I need to water Pony and Peso and turn them out, then I’ll come help. Sooner we’re done, the sooner we can eat. I’m starving.” Chris grinned and nodded, explaining to Mrs. Calhoun, “We skipped breakfast, ma’am, unless you count coffee and some peppered-up jerky along the trail as a meal.” Nathan glanced at Vin, grinning because he was sure the jerky was Vin’s fault, and Vin grinned back at him. Chris complained every time he stole Vin’s jerky that it was too spicy, but Nathan had caught on a long time ago to the fact that Chris kept right on stealing a piece when he got a chance anyway. He figured Chris liked it and just didn’t want to admit it for fear of what Vin might throw in the pot next time he made dinner. Vin usually had a waterproof packet of dried chilies tucked away somewhere in his gear and liked dropping the crumbled pods in his own bowl even though some of them were hot enough to make a man breathe fire, or at least feel like he was. Mrs. Calhoun laughed. “It’s a good thing I made plenty to feed a few extra mouths, then.” She moved a bit awkwardly to move the tray from her chair down onto the porch, then sat down in her chair and smiled at Chris. “Now then, Mr. Larabee—“ She paused slightly and then corrected herself, “Chris, I mean. I’m sure you’ve a much better idea what I should do with all of that than I do.” She gestured vaguely towards the two saddles and packs Chris had put on her porch. “I’d greatly appreciate a little advice on what I should do with it. I’m afraid I should be far out of my depth otherwise.” Chris smiled warmly. “I’d be glad to help any way I can, ma’am.” He moved to the packs to begin sorting through them with Mrs. Calhoun’s avid attention to every word he said, talking quietly as Nathan and Vin moved out of earshot with Peso and Pony in tow. Nathan left Vin with the black geldings at the water trough a moment later and entered the barn, very pleased with how things had turned out for the Calhouns. He thought Chris and Vin had really outdone themselves this time, and figured they had plenty of cause to be so pleased with themselves. ~*~*~*~ Lorrie walked slowly out of the house and put her tea on the small table Vin had moved out of the barn for her, and then she sat in her chair with a sigh. She spent a moment easing her foot out carefully to straighten her sore knee to the most comfortable position for it, flinching slightly when she stretched it too far. She moved it back, flinching again at another twinge and then letting out a relieved sigh as the pain faded to a bearable level. She reached for her tea then and settled back to relax for a few minutes and watch Danny. Nathan had already ridden out with Sandspur in tow to return the horse to the Rawlins family. Nathan was going on into town because Saturday was usually his busiest day when someone needed a healer, but Vin and Mr. Larabee had lingered after lunch. Mr. Larabee had been very sweet to her Danny, and seemed glad to give him a few pointers as her son rode his new paint mare around the yard. Vin was lounging on his own horse next to Mr. Larabee, one leg hooked around the saddle horn as he leaned his elbows on his knee. Vin had been speaking up occasionally to Danny or Mr. Larabee but mostly he was just smiling and watching quietly unless someone spoke to him while his black gelding dozed. Before lunch Mr. Larabee had said he thought Lorrie might get as much as a hundred dollars for the gear and weapons they took from the outlaws, and that was if she didn’t sell two of the guns, the pretty paint mare, or the saddle that fit the paint best. With that kind of money Lorrie could start looking for a milk cow of their own instead of trading eggs for milk from the Rawlins family, add a few more hens to her flock of chickens, and still keep the paint for Danny. Mr. Larabee had told her to just let him or Vin know if she changed her mind and they would buy the paint, and that was enough to tip the scales completely. She hadn’t really planned on Danny having his own horse, but she couldn’t bear to disappoint him and knew that even if his chores suffered the mare would stay. Danny was thrilled with the paint, who he had named Blue because of her blue eyes even though the mare was a chestnut the few places that she wasn’t white. The more Lorrie saw of Blue, the more she thought her poor Rory would have approved of her as Danny’s first horse. Blue was smart and tolerant of Danny and seemed to like him already, following him around like a big dog after Mr. Larabee suggested Danny feed her bits of bread as a treat to get her attention. Saddling Blue without help had taken Danny a little while before he did it to Mr. Larabee’s satisfaction, but Lorrie was profoundly grateful that Vin and Mr. Larabee were taking time to be sure her boy knew how important it was to be safe when he rode. Lorrie never would have thought to have Danny practice most of what the two men had suggested, like jumping out of the saddle and leaving his mare before he ran back to her and mounted again, but they had insisted Danny do quite a few things to be sure he could whenever he needed to. Bridling and unbridling, catching Blue when she was in the pasture, hobbling her properly, mounting from both sides, the corral fence, and the back of the buckboard, and picking out the mare’s hooves were just a few things that Danny had done since they began. Blue had passed every test like a trooper and Danny had obviously taken everything Vin and Mr. Larabee told him to heart, listening to the men as though they were the relaying the gospel directly from the Lord. Lorrie might have preferred they used a different incentive than telling Danny he had to take care of himself so he could keep an eye out for her, but she had no doubt that it had worked. She just hoped Danny would take the promised lesson with a rifle after church the next afternoon as seriously as he was taking the riding lesson. She understood and even agreed with the need for Danny to know how to protect himself and her in light of their recent experiences, but she didn’t have to like the idea of her boy holding a gun. It was bad enough that she would be forced to wear one to keep them safe when they were alone on the farm. Lorrie couldn’t help having visions of Danny shooting off his own foot, but Vin had assured her that he would personally make sure Danny was completely safe with a rifle before he ever let him fire one. Vin thought he had just the right gun for Danny back at the jail, a Winchester carbine similar to Mr. Larabee’s rifle that a cowboy had left as payment when he couldn’t cover a fine, and he gave her his word that Danny would learn all there was to know about safety before he held a loaded weapon. Vin wouldn’t put the rifle scabbard back on Danny’s saddle for him until Danny only hit where he aimed at, and he promised that he would make sure Danny understood how serious carrying any gun was before he let Danny keep the carbine. He was also going to give Danny hunting lessons so Danny could begin supplementing their meat supply, but that would come later after Danny knew how to use the rifle well. She was glad Vin would be the one to set down the law for Danny about guns, both because Nathan and Mr. Larabee had assured her he was the best man with a rifle in the territory and because she liked Vin’s easy manner. She felt more relaxed around Vin than she did around any man other than Nathan at the moment, much more so than she felt around Mr. Larabee. She supposed part of it might be Vin’s sweet temperament, or even his age, which she thought must be several years shy of her own twenty-seven, despite the laugh lines around his eyes. Mr. Larabee was older, and even though he had been nothing less than a gentleman she found herself avoiding getting too close to him. She turned her gaze from Danny to where Mr. Larabee was sitting on his horse in the shade, laughing with Vin over something. Mr. Larabee was polite and friendly with a surprisingly ready smile that didn’t quite go with what she had read and heard of him, but the way he moved and watched everything still made her wary. Even sitting there in the shade he looked ready to leap into action, and Lorrie knew his reputation well enough to know he was nothing less than deadly. Rumor in town said Mr. Larabee had killed over twenty men in duels and at least twice as many in other fights in just the last two years, and she had heard Mary Travis say once that there were likely a hundred more Mr. Larabee just couldn’t be bothered to remember killing. Lorrie shivered and looked away as she suddenly recalled the outlaw called Lloyd, who had thrown her into the kitchen table and then stomped her knee because she tried to run. Lloyd had ridden in on the paint mare, and the fear the men riding with him had shown towards him when he got angry had made it obvious he was dangerous. He'd had that same readiness for action that Mr. Larabee had, and the same watchful eyes that didn’t seem to miss a thing. The man would have frightened her even if he hadn’t killed her Rory, and after seeing him shoot Rory down like a dog she had been terrified of him. He had followed her into the house when she ran to get the rifle, and then he and his friends had proven that she was very right to be scared. She knew Mr. Larabee wouldn’t hurt her like the outlaws had done, but his easy smile and gentlemanly ways couldn’t quite cover the deadliness that was simply a part of who he was. She thought it might be something all gunfighters had, but then recalled that Vin and Nathan were gunmen too and had to discard that idea. Nathan reminded her of her father, solid and strong with some intangible trait that made her feel safe with him even after her recent bad experiences. After having Nathan sleeping in her barn for most of a week, she knew that he was a sweet, gentle man who just wanted to help her, which she thought was a large part of the reason he was such a good healer. The two men who had hunted down the outlaws who shot her Rory weren’t much like Nathan, but she was still very sure they were both good men. Vin had been just as sweet as could be to her every time Lorrie had spoken with him, and she knew from her friends in town that ladies and children of any age were completely safe with him. Gloria Potter often talked about how much of a godsend Vin in particular was to her, helping her when she had to shift store inventory and bringing her fresh meat about once a week. Vin always used the excuse that the meat would just waste if Gloria wouldn’t accept it, and Gloria had found it hard to turn him down. Gloria had told her not long ago that Vin had brought her everything from tiny quail right on up to half a deer, depending on what he found when he went hunting, and he always refused to accept more than a slice of pie or a pastry in return. After seeing the way Vin lingered over the simple pie she had offered to her guests after lunch, Lorrie had no doubt that Vin felt his arrangement with Gloria was a fair trade. She had seldom seen anyone who so obviously relished every morsel of a dessert as Vin had, and it hadn’t even been one of her better pies. Mr. Larabee really seemed very little like Vin to her, despite their obviously close friendship and the rumors she had heard about their habit of knowing what the other was thinking. Thinking about it, she realized suddenly that the difference came down to their demeanor, not any hard facts or anything either had said or done. Mr. Larabee reminded her of one of her father’s wolfhounds, strong and confident with that edge that instinct told her could turn menacing in a heartbeat, but Vin reminded her more of a deer, nearly silent when he moved and more graceful than Mr. Larabee with gentle eyes and a sweet smile. She knew it was likely all in her head, but still she couldn’t ignore it despite how grateful she was for all that Mr. Larabee had done for her. Movement caught her eye and she looked up to watch as Mr. Larabee dismounted his gelding near where Danny was unsaddling Blue. After a moment she realized he was showing Danny a better way to secure the tie down strap when he wasn’t using it, and she marveled again at how thorough Mr. Larabee was and how intently Danny watched him. Danny had loved horses since he could walk and always liked to play with them, but he had seldom been so serious about it for more than a few minutes. Rory hadn’t grown up around horses and hadn’t known anything about them beyond the basics, which had led to Danny not paying much attention on the rare occasion he tried to teach Danny something he did know. At nine, Danny knew more than Rory did about some horse-related topics, so his father's opinions didn't carry the weight they should have. Vin turned his horse to ride over to the porch, smiling warmly at her and tipping his hat when he stopped a few feet away. “We’re just about ready to go, ma’am. Danny’s going to do fine with Blue, you don’t have anything to worry about if you want to let him ride her to the Rawlins farm or even send him into town for somethin’. We’d all be glad to look out for him when he’s in town alone, if you like. There’s almost always at least one of us at the jail or Ezra’s saloon, and Danny can handle the ride no problem. We covered some rough country with Blue the last few days and she’s solid as a rock, doesn’t spook at anything I’ve seen.” “Thank you, Vin,” Lorrie said, pushing away her thoughts to return Vin’s smile. “I wish I knew how I could repay you and your friends for all you’ve done for us. I feel like we owe you all so much, but especially you and Mr. Larabee. You risked your lives for us.” “If you feel like you just have to do somethin’, ma’am, you can bake us another of them wonderful peach pies sometime. We’ll feel downright spoiled, I promise.” Vin grinned and added teasingly, “Just don’t pass it over t’ Buck first. Peach pie’s his favorite, an’ he won’t likely share.” Lorrie laughed softly, feeling her cheeks heat up. “It was just a little pastry with canned peaches, Vin. Anyone could make it.” “I wouldn’t bet on that, ma’am,” Vin disagreed, chuckling softly. “Ezra says he can cook, but he’s so good at dodgin’ the chore I couldn’t swear one way or the other. Me, I’m pretty much useless at cookery unless y’ want meat, beans, fried eggs, or a stew. The others ain’t any better, except for maybe Chris. He makes the best chicken an’ dumplings I ever had, but that’s about it ‘sides the easy stuff we can all manage.” His grin widened. “He’s been tryin’ to get the hang of bakin’, but it hasn’t turned out too good so far. He made biscuits so tough the horses couldn’t hardly eat ‘em last time.” Lorrie shook her head, bemused. “I can’t imagine living on a diet so limited. I don’t know how you men stand it.” “We don’t, we just eat while we’re in town,” Vin said, grinning. “Desserts are scarce most days, but the rest of the food makes up for it an’ we usually have to be in town anyway. Biscuits an’ bread keep a few days, so we don’t have to do without ‘em just ‘cause we can’t seem to get the hang of makin’ ‘em.” Lorrie smiled a bit wider. “Well then, when Danny and I come into town tomorrow for church I’ll be sure to bring along something sweet. It’ll be a pleasure to do something nice for you.” Vin’s grin widened. “Better not make a habit of that, ma’am, or you’ll have us showin’ up all the time, hopin’ for a snack.” Lorrie laughed. “Consider yourself and your friends invited to do just that, we welcome the company. I usually have something in the pantry I can whip up without too much trouble. Desserts made from canned fruit and preserves are just about the only way we have anything sweet out here, and they don’t take long to make.” Vin laughed and teased, “You gone and done it now, ma’am.” Mr. Larabee rode up then, grinning at Lorrie and then at Vin. “Done what?” Vin smirked at Mr. Larabee. “Invited us to stop by for somethin’ sweet whenever we’re out this way.” Mr. Larabee’s eyebrows went up and looked back at Lorrie, obviously trying not to laugh. “Vin’s right. You definitely made a mistake, ma’am.” “I don’t think so, Mr. Larabee,” Lorrie protested with a soft laugh, then corrected herself, “Chris, I mean. I’d welcome the company, and I’m sure Danny will too.” Mr. Larabee chuckled. “Oh, you’ll have company alright. Let Buck find out about your pies an’ you’ll have a six-foot-four cowboy that thinks he’s God’s gift to women out here beggin’ every day.” Vin laughed. “Even Buck’s not that bad cadging sweets.” Mr. Larabee grinned at Vin. “You remember that pie, Vin? Buck’s gonna be that bad.” Vin seemed to think about it a moment and then laughed again and nodded. “Alright, maybe so.” Lorrie smiled as she said staunchly, “Buck is welcome to come by, and his friend JD as well. I won’t mind feeding them, and Danny will enjoy having someone to play with.” Mr. Larabee and Vin both laughed, and after a moment Lorrie joined in as she realized how that had sounded. Buck hadn’t struck her as being as young at heart as JD obviously was, but the big man had seemed to enjoy spending time with JD and Danny each time he had visited so far. They had played some game with a pocketknife that Buck and his friend JD had argued cheerfully over even as they were teaching Danny to play. She had been quite grateful to them both, despite the fact a knife was involved in the game. Buck and JD were responsible for the first time Danny had laughed after his father was murdered, so Lorrie had a bit of a soft spot for them both.

Birth Day Someone was moving. It was irksome, because Jien really, really didn't want to wake up. He floated, warm and mostly asleep, projecting vague threats at the person disturbing him, certain that if he thought hard enough, the threats would take care of the problem and the annoyance would disappear. The smooth silk sheets were tangled perfectly, the pillow smelled of exotic herbs and oils, his body felt heavy and deliciously sated: in all ways the moment was perfect, if it weren't for the other person in the room. "Dokugakuji?" Someone laid a hand on Jien's shoulder. "Go 'way." He buried his head deeper. Let that Doko guy deal with whatever it was. "Dokugakuji?" The hand gave him a gentle shake. Wait.... That's me. Someone's talking to me. I'm the Doko guy. Jien stirred. "Yaone?" "Good morning. I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever wake." Resigned, he yawned and stretched – or started to, at any rate. The healing wound in his chest protested and he dropped his arms, opening his eyes and squinting into the bright sunlight that filled the bedroom until his eyes adjusted and he could see Yaone standing over him. A warm smile lit her face. "I came to change your bandages and give you your medicine." She slid an arm behind him, which was humiliating as hell because he actually did need her help to sit up. "This isn't my room." "No, it isn't." Yaone's voice was gentle. "You're in Kougaiji-sama's rooms. I'm not surprised that you don't remember." Jien looked around the familiar alcove. The curtains were pulled back, and there was no one else in the room but he and Yaone. "I remember being summoned to Kougaiji, and getting a new name." He frowned. The memories ended right there, and for the life of him, he couldn't find any more. "That was yesterday. You fainted." "No!" She tried to hide a smile as she began to strip away the bandages. "Right at Kougaiji-sama's feet. I've rarely seen him so surprised." Jien could feel the blood hot in his face. He covered his eyes. "Damn. That's just too pathetic." "I told you both that it was too early for you to be up and around," she scolded gently, spreading a cool salve across his wound. It immediately eased the pain and Jien sighed in relief. The situation seemed more dreamlike than his sleep had been. What was he doing here? Alive and free, when I should have been executed as a traitor. Kou is a damned fool. "Stop thinking whatever you're thinking." Yaone's hands were cool against his skin. "Everything is fine. In fact, it's more than fine. I'm so happy you're with us, Dokugakuji." "Dokoko…" Such a long name. And it was his.. "Can't we shorten it?" Yaone laughed. "Get used to it. Kougaiji-sama rarely uses nicknames." She deftly fastened the bandage. "There. How does that feel?" Jien moved cautiously. "Good." He stretched. Yes, a twinge, but nothing he couldn't handle. "Thanks." "You're welcome." Yaone repacked her medical supplies. "If you're up to it, there's a hip bath set up for you in the bathroom. Just don't get the bandages wet." She turned her back. "I won't look." A bath – even a sponge bath – sounded perfect. "Thanks again." Standing didn't seem so bad, and there was a robe handy, though its white silk and delicate embroidery seemed entirely inappropriate for Jien's use. He put it on anyway. "Er. Clothes?" "They're in there, too. Breakfast will be waiting when you finish dressing." It took Jien longer to wash up and dress than he'd optimistically thought, so it wasn't until nearly half an hour had passed before he sat down to a breakfast large enough for a small army. Yaone sat with him, though she only had a cup of tea. Once he began eating, Jien was ravenous. "This is really good. Thanks." "You can stop thanking me so much. Just don't get used to this kind of service." "I won't." Jien grinned. "Except I have another favor to ask. These clothes. They're not really my style." He plucked at the fine linen trousers. "Can't I just wear a uniform or something?" He stuffed a huge bite of dal-soaked naan in his mouth. Yaone looked at him thoughtfully. "Kougaiji-sama didn't hire you as a soldier." Jien grunted and swallowed. "Actually, I think he did. He said something about me serving him like Sha Jostra had served him. Sha Jostra was a soldier, right?" Funny how much skepticism could be conveyed by a lifted eyebrow. "I don't think he meant service in quite the same context. For one thing, I highly doubt that Sha Jostra ever slept in Kougaiji-sama's bed." Jien felt himself go red for the second time that day. "Yeah. Well. Things have changed, haven't they? I'm not the same guy who slept with Kou." He pushed away his plate; suddenly, he wasn't hungry. "Oh." The skepticism disappeared; instead, Yaone looked shocked. "I didn't realize—I thought—" "What?" "I thought you were in love with Kougaiji-sama," she said in a small voice. Like that made a difference. "What?" Her eyes brimmed over. "I could have sworn it wasn't an act." Jien reached out and she pulled away, standing up, her expression rapidly turning angry. "He needs to know, but I swear, if you hurt him—" "Yaone, stop! You weren't wrong about me. I swear! All I meant was—" Jien paused, at a loss for words. "Look. Up to yesterday, I knew who I was. I had someone to protect, someone who means more to me than my life. But that's gone now – I made a promise to Kougaiji, and while it was the right thing to do, it means that I'm probably never going to see that person again. I left that all behind—" Jien's throat constricted. Gojyo. Fuck. His decision had made so much sense yesterday. "Would you excuse me?" He pushed away from the table and stumbled towards the bathroom without waiting for a reply. "Dokugakuji!" Jien slammed the bathroom door closed behind him, barely reaching the sink before his breakfast came up. He kept heaving long after his stomach was empty, ignoring the knocks at the door, until his body finally stopped rebelling and he could breathe again. "Gojyo," he whispered. "Oh god. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." The stench of vomit mocked him: apologies would never be enough, not for betraying the one person who most needed him. "I'm so sorry." Please. Don't let him be dead. Don't let him be hungry or sick or abandoned. Let him find a family and a home. He's not the one to blame, not for any of it. Please, don't punish him for what dad and mom and I did-- The knocking finally stopped, but Jien barely noticed. Past and future battled inside him. There were no good choices, only right ones, but for all of the wrong reasons, and trying to make sense of them only left him empty and broken and standing over a sink full of puke. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he was astonished to find his face wet and his body shaking. No good. What was done was done. He couldn't take back his promise to Kougaiji, just like he couldn't bring his mother back to life, just like he couldn't save Gojyo from whatever was happening to him right now, if he was still alive. Puking in a sink didn't change things. "Pull yourself together," he whispered. He needed to talk to Kou. No. Kou was the last person he should be talking to. The idiot would likely release Jien from his promise, and then where would Jien be? It would be another betrayal of someone he loved, in a long, long line of betrayals, and if he knew anything, Jien knew that if he betrayed someone he loved ever again, it would kill whatever good was left inside him. Gradually, his shaking subsided and the tears on his face dried, leaving his skin feeling tight and dead. He turned on the tap and watched the mess slowly drain away. When it was gone, he rinsed the sink and splashed cool water on his face. I've made my decision. If I give in to my regrets, I'll be worthless to Kougaiji. Taking a deep breath, he opened the bathroom door and walked out. Kougaiji was sitting at his desk, papers spread in front of him, jotting something down on what looked like a long list. Jien swore at himself. "Did Yaone come for you?" Kougaiji's hand paused for a heartbeat, then he continued writing. "Yes." "I'm fine. Really." "I believe you. I think it's more important that you believe yourself, however." And that was the trick of it, wasn't it? Jien sighed. "It'll just take some time, that's all." "I imagine that whoever you left behind is quite important to you." Kougaiji put his pen aside and turned to face Jien. "You can go back, you know." "No." Jien shook his head. "I can't. For a whole variety of reasons, not least of which is that I don't know where the person is anymore, or even if he's alive." "I see." "I don't regret yesterday's choice." "If you ever do, I expect you to leave before your regrets endanger anyone." "I will. But I won't." For all of Jien's doubts, staying with Kougaiji wasn't one of them. He needed to lighten the atmosphere, though. Enough of the heavy stuff. Kougaiji's brow was too furrowed as it was, without Jien adding his shit to the pile. "I guess I'm just having an identity crisis. Thought I'd be at least fifty before I had one of those. Middle-aged men, right?" Jien said, trying to joke. Kougaiji glanced at him sharply. "Why do you say that?" "Uh, well…" Jien rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "I guess I still don't really know who I am. I'm not me anymore. And Dokoko—" "Dokugakuji," Kougaiji said, his expression relaxing a bit. "Dokugakuji," Jien repeated. "It's a hell of a big name to fill, isn't it?" "How so?" "It's a mouthful." Jien shrugged. "Say you have to yell for me during a battle. By the time you get to the fourth syllable, you could be dead." "That simply means that you must stay by my side at all times." "Or learn to be omnipotent in a fight," Jien said, only half-joking. "Still, it would probably have been better to name me 'Hey' or 'Help', don't you think?" "Since I refuse to utter either word during a battle, I think either name would have defeated the purpose." Jien snorted with laughter. "You're such a snob." He almost received a smile from Kou, whose face softened with affection. "I tried to give you your past, too," he said quietly. "It's a part of you." "What?" "I was simply going to name you 'Dokugaku.' I added 'ji' because, just before you succumbed to the sword's attack, you started to tell me your name." "That's right." With all of the blood and death and betrayal that had choked that room, Jien had wanted to tell Kougaiji the truth for once, instead of all of the lies he'd told him until that moment. For Kougaiji to remember, and more, for him to have understood the importance of Jien's past to him— Everything slammed down on him for a second time that day. "Kou," Jien choked. "Thank—" "Don't thank me. A man needs to be whole." Jien nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah. Okay. But thanks, anyway." "Perhaps you should rest for a bit. Yaone said your wound is still only partially healed." "No. I'm fine." And it wasn't a lie, even though he'd spent the past twenty minutes puking his guts out. Damn. Yaone really knows her stuff. "If it's a good time for you, then, I'd like to introduce you to someone." Kougaiji seemed strangely diffident, almost embarrassed. "However, it can wait until later, or tomorrow if you prefer." "Sure. I'd like to meet whoever it is." The distraction would be welcome. Kougaiji's eyes fell. He looked very grave, almost shy. "It's my sister." "That's right. Lirin, isn't it?" "Yes." Kougaiji flushed, though Jien thought he looked pleased that Jien had remembered her name. To give him some room to recover his composure, Jien grinned. There were practical things to take care of as well. "And maybe later we can talk about where I'm gonna stay, and these clothes." He gestured at his elegant white tunic and trousers. "I'm a little afraid to eat. I just know I'm going to spill something." Kougaiji's pleasure seemed to dissolve, and he stiffened. "Of course. I'll see to the room immediately. But please don't worry about the clothing. It suits you." "Wait a second. Something's wrong." "No." Kougaiji shook his head. "I apologize for overlooking something so important." "Kou." Jien walked over to the desk and put his hands on Kougaiji's shoulders. "I said something that bothered you. What is it?" Kougaiji looked away. "I had presumed that you'd stay with me." "Stay with you? You mean, be your roommate?" At Kougaiji's startled glance, Jien suddenly got it. "A bodyguard. That's it, isn't it?" "No. I thought you'd—I'd hoped you might continue to share my bed." Though Kougaiji's face was crimson, his voice was steady. Jien was honestly stunned. "You still want me after everything that's happened?" "I'll take whatever I can get. For however long you'll allow me." Jien brushed his fingers across Kougaiji's markings. "You idiot—" "Quite a pretty picture the two of you make." Startled, Jien shoved his hand into Hell. His sword leapt into it, and instinctively, without thought, he slid slightly in front of Kougaiji, prepared to fight. A male human and a female youkai stood in the doorway. Jien could smell danger on them. Kougaiji rose from his chair, glaring at the intruders. "Gyukomen! I haven't given you permission to enter my rooms." So that's the mistress that everyone's talking about. Jien watched her, wary. Gyukomen stood in the doorway to Kougaiji's quarters, her arms crossed, a small, calculating smile on her lips. She had the coldest eyes Jien had ever seen, and they contained a hint of madness that was all-too-familiar. Sweat formed under his arms and trickled down his back. "I like you, pretty man," she said, ignoring Kougaiji and meeting Jien's gaze. "I think he's an idiot as well." Jien stiffened, but Kougaiji shook his head, so Jien didn't reply. "Now, now, my queen. Don't play rough with the children." The human smiled. Though he wore an amused look on his face, Jien shivered as he looked into the man's eyes. They were empty, yet burned with a fire that seemed to reflect the deepest parts of Hell. Jien instinctively clutched his sword tighter. "But I'm bored, Nii. I need a bit of entertainment. The big one will do nicely." Her eyes flickered over Jien's body. "Or perhaps we should allow them to take up from the point when we interrupted. Voyeurism can be quite amusing." "What do you want?" Kougaiji demanded, his voice cool and deadly. "I wanted to see if the gossip was true. Surprisingly, it is. I didn't know you knew what a dick was made for, Kougaiji." "My personal life is none of your business. Leave at once." "Not so fast, boy." Gyukomen walked over to the desk and lifted the papers that Kougaiji had been working on. "I have an assignment for you. Hmm. Troop deployments, I see." She handed the papers to Nii and ran her hand up Jien's arm, making his skin crawl. "And a lover with a cursed sword. You've been busy, haven't you, Kougaiji?" Kougaiji didn't rise to Gyukomen's bait. "What is the assignment?" "I'd like you to select some of your soldiers to work with Nii here, on one of his little experiments." She pressed her breasts into Jien's side. "This one would be perfect, wouldn't he, Nii?" "Quite perfect, my queen." Nii smiled, and the room suddenly felt colder to Jien. "Dokugakuji isn't a soldier for you to command," Kougaiji said, his voice low and dangerous. "He's a free man." "Oh? And here I'd heard he was a thief and an assassin. How disappointing." Her long fingernails caressed Jien's chest, then dug in hard enough to make him hiss in pain. She smiled a bit wider and stepped back, her expression demure but her eyes hungry. "Ah well. I'm sure that we'll get to know each other very well over time. Oh. And Kougaiji?" Suddenly Gyukomen's eyes became hard and threatening. "Don't allow Lirin to fraternize with the soldiers. She's becoming quite the little tomboy. I don't want my only precious daughter learning bad habits in the company of rough men." "I'll make sure that the company she keeps is appropriate." "I hope so. It would be a shame if she were to be punished for behavior she picked up on the street, as it were. Come, Nii." With a last seductive glance at Jien, she gracefully exited the room, Nii following her with bowed head and calculating eyes. It wasn't until the door closed behind them that Jien relaxed his battle-ready stance. He turned to Kougaiji and opened his mouth to speak, but Kougaiji shook his head once, sharply, and Jien remained silent. After a moment, Kougaiji relaxed. "They've moved on." "Damn. Kougaiji." That bitch. And the human with her… Another shiver ran down Jien's back. "I want you to become familiar with the laboratories and the scientific personnel." Jien grunted in agreement. He wanted to know who not to turn his back on. "For any particular purpose?" "I don't trust her. Especially around my sister. I consider Lirin's protection to be more important than my own, Dokugakuji." "Okay. I get it." The fierce protective instincts of a brother were familiar ground to him. "I'll keep an eye on her." "Thank you." For a moment, Jien thought he saw fear in Kougaiji's eyes, but when he looked again, he saw only Kougaiji's usual gravity. "It's nearly time for the mid-day meal. Shall we see if we might be able to eat with Lirin?" "Sounds good." Jien still felt queasy at the thought of food, but he figured that Yaone would chew him out if he didn't eat something. He placed the sword back in its dimensional sheath and followed Kougaiji from the room. "Hey, Kou," he said quietly as they walked through the halls of the huge castle, "when we were interrupted—" "I want you to be sure." "I've never been more sure." And he hadn't, not when it came to caring for someone. Kougaiji was so isolated, so hungry for companionship. If having Jien in his bed eased some of that, well, Jien was willing to give him everything he had. He examined Kougaiji from the corner of his eye. This is what a prince should look like. Remote, beautiful, with an air of command that no one could mistake. That this man had chosen Jien… He shook his head. No. He really didn't get it. But then, that was the way things sometime went, wasn't it? He just needed to accept that, for now at least, Kougaiji not only wanted him, but seemed to need him. The problem was that Jien wasn't quite sure what Kougaiji needed him to be. Obviously this Doku-dude. But who was that? Was it something in Jien himself that brought that name to Kougaiji's mind? Or was it someone from Kougaiji's past, someone maybe similar in some ways to Jien? Whatever explanation existed, Jien meant to find out, and then to do his best to fulfil the role. Until he found out, though, he needed to keep learning about the people who surrounded Kou. Especially those whom Kou loved, since it sounded like Kougaiji expected him to protect them. "What's your sister like?" he asked, envisioning a smaller, female version of Kougaiji. Yeah. If she looked anything like her brother, he'd have to agree with Gyukomen: Lirin should probably be discouraged from hanging out with soldiers. A strange, almost pained look crossed Kougaiji's face. "She's my sister," he said, sounding embarrassed. "Uh, that didn't exactly answer my question, Kou." "I don't know what else to say." Now Kougaiji looked nervous. "You'll have to form your own conclusions." Suddenly Jien envisioned a smaller version of Gyukomen. Was that what worried Kougaiji? His thoughts were interrupted as Kougaiji paused by a door. "We're here." Jien could hear the sound of excited voices. Kougaiji tapped at the door. The voices fell silent. Jien heard footsteps approach the door and stop. "Who is it?" "Yaone," Kougaiji started to say, but the door burst open and the most oddly-dressed child that Jien had ever seen tackled Kou in a blaze of red hair and excited chatter. "Big brother, you came, you came, you came! Yaone is making meatbuns for lunch! They're my favorite! She's got pork ones and chicken ones though they're not as good as the pork ones and even a few vegetable ones because she said she's trying to watch her weight, but I think it's just because she was hoping you'd show up but you really shouldn't eat just the vegetable ones, 'coz you're too thin, you know. C'mon, you have to eat meatbuns with me!" Kougaiji, who had somehow remained standing under the onslaught, shot Jien a harried look and allowed himself to be dragged into the rooms. Jien followed, grinning. So this was Lirin. He took in the tattered remains of what had probably once been a very expensive outfit comprised of flowing pantaloons and a long, intricately-embroidered tunic, which was now reduced to half its length and tucked haphazardly into a broad belt that looked suspiciously like one Jien had seen in Kougaiji's closet and that had obviously been cut down to fit her. Instead of the sandals that most people in the castle seemed to wear, she wore a pair of battered workboots that had seen better days. Most of one leg of the pantaloons was missing. The rooms seemed to be in a similar condition to Lirin's clothing, with pillows and bedclothes littering the floor and discarded clothes flung everywhere. Yaone caught his eye and gave him an exhausted smile. "Do you need some help?" Jien asked. She glanced over to where Lirin was climbing over Kougaiji, holding up various objects for him to examine. "Do you know anything that can calm a hyperactive child?" "It's good for him." And it seemed to be. Kougaiji had already lost some of his stiff formality and appeared to be listening intently to Lirin's monologue about her day, nodding occasionally with a besmitten expression. "She's not what I expected." "I wonder if Kougaiji-sama would have been the same, if he'd been allowed to run free." Jien grunted, trying to envision a young Kougaiji wreathed in ragged clothes and laughter and non-stop babble, but his features kept fading into Gojyo's. Or were Gojyo's features fading into Kougaiji's? Startled, Jien tried to remember Gojyo's face, but it slipped from his mind like a phantom, leaving nothing behind but an image of red eyes and red hair and a deep, deep hunger for affection. Suddenly his hands were full. He juggled the tray that Yaone had thrust upon him. "Here. Take this to the table. You'll find extra plates and cutlery in the cupboard by the table." The steaming meatbuns on the tray smelled wonderful. "Right," he said, his hunger suddenly reawakened. He carried the tray over and managed to find a place for it on the laden sideboard while he fetched settings for himself and Kougaiji. "Time to eat!" Yaone called cheerfully, carrying a large pitcher of fruit juice. "Hurrah!" Lirin bounded from Kougaiji's lap and dragged him to the table, stopping abruptly as she noticed Jien. "Who are you?" I don't really know, kid. "My name's Dokuko—" "That's Dokugakuji," Yaone said. "Now sit down and eat like a civilized person, please. You don't want to embarrass your big brother, do you?" Lirin ignored her. "Don't you know your own name?" "It's still new," Jien explained. "I just got it yesterday." "What was it before?" "Something else." Jien shook his head as Kougaiji frowned at Lirin, clearly wanting her to drop the subject. Jien smiled at Lirin. "It's not important, though. My new name is what's important now." Lirin looked at him appraisingly. She suddenly looked disconcertingly like her brother, clearly weighing Jien's presence and the information that she'd received about him. He found himself hoping that he met whatever standards she held for her friends. "So today is the first day that you woke up as Dokugakuji?" she demanded. "Yeah." "Then it's your birthday!" Jien felt a small, strong hand grip his. "C'mon! Maybe we can have birthday cake later!" Kougaiji and Yaone laughed at Jien's discomfiture as Lirin made him sit next to her, practically hanging on to his arm, and started talking about birthday parties in an excited voice. "Her birthday was two weeks ago," Yaone said, smiling as she began to serve everyone food. Lirin bounced and clapped. "Let's have a party tonight!" "Lirin's quite adept at making parties last long past her bedtime," Kougaiji told Jien. He turned to Lirin. "Not tonight. Perhaps tomorrow night, though." "I hate waiting!" "Do you have a present for Dokugakuji, then?" "Oh!" Lirin's eyes got big. "I forgot! Okay, let's have a party tomorrow. But it had better be a big one!' "Uh, I don't need—" a present, Jien started to say, but Yaone spoke over him. "I'll take you shopping tomorrow." "Yay!" Lirin stuffed half a meatbun in her mouth and chewed happily. "I'll assign some men to escort you," Kougaiji said. "But Kougaiji-sama--!" "The point is not up for discussion." Yaone looked unhappy. "Yes, Kougaiji-sama." "I could go with them," Jien volunteered. "Unless you need me for anything else." "I think that you're forgetting that the purpose of the trip is a present for you," Kougaiji said dryly. "Besides, your wounds aren't healed yet." "Wounds?" Lirin gazed at Jien with 'hero-worship' plainly written across her face. "Can I see?" "No, you may not," Yaone said firmly. She turned to Kougaiji. "I would like to request martial arts training, Kougaiji-sama." "No." Kougaiji frowned. "I won't put a woman in danger. We have enough soldiers that we can spare however many are needed to escort you." Jien looked from Kougaiji to Yaone and back. "I know it's none of my business, but it's actually a pretty good idea, Kou. Instead of putting her in danger, it may actually keep her from it." Plus it would mean fewer trips into the rough parts of the city for you if she could buy her own medical supplies, he added silently to himself. "I could teach her some basic moves." "Really? Thank you so much, Dokugakuji!" Yaone's smile was brilliant. She turned to Kougaiji. "Please, Kougaiji-sama?" "I want to learn, too!" Lirin shouted. Jien shrugged. "I can teach them both." He grinned at Kougaiji. "Might burn a little excess energy." "I don't think you have an appreciation for just how dangerous a little knowledge can be," Kougaiji murmured. He sighed. "I'm uncomfortable with the thought, but I can see that it might useful for them to both learn some basic martial arts moves for defensive purposes." "Hurray!" "Thank you, Kougaiji-sama. And thank you, Dokugakuji," Yaone said, beaming. "We'll need to study hard, Lirin." "Okay!" "And don't think I'll go easy on you because you're both girls," Jien warned. Kougaiji looked a bit alarmed at that, but said nothing. The rest of the meal passed in cheerful banter and good company. Jien could see that Lirin would be a handful, but she was young enough – she only looked to be seven or eight years old at most – that he was pretty sure he could assert enough authority to gain her respect and rein in the worst of her excesses. It was clear that Kougaiji adored her, though it was also clear that he had very little idea about what to do with her. Jien smiled to himself. Maybe he could help Kougaiji learn how to be a big brother. The thought sobered him. But was that what Kougaiji needed him to do? Or did he have something else in mind for Jien? After the meal, they left Lirin's quarters, but only after she'd made Jien promise her that he would return tomorrow to begin the self-defense lessons. He grinned to himself, looking forward to having something concrete to do. Jien spent the rest of the day following Kougaiji, attending meetings with generals, reviews of the soldiers, discussions of security measures needed at both the castle and the barracks level, and a thousand other things that Kougaiji seemed to be responsible for overseeing. But Kou said nothing about Jien taking any of those responsibilities on, or even having any assigned role under Kougaiji's command. They took dinner together in Kougaiji's quarters, and still nothing was said about Jien's duties. Jien really hated the uncertainty. On top of that, his wound ached, and though he tried, he was barely able to keep his exhaustion from showing. It had been fun to meet Lirin, but he still didn't understand why Kougaiji had needed him to be a part of all of the other meetings and talks. Kougaiji had sworn him to service, had given him a new name, had taken him around the castle and introduced him to a myriad of duties and responsibilities, and Jien was still as clueless as ever about what Kougaiji wanted him to do. He finally blurted, "Who do you need me to be?" as Kougaiji poured tea for them. "I don't understand," Kougaiji said. "Sorry." Jien frowned, not wanting to upset Kou, but still needing answers. "I could have phrased it better, I guess. But it all boils down to the fact that you gave me a new name and a new life. What do you need me to do with them?" Kougaiji frowned. "I won't define your life." "But it's yours." "No." Kou's voice was low and emphatic. "Don't say that. We've only known each other a few weeks, but you've always made it plain that you live your own life and make your own decisions. That's the man I know you to be. If you won't own your life and choices now that you have a new opportunity to define yourself, then leave." "Kou." Jien bowed his head, stricken. "I don't want to leave you." "I won't accept you as anything less than my consort and equal." Kougaiji's words took Jien's breath away. He stared at the prince in disbelief. "Shit." The clothes, Lirin, his name – it all made sense, except it didn't, of course. But it did to Kougaiji, and Jien realized that he should have guessed. The damned, idealistic idiot. "That's insane!" "I see. Well, then, I suppose your current dilemma depends on whether or not my lack of sanity affects your choices." Kou calmly sipped his tea. "Why? You can have anyone." "I only want the man I've come to know." "But I wasn't a good person!" Jien protested. "I was a thief and a murderer and a traitor!" "And I'm not?" Jien paused. They'd had this argument before, hadn't they? Kou was right. They were alike. Just as Jien had betrayed his mother to save Gojyo, Kougaiji was prepared to betray his father to save his mother. Just as Jien had killed innocent people as sacrifices to his inability to control his sword's hunger, Kougaiji was prepared to kill those who stood in the way of saving youkai from his father's hunger. Kougaiji needed someone at his side who knew just how much those betrayals cost, yet still stood by him. Jien thought about the people who Kougaiji could trust. It made him feel sick to realize that there was only Yaone. And while Yaone possessed the loyalty, loyalty wasn't enough. Kougaiji needed someone who understood the torment of choices made when no choice was right. He needed someone who was willing to do whatever was necessary to save the youkai kingdom. Even if it included betrayal and, perhaps, the murder of innocents. It hurt; there was no denying it. Jien had hoped to turn over a new leaf, become an honest man, someone who Gojyo could look up to. But maybe that simply wasn't in his nature. Maybe his strengths didn't lie with being a person who lived by society's rules, but in the fact that he'd committed crimes time and time again because society's rules conflicted with what was right. That route was a dangerous one, though. He suspected that he and Kougaiji would have to pay a pretty high price for it in the end. Still, thinking about it from Kou's point of view, it made a lot more sense. If they both did their best to live with integrity and kept the good of others in mind, maybe they wouldn't go to hell when they died. Jien shook his head. Fat chance of that little fantasy coming true. He sighed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed and exhausted. "I get it. Okay. You've got a deal. But instead of 'consort,' can we say that I'm your advisor or bodyguard or something?" Kougaiji frowned. "I won't belittle your importance to me." "Then don't think of it as a change of status, just as a political… I don't know, a political phrase or something? At least until things settle down. We'll still know how things stand between us." "We shouldn't give in to politics, Dokugakuji." "I think we'll need to, at least in some of the little things," Jien said frankly. "Kou, we're walking a tightrope here. Let the rest of them think what they want to about me. It just means you might have an ace up your sleeve if they're fooled by it." "You'd sacrifice your position in the court for that?" "Well, it would keep me from having to wear these kinds of clothes all the time, wouldn't it?" Jien's teasing grin faded as new lines appeared on Kougaiji's forehead. "Look, I know you don't like it. I'm just giving you my advice. I won't fight you on this." Kougaiji remained silent for a few moments. "I want to think about it more," he finally said. "I won't be unfair to you simply for the sake of politics." Jien nodded his head. "I get it. Whatever you decide, that's fine with me." The task ahead of them was daunting. Jien shook his head and suddenly grinned. "We can be fools together, I guess." "Who are you calling a fool?" Kougaiji retorted, a brief smile flickering over his lips. He sobered. "Besides, it seems to me that you've already begun building your new life. Teaching Yaone and Lirin how to fight, surviving Gyukomen, advising me on political actions – quite a full first day, wouldn't you say?" "Damn. I love you, you idiot—" Jien stopped in horror. "Oh, god, I didn't mean—" "The feeling is mutual." Kougaiji's eyes burned. "I want you," Jien said helplessly. "I want you so bad." He reached toward Kougaiji and the room went bright with pain. He hunched over, gasping. Kougaiji was at his side in an instant, supporting him. "You've been in pain and you haven't let either Yaone or me know?" "Er, it sort of crept up on me." Jien tried to wave it away as being nothing to worry about, but it was too late, because Kougaiji, slight as he was, picked Jien up and carried him into the bed alcove, firmly ordered him not to move, and sent for Yaone, who showed up almost immediately, alternately scolding Jien for not telling her that he needed more medication and apologizing for not following up with him earlier. "You're not responsible for running after me, Yaone." Jien winced as she worried her lower lip with her teeth and spread the numbing salve over his wound. "I should have said something earlier." "Yes, you should have!" she retorted. "If this happens again, I'll make you sorry." "It feels much better now," Jien said contritely. "Thank you. And I really am sorry I didn't say anything earlier. I didn't notice it until something Kou said made me want to— Oh, crap," he moaned. "You don't need to know all that. I'm going to shut up now." He saw Yaone fight back a smile, but when she spoke, she was her usual professional self. "There. Medicated and bandaged. I'll come back in the morning to check on you and re-apply the salve. You should be fine until then." She looked sideways at Jien, and the smile broke through. "If you don't overexert yourself, of course." "You're evil, you know that?" Jien muttered, feeling his face flush bright. She shook her head and stood, still smiling. "You're too easy, that's all." Packing her supplies, she flashed him another teasing smile. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do." "Uh, since I'm built a little different than you are, no promises." Yaone laughed. "Now who's being evil?" She picked up her bag. "Good night, Dokugakuji." She walked to the door and paused, bowing to Kou. "Good night, Kougaiji-sama." "Good night, Yaone." Kougaiji waited until the door closed behind her, then walked over to the alcove and stood by the bed. "You should sleep." Jien pulled back the covers. "There's room for two." "Your injury—" "—is fine. Really." Jien moved over. "We don't have to do anything if you don't want to. But it's your bed, after all." "It's our bed." Kougaiji studied him, and Jien could see desire in his eyes. "Okay," Jien agreed. "But maybe you'd like to share it with me, then? Uh, after you take your clothes off, of course. I really hate sleeping with someone who wears boots to bed." He was pleased to startle a laugh from Kou. "You're quite picky, aren't you?" Jien grinned. "Are you going to strip, or should I leave this warm, comfortable bed and rip off your clothes?" "Far be it from me to ask you to leave your bed," Kougaiji murmured. He stripped quickly and paused by the bed, his cock half-erect. "I don't need," he gestured at it, suddenly looking a bit embarrassed. "I do." Jien pulled Kougaiji into the bed, running his palm over Kou's cock and feeling it harden further. "You're so gorgeous. Let me make you feel good." Kougaiji settled against Jien and took Jien's face into his hands. "I want you inside me, then." "Fuck." Jien bridged the gap between their mouths and then they were kissing, their teeth grinding together as Kou pressed closer. Jien groaned and rolled on top of him, flexing his hips and rubbing their cocks against each other, hard length frotting against hard length as they each gasped into the other's mouth. Jien pressed his forehead to Kou's. "You feel so good." He ground his hips in deeper, feeling Kou's cock slide hard and bruising against his stomach. "Fuck me." Kou's quiet command sent shivers through Jien. "Oh, god," he moaned. "Yes." He started to reach for the bedside table, but Kougaiji stopped him. "I don't need preparation. I want you to take me. Hard." "But—" "I don't want anything between us," Kougaiji said intensely. "Not even oil. We're bound by blood and semen. Those are enough. Those are all we need." Jien froze above Kougaiji. "I can't believe how much I love you," he whispered, heat flashing through him. He shivered. "Spit, at least." "As long as it's only ever us." Jien nodded. "Only ever you, Kou. I swear." He kissed Kougaiji hard, sat up and slid his hands under Kou's legs, lifting him. Kou's opening flexed as Jien looked at it. He smiled and met Kou's eyes. "Now," Kougaiji said. Jien nodded. Not daring to touch himself, and taking Kou at his word, he dribbled saliva onto Kougaiji's hole, angled his hips until the head of his cock pressed against it, and pushed. The raw, dry entry burned, Kougaiji's ass gripping him tight, so tight and perfect that it hurt, and Kou was right, there was nothing between them. Kou moaned and grabbed Jien's ass, pulling him in deeper, until Jien's balls pressed against Kou's. Jien shifted and lifted Kou until Kougaiji was nearly doubled over on his shoulders. The angle was perfect. Jien pulled back a bit, then snapped his hips forward. Kou's eyes widened and he gasped. "More." Jien set a slow, hard pace, rocking his hips into Kougaiji's ass, not withdrawing with each thrust so much as pushing in as deeply as he could. Kougaiji groaned, his insides gripping Jien so hard that it was almost impossible to move, but Jien did anyway, hitting deep inside Kou and watching Kou's pained, desperate expression as Jien rubbed the head of his cock over Kou's prostate again and again. Kou had never looked more beautiful to Jien, his legs spread and draped over Jien's shoulders, his claws shredding the sheets as he gripped them in great handfuls, his mouth open, panting, and sweat running from his body, his hair spread across the pillows like a sea of silken fire. Jien rocked harder, mesmerized by the way he was moving Kou's body over the silk sheet and the pillows, driving him into the bed again and again. Kou arched higher and closed his eyes. "Dokugakuji." The name was less than a whisper, only a breath and a movement, and then Kougaiji was coming, his cock untouched and red and impossibly hard and perfect, a new stripe of semen landing on his stomach each time Jien hit his prostate, and suddenly Jien wasn't Jien anymore, because the way that Kou had said his new name told him who he was. He was Kou's lover and sword, his conscience and shield, his master and servant. The knowledge was so huge and breathtaking that he felt both terrified and triumphant as he came deep in Kou's body, his old life draining away and the new one flooding his heart with a soul-deep certainty even as he pumped the last of his seed into Kougaiji. "I'm yours," Jien whispered. "Always." "Yes," Kougaiji breathed, his body suddenly slumping, slack and sated. Jien gently lowered him to the bed and withdrew his softened cock from Kou's body. He cradled Kougaiji until his breathing was soft and even, all of his defenses lowered, even the alert tension that Jien – no, not Jien, he had a new name now, and a new purpose – remembered from when he'd been merely a nameless prostitute and potential assassin, dissolved in the face of the utter trust Kougaiji expressed through his unconscious relaxation. "I'm yours," Dokugakuji whispered again, and kissed Kou's sleeping eyes.

Patrick slowed as he approached the diner-come-bar. He knew it was late on a Thursday night but he’d checked the diner's details on their website earlier in the week. They opened late a few nights during the week promising live music, and he was always happy to listen to new musicians. Plus the food had gotten good reviews as well. It’s not the appeal of the food or the music that’s drawn him here though, what he was going to do was introduce himself to the alpha that he’d smelt when passing by last week. He'd always been a loner, not one for keeping up with Pack politics so he really had no idea what he was going to find here. From the smells there appeared to be two alphas and at least one beta and normally he'd steer well clear of other werewolves but he was living only a few blocks away - right in their territory and it was polite and safer if he introduced himself to them. The last thing he wanted was to run into one of them in a dark alleyway one night. It’s not that he can’t fight. As an alpha it was something he'd been doing from an early age - but he was much happier leading a quiet life; working at the music he loved and letting his wolf out two or three times a month. He's never let the fact that he's a werewolf define him. For a while, after leaving the pack, he had hated what he was but he has come to terms with it now. It's not something that's ever going to go away and now he's at peace with himself and his wolf. He stopped in front of the bar. The outside was painted green and brown and one window seemed devoted to menus, flyers etc. Patrick took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of wolf and calming his own. He straightened his shoulders and pushed open the door stepping inside. The smell was even stronger inside and for some reason he felt more comfortable; well as comfortable as he could be stepping into an unknown wolf's territory. He found a table to one side where he could see both the front and the back of the diner. He was a little on edge but trying not to show it; he needed to look not only confident but also unconcerned. He picked up the menu and scanned it, smiling at the dish of Moon Pie in the desserts. When the waitress arrived (human but smelling strongly enough of wolf that he thought she was probably mated to one), he ordered the plain cheese burger and a root beer. He'd love to go for a Mexican burger but spices play hell with his digestion and he has learnt to avoid anything too hot. She took his order with a smile and left. Patrick waited. He didn’t have to wait long. A couple of moments later a bottle of root beer and a glass were placed in front of him and a wolf slipped into the seat opposite. And not just any wolf. This was an alpha. Even though, thought Patrick running his gaze over him, he doesn't look it. Mind you, Patrick didn’t think that he looked like an alpha himself. It's funny but even after all these years he still automatically assumes alphas will be tall, well built and blonde. Of course, that was the alpha that he grew up with and old lessons die hard. This alpha, though, was of slight build with shoulder length dark tousled hair. He was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans and his nails were painted with black glitter. His eyes were fixed on Patrick and he didn’t look happy Patrick leaned back in his seat and met the other wolf’s gaze before starting to pour out his drink. He took a sniff. Yes - this is one of the scents he picked up outside. The smell was deep and satisfying, like the deep scent of a forest after it’s rained. There were other smells as well, and one of them was tantalising. It smelt like cinnamon. Patrick held out his hand. "I'm Patrick," he said. "I thought it only polite to come and introduce myself as I've just moved into the area. I'm not a Pack Alpha.” He watched the other wolf relax a little and he gave himself a little nod. By his words Patrick had let him know that he was not looking to encroach into anyone’s territory. However his hand wasn't taken and he picked up his drink instead, taking a mouthful while he waited for the other wolf to say something. It was a tense situation and he could feel his hackles beginning to rise but he wasn’t going to do anything stupid. He was the interloper here after all. Thankfully before they could get into a staring match the waitress brought his food over. "Gerard" she said to the other wolf. "Bob called, he and Mikey are on their way. They should be here in a few moments." She put the plate down in front of Patrick and he took a sniff. It smelt delicious and his mouth began to water. He covered the chips in ketchup and picked up the burger to take a bite. He wasn't going to force a conversation, and besides he was hungry. He'd gotten so engrossed with his work earlier that he'd forgotten to eat lunch - again. One of these days, when he took a mate, he might actually start remembering to eat, or his mate might remind him. He shrugged mentally. One day! Interestingly, the atmosphere was more relaxed now and Patrick presumed that either Bob or Mikey was the other alpha. He concentrated on his food, trying to ignore the wolf sat opposite him. A few moments later the bell over the door chimed as it opened, and Gerard straightened up. Patrick finished his burger and wiped his hands on his napkin, keeping his eyes slightly downcast but his posture straight. And then someone was there, leaning into Gerard and kissing him. Patrick looked up. Tall and blonde, he reminded Patrick instantly of Ralph and he automatically relaxed. He was also very male and Patrick knew in an instant that this was The Alpha of the pack, which meant, his eyes sliding to Gerard, that Gerard was the Alpha Bitch. He didn't smile though. It wasn’t an unheard situation, nor was it frowned upon by the packs. A very faint growl from the alpha drew Patrick’s attention back to him and he realised with embarrassment that he'd been staring at Gerard and ignoring Bob. He stood up and held his hand out to Bob, praying this time it would be taken. "I'm Patrick," he said again. "I'm a lone wolf, formally of the Dentry Park out of Chicago. I'm not looking for territory or to take on any Alphas." Bob stared at him for a moment and then to Patrick's relief his hand was taken in a firm grip and shaken. “I’m Bob,” he told Patrick. “And this is my mate, Gerard.” He let go of Patrick’s hand and sat down. Patrick watched as Gerard touched Bob’s arm. Jamia," Gerard called over to the barmaid. "Drinks all round and include one for Mikey as well." She nodded and walked back behind the bar. “Where is Mikey anyway?” he asked Bob. "He's just packing up," Bob him. Gerard was clearly more relaxed with Bob’s arrival and Patrick sat back and took a deep sniff. Bob smelt of the woods, although there was also a very strong cinnamon smell that weaved over and around him and Gerard; just delicious and clearly wolf. Patrick wondered whether it was from the awaited Mikey. He watched as Gerard leaned into Bob, they were clearly so at ease with each other and not bothered what others might think. Patrick found it very hard not to grit his teeth, it was something he'd always wanted for himself but it wasn't to be in his last pack. Oh, there'd been a girl he'd been very interested in; well fascinated by really. Anna had been attractive and sleek in her wolf form, as well as her human form. He’d thought she actually had cared for him and he'd looked upon her as a potential mate. However, he hadn't really accounted for her ambition. She'd told him that she intended to be the next Alpha Bitch of the Pack and that she intended him to be at her side. However, once he’d made it quite clear to her that he had no intention of fighting Ralph for the position she'd laughed scornfully at him and walked away. Slutting her way through the other young potential Alphas until she'd settled on Kel. It would be Kel of course. Kel, who would have had no qualms about going up against Ralph, especially with Anna pushing him. Patrick had known that at some point things were going to get very bloody. It was the nature of their species after all, although some embraced the wolf side of their natures more than others. It wasn't the case that Patrick wasn't prepared to fight for what he wanted, but he’d realised that he didn't want either her or power enough to go up against an Alpha that he loved like a father. So he’d left, not wanting to be there when it happened nor to be within the pack that no longer felt comfortable for him. No longer felt like his home. His head snapped up as four bottles were placed on the table. Another wolf slipped into the seat next to him, and Patrick found himself enveloped in scent. Patrick turned his head to look at the stranger and instantly he wanted. Mine, the wolf snarled in his head. Patrick glanced between him and Gerard. Brothers, he thought but this one was clearly a beta and god he was just gorgeous. He was leaning back in his seat, wearing just jeans and a tight black t-shirt that was riding up slightly and showing his thin hip bones and flat stomach. He arms were tanned and firm and his eyes, as he stared at Patrick, werewolf gold. Patrick wanted to touch, to push him back in his seat and take him right there. He'd never felt like this with anyone before; wolf or human and with a sinking feeling in his gut he realised that he might well be staring at his mate right now. God, this was going to cause trouble, especially from the way he could see Gerard tensing in his peripheral vision. He couldn't take his eyes off Mikey though and it seemed as though Mikey felt the same; he was already leaning toward Patrick. And then Gerard growled and it seemed like he was about to launch himself across the table toward Patrick. Then Gerard was being pushed back into his seat by Bob. "Gee." Bob growled, holding him back and waiting until Gerard subsided. Bob stood and pulled Mikey up from his seat and away from Patrick before Patrick was able to react. Bob changed places with him and slid in next to Patrick. "Calm down," Bob said, and it was clear he was speaking to the three of them, not just to Patrick. Patrick tensed for a moment, Bob's tone almost making it a challenge; Bob had no right to lay hands on Mikey. Then sanity kicked in. He wiped his hand across his brow. Jesus, he'd nearly done it then. If Bob hadn't had pulled Mikey away Patrick would have been ripping his clothes off him and claiming him, assuming Gerard hadn't attacked him first. He took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm himself before closing his eyes and centring himself. He could feel the atmosphere around him easing slightly and he opened his eyes. Gerard was holding Mikey's wrist flat on the table, his fingers digging into Mikey's skin and Patrick had to fight to hold back the growl rumbling at the back of his throat. What the hell was wrong with him? He never lost control like this, certainly not around strange wolves. He glanced over at Mikey. Mikey's eyes were still golden and his body was stiff. "Are we all calm now?" Bob said. "Gerard, let go of Mikey. You're hurting him and he's done nothing wrong." Gerard didn't say anything, he just glared at Bob for a moment and then he let go of Mikey's wrist. Patrick felt jittery as he watched Mikey rubbing his wrist. He scowled at Gerard but said nothing. No matter what his wolf might be thinking he didn’t have the right to say anything to Gerard. "Shall we start again?" Bob's voice was soothing and low. He turned to Patrick and held out his hand again. Patrick hesitated and then he took Bob's hand and shook it. Bob didn't let go at first, staring at Patrick. His eyes were clear blue, rather than wolf gold and Patrick felt himself begin to calm. "So, as I said earlier. I'm Bob, you've met Gerard and this is Mikey his brother. Now can I suggest we all have a drink and you can tell us just what you're doing in New Jersey Patrick. What your plans might be." Patrick took a mouthful of his beer and settled back down, trying desperately to turn his attention away from Mikey. He pushed his glasses up with his left hand and rubbed his eyes. He really didn't need this kind of complication in his life. He'd come to New Jersey looking for a new start, without the kind of problems that came with being part of a werewolf pack. Now he had no idea what was going to happen going forward and he was only really sure of two things; firstly, he wanted to see Mikey again, no matter what the cost and secondly, he was going to have problems with Gerard no matter what Bob may say or do. ++++++++++++++++++++ The doorbell rang, breaking through the silence of the flat, and Patrick looked up from the book he was reading. It rang again and he put the book down and stood up, stretching. Somebody was certainly persistent. He wasn't sure whether he wanted company, whoever that company might be. The only people who knew his address were Ralph and Bob and he couldn't imagine Ralph being here. If his former Alpha wanted to speak to him he'd simply ring Patrick. Which meant it could only be Bob. Patrick liked Bob but he really didn't want to see him right now. It had been a busy day and there were always tense undercurrents when he saw Bob or any of his pack. Besides, he'd already popped by the diner earlier for a quick snack and drink. He made it a habit to go in a couple of times a week. Gerard might have issues with it, but he knew that Bob preferred to see him there after the one disastrous occasion when Bob had asked him up for drinks in the flat that he and Gerard shared. Gerard had spent the whole night glaring at Patrick and keeping Mikey away from him. He liked the other members of Bob's pack, particularly Frank and Jamia, although he'd never met a human who was mated to a wolf before and he would have liked to have spent more time with them but it seemed it wasn't to be. Gerard and Mikey were already at odds about him, he could tell that when he was at the diner. Mikey's scent smelt different now; unbalanced and unhappy, and it set Patrick's teeth on edge. It made him want to hurt somebody and that somebody was normally Gerard. He sighed as the doorbell rang again. Whoever it was wasn't going to go away. He might as well answer the door. He padded down the hallway, the wood cold against his bare feet until the smell that was coming from the doorway almost stopped him in his tracks. He couldn’t quite believe what his nose was telling him and so he checked the spy hole. And no, his nose wasn't deceiving him, it really was Mikey standing outside. Mikey, who shouldn't even know where he lived. The only person that could have given him Patrick's address was Bob and that was interesting in itself. He was a little annoyed though that Mikey was here. He’d wanted a quiet evening, just listening to some music and reading. Every time he saw Mikey he just wanted to throw him against something hard and either bite him or fuck him, or both of course. Quiet went out the window. He took a deep breath before opening the door, trying to calm himself and his instincts. He would attempt to be polite and see what it was that Mikey wanted. "Mikey? What the fuck? You shouldn't be here," he heard himself saying. There went the politeness pretty much straightaway. Mikey's eyes dimmed for a moment and then he smiled at Patrick. It was a big open smile, lighting up his face and Patrick swallowed. Mikey held a bottle of red wine out to him. Mikey seemed a little unsure of his welcome. Patrick waited for a moment, just staring at him until Mikey began to shuffle his feet, and then he took it from him. "I just thought it would be nice if we could, I don't know, maybe spend some time together away from the diner." Mikey said. He was smiling but he was nervous as well; Patrick could smell it on him. He stared at Mikey for a moment longer. What the hell? he thought. Gerard would probably already want to tear him apart for Mikey just being here, so he might as well let him in. "Come in." he said standing to one side, leaving just enough space that Mikey had to squeeze past him into the flat. He followed Mikey down the corridor, staring at the way Mikey's jeans hugged his ass. "Take your shoes off and sit down," Patrick told him. "I'll get glasses." He stalked past Mikey into the small kitchen area and put the wine down. He gripped the edge of the worktop and stared outside for a moment. His wolf was snarling 'taketaketaketake' in the back of his mind and it was all he could do to stop himself from going back into the lounge and just following that imperative; claiming Mikey like he'd wanted to do since the first moment he met him. He finally let go of the worktop and opened up the wine, pouring out a couple of glasses. He was pleased though that Mikey had brought a gift with him, rather than simply turning up and expecting to be let in. He knew he wasn't as traditional as some Alphas, hell Ralph would have had Mikey crawling in front of him down the corridor and he wouldn’t have let Mikey stand until given permission. But Patrick did like to see that Mikey did understand and respect the rules. After all Mikey was a lower cast wolf arriving at an Alpha's home without an invitation. He was lucky that Patrick even let him through the door. When he went back into the lounge Mikey was sitting cross legged on the floor. Patrick sat down on the couch and put the two glasses on the coffee table. He leant back against the cushions and stared at Mikey. Mikey was wearing his obligatory black jeans and a loose, short sleeved, cream shirt that Patrick just itched to touch. His eyes were smudged and dark with eyeliner and the top two buttons of the shirt were open, showing pale skin. He looked edible and the wolf was back clamouring inside Patrick's mind. He stared until Mikey started to shift nervously under his gaze and then Patrick smiled at him. "Seriously Mikey, get the fuck up here. You don't need to sit on the floor unless I tell you to." Mikey shrugged and grinned up at him. "Oh, that's good, you're not that hardcore. My ass is too bony to sit on the floor for too long anyway, but you know, I didn't want to presume." "Good," Patrick told him. Mikey slid onto the couch next to him and the smell was even stronger now, cinnamon with deeper tones underneath. Patrick passed Mikey the glass of wine and then picked up his own. It gave him something to do with his hands. It was uncomfortable having Mikey sitting next to him, especially as Mikey was automatically leaning his body toward Patrick. Patrick didn’t even think that Mikey realised what he was doing and it was all he could do to control himself. It was even fucking harder doing it with Mikey sat next to him, his scent winding itself around Patrick. 'selfcontrolselfcontrolselfcontrol' Patrick told himself. 'Iwillnottouch.' He really wanted to touch him though, wanted to reach out his hand and run his fingers over Mikey's skin, but he couldn’t. He was not in Bob and Gerard's pack. He had no right to touch Mikey. They might well have accepted that he was living here but that was all. That didn't give him the right to touch Gerard's baby brother. "So, how did you get my address?" he asked. "I certainly didn't give it to you." "Ah..." For a moment Mikey looked a little embarrassed. "Well, I knew you'd given it to Bob so I had a look through his address book." He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. "Only thing was, though, he caught me at it." "He what?!" Patrick said incredulously. If Bob had caught Mikey going through the address book what the hell was Mikey doing here? Patrick would have expected to see Bob bringing a warning to Patrick to keep away. "Yeah," Mikey looked a little smaller now, not as confident as he was before. "He was really pissed at me, but also he didn't stop me. He said if I wanted to see you that much he wasn't really prepared to ban me from coming here." "That's... interesting." Patrick sat back. It really was interesting, although he wouldn't want to be in Bob's shoes when Gerard found out. By not stopping Mikey, Bob was giving his implicit consent to Mikey visiting Patrick. And Bob knew what the hell that meant. He knew full well that Patrick was interested in Mikey. Christ, any wolf within a hundred metres of Patrick when he was around Mikey would know. Even that didn’t mean that Patrick was just going to give into his desires though. For all he knew Mikey really didn’t have any idea just what he was asking. It may well be that he simply wanted a good fuck, which is not what Patrick wanted at all. Oh, he would like nothing more than to fuck Mikey but what he really wanted was to take Mikey as his Mate and there was a whole lot of difference there. He'd rather not touch Mikey at all than just have a one time fuck. Mikey, who had been slowly edging toward him all the time and now was actually pressed up against Patrick. Fuck it. Patrick thought. He’d always believed that if you were going to commit to something then you should commit to it wholeheartedly. And then Mikey's cell rang. Mikey leant away from Patrick and pulled it out of his jeans. "Jesus, Gee." he muttered. He let the call ring off and then he sent a text before switching his cell off and throwing it on the table. "Gerard I presume." "Yeah. He's stressing out because he doesn't know where I am." "And what did you say to him to calm him down?" Mikey dropped his eyes, and Patrick tensed up a little. What the fucking hell did Mikey text to his brother? "I, um I told him that I was out getting laid, and to fuck off." Mikey mumbled. "If I didn't he'd fucking try and sniff me out. He won't bother me if he knows that's what I'm doing." Patrick ground his teeth before taking a large mouthful of his wine. He wouldn’t allow himself to say something to Mikey that he knew he'd regret. He knew Mikey was a bit of a slut. Hell, he'd smelt other men on Mikey before, seen the marks they'd left on him. It had driven him wild, but he hadn't said anything about it, even though each time he'd smelt it he'd wanted to cover Mikey with his own scent, to let others know that Mikey was his. He was astonished though that Bob and Gerard have allowed it. "You know what," said Mikey, interrupting his thoughts, "It would be great if that wasn't a lie." Mikey leaned back toward him and Patrick put up his hand, warding Mikey away from him. "Mikey," he said, trying really hard not to growl. "Back off. Right the fuck now. Seriously, do you even realise what you're doing. Do you realise what it means if I do what you want me to do? This wouldn't just be a one-off fuck. If I fuck you I'm going to claim you. Do you understand? There’ll be no going back. You'd be mine and you certainly wouldn't be slutting around again with anybody." And there, he'd said it. Called Mikey a slut. Hurt flickered across Mikey's face and he tightened his jaw for a second, and then he put his hand on Patrick's and slowly pushed it away. "Yes," he said, "Yes. Just fucking kiss me already. I want this, Patrick. I want you. I know what this means; I'm not an idiot. I've never wanted any other wolf, hell anybody the way I want you. I know I’ve had a lot of men but if I was yours I wouldn't need to. I wouldn't keep looking for something that I wasn't finding. I'm..." he paused for a moment and looked down, his body language shifting subtly. "I'm, well I'm clean. You don't have to worry about anything like that." He looked up, his gaze holding Patrick's. "You don't need to use protection with me. I want you to be the first to take me bareback. I want you to come in me." Patrick blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that. He carefully placed the wine glass on the table beside the couch. "Well then," he said. Then he moved and before Mikey could do anything, even say anything, Patrick had him flat on his back on the floor. Patrick knelt over him, and grabbed his shirt in between his fists, ripping it and bearing Mikey's upper torso to his gaze. Mikey's eyes were dark with lust and he lay still and submissive beneath Patrick. Patrick took Mikey's arms and stretched them out to the side, pushing the shirt off him and flinging it to one side. He lowered his mouth and, turning Mikey's head to one side, ran his tongue over Mikey's bare throat, tasting the sweat running down Mikey's skin. He could feel Mikey trembling under him and he nipped at Mikey's throat, following the trail his tongue had made. Mikey whimpered and Patrick's hands tensed on him, his fingers pressing into Mikey's flesh. Mikey bucked beneath him, his body pushing up toward Patrick and Patrick growled, biting down harder, although he didn’t break Mikey's skin. He wouldn't do that yet, not until he put the claim mark on Mikey, but he was more than happy to leave a myriad of other marks scattered over Mikey's body. Marking him up. Mikey's body was pale and Patrick thought wildly that it needed the rainbow colours of bruising. He bit along Mikey's jaw and then rested his mouth for a moment over Mikey's Adam’s apple, pushing his whole body weight down on Mikey, covering him. Mikey's groaned; his head thrown back and his fingers clenched in the fibres of the rug. Patrick grinned and then moved down, licking and biting Mikey's nipples, leaving a blood-darkened ring of skin all around Mikey’s nipples. He nosed down toward Mikey's armpits, breathing in the intoxicating smell. Mikey's scent was strong and he squeaked in a very enticing fashion as Patrick licked the soft underarm hair scenting him. Patrick pressed a soft laugh into Mikey’s skin before moving back to Mikey's chest and slowly working his way down until he reached Mikey's jeans. He tugged them off impatiently and threw them to one side. Mikey's wasn't wearing underwear and he had the grace to blush when Patrick glared at him. He didn't like it; something primeval snapping inside him at the idea of Mikey being outside without underwear, well not without his knowledge or permission. He ignored Mikey's cock, pretty though it was, and concentrated instead on Mikey's thin hips, the thought flickering across his consciousness that Mikey needed feeding up a bit. Patrick liked skinny hips, liked to press his fingers hard into the hip bone and leave bruises, but Mikey's were a little too thin. He pinned Mikey down and ran his teeth over Mikey's hips. Mikey let out deep moan and Patrick felt something settle inside him at the noise. He was tempted to let his claws out, to hold Mikey down with them and smell the blood as he broke Mikey's skin, but it wasn’t the right time. Maybe some point after they've changed and run together for the first time, the scent of forest around them. Then he'd do that. Mikey was wriggling under him and Patrick sat up, pulling his tee shirt off and then standing up to take off his jeans and boxers. He stood over Mikey's prone body, one foot on either side of Mikey’s hips and he ran his gaze over Mikey's body. Mine he thought. He stepped to one side and pulled Mikey up, leading him over to the couch before he pushed Mikey's head and arms down onto the couch, leaving him resting half on, half off with his knees on the floor. "Spread your legs." Patrick growled. Mikey did as he was told and Patrick knelt on the floor between Mikey's legs. Mikey looked wanton; hair mussed and body trembling. There was nothing Patrick wanted more than to sink into him. The smell and feel of Mikey was driving him wild and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to take it slowly. Not this time. In any event he wanted Mikey to feel this, wanted Mikey to feel the burn after Patrick had fucked him. He ran his hands over Mikey's ass and then dug in his nails, scratching over the tender skin and marking him up. Mikey yelped but he kept still. "Good boy," Patrick murmured and then he ran his tongue along the scratches in soothing reward. He spread Mikey's ass cheeks and took a deep breath, taking in the strong aroma. He bent down and ran his tongue down the crease. Mikey mewled this time and Patrick could feel him shaking under his hands. Patrick smiled. Such pretty sounds Mikey was making. He ran the tip of his tongue slowly over and around the pucker, flicking it gently until Mikey started to push back against him. Demanding! Patrick chuckled and then he pushed his tongue inside. Mikey tasted as good as he smelt and Patrick buried himself between Mickey’s trembling legs, enjoying the sounds that Mikey was making, the way his cries were getting louder. Patrick knew right then that one day he was gonna take his time doing this; he'd tease Mikey and make him come just with his tongue, but that day isn't today. He was so close to coming just from Mikey's smell. His cock was hot and hard and he needed to be inside Mikey, needed to be claiming him when he comes. He held Mikey's hips still, not allowing him to move and fucked him with his tongue, feeling Mikey becoming more pliant and loose under his ministrations. Patrick pulled out and then he knelt up, lining himself up against Mikey's entrance. Without any warning he pushed his cock inside Mikey's tight passage. Mikey groaned as Patrick buried himself inside of him. Patrick couldn’t remember the last time he’d fucked anybody without a condom. Being a werewolf didn’t protect him from sexual diseases but he believed Mikey when he told him he was clean, and he wanted to come inside Mikey. He ran his fingers over Mikey's back and then placed his hand on the back of Mikey's neck, pushing his face into the couch cushion as he fucked him harder and harder with sharp deep thrusts. Mikey's skin was sweat slick and bruises were already beginning to show on his skin where Patrick has gripped his arms and hips. Mikey was making the most delicious sounds, whimpering and mewling as Patrick fucked him, begging Patrick to fuck him harder. His back was tense and he was clawing at the sofa with his hands, pushing himself back into Patrick and spreading his legs even wider. Patrick couldn't stop talking; telling Mikey how he looked, how he felt, every dirty word pouring out his mouth like a secret. Patrick could feel himself getting closer and he knelt back, pulling Mikey with him, off the couch and down so that he was sitting in Patrick's lap resting against Patrick's chest. Patrick's cock was deep inside and Mikey’s legs were spread over Patrick's own. Patrick growled softly and he wrapped his hand around Mikey's cock. Mikey cried out at the touch and Patrick knew that he was going to come inside Mikey soon; that he couldn’t hold off much longer. "Come for me," he growled and Mikey obeyed him, shuddering and crying out as his orgasm tore through him. He tightened his muscles around Patrick's cock and that did it, Patrick was coming himself and as he did he bit down into Mikey's shoulder, feeling his teeth lengthening as he broke through Mikey's skin, drawing blood. Mikey cried out in pain and Patrick could smell the scent of tears, but he didn’t, wouldn’t let go. This was a claim mark and it needed to scar. It couldn’t just be a surface mark. He wrapped his arms around Mikey and continued to bite down until he was satisfied that the mark was deep and lasting. Only then did he let go, licking at the blood until the flow started to lessen. Patrick ran his thumb over the wound, catching some of blood, and then he held it to Mikey's mouth waiting for him to taste. His breath caught in his throat as Mikey licked the finger clean and he rested his head against Mikey. Patrick closed his eyes, stilling himself and then he carefully lifted Mikey off him and turned him around. Mikey was pliant in his arms and Patrick pulled him back down onto his lap. Mikey was trembling and there were tears on his face. Patrick ran his thumb over the tears. "Alright?" he asked softly. Mikey was looking well and truly spaced out but he nodded. "Yours?" Mikey asked. "Mine." Patrick said and then he caught Mikey's lips with his own, kissing him, as Mikey had asked him to do earlier. Patrick liked kissing, and Mikey opened up under him. He tasted of wine, and blood, with an indefinable taste underneath that was all Mikey. Patrick growled softly, biting at his lips, and then he stood, lifting Mikey with him. He knew full well that if he were human there was no way he’d be able to stand right now, let alone pick Mikey up, and he blessed the wolf side of his physique. Mikey wrapped his legs around Patrick's waist and Patrick walked toward the bedroom. This wasn't finished yet; as far as he was concerned Mikey would be damned lucky if he could walk in the morning. Patrick intended to fuck the memory of any other man, or woman, clean out of his mind. ==================== Mikey closed the door quietly behind him. With luck Gerard would be busy in the kitchen, and he'd be able to nip upstairs to the flat and shower and change before seeing his brother. He'd been at Patrick's for two days now and he knew that Gerard was going to be quizzing him as soon as he saw him. Frankly, he could live without the inquisition. He was tired, aching and moving stiffly and he was wearing one of Patrick's t-shirts to replace the shirt that Patrick ripped off him. Once Patrick had been allowed to touch him he hadn't stopped. Mikey had managed to get a few hours of broken sleep but that had been it. He hadn't expected any different though. When Gerard and Bob first got together they'd disappeared for nearly a week. He’d had a shower before he left Patrick's, although he'd had little chance to actually get clean. Patrick had simply followed him into the shower, pushed him up against the walled and fucked him again; his hands resting on the shower wall, trapping Mikey between them. There'd been no prep; Patrick had simply pushed inside and fucked him with hard, deep thrusts, biting down on Mikey's shoulder as him came. Marking him again. Not that Mikey protested. After his text to Gerard telling him he'd been out getting laid Mikey hadn't heard from him again. Sometimes having a reputation for being a slut could be quite helpful. Mikey rolled his shoulders and smiled, thinking of Patrick - his Mate. He liked the way it felt being under Patrick, that strength and the feeling of being overpowered. He felt at ease when Patrick touched him; it was like an itch that he'd always had had finally been silenced. He headed for the stairs at the back of the diner and then stopped as Gerard walked out of the kitchen. "Patrick?" Gerard said and then he spotted Mikey. He sniffed. Oh shit! Mikey thought, easing slowly toward the stairs. This confrontation was going to happen sooner than he'd thought and Gerard was not looking happy. Gerard growled and Mikey tensed, watching as gold began to bleed into Gerard's eyes and then he ran toward the stairs. Before he could reach them though Gerard was on him. "What the fuck Mikey?" Gerard snarled and then Mikey was slammed up against the wall. He let out a gasp as pain ricocheted through him; the bites and claw marks on his body opening up under the pressure. He could smell blood, his own blood, and obviously so could Gerard. Gerard let go of him and stepped back. "He dared to touch you," he hissed, eyes fully golden now. "I'll fucking kill him." Mikey shook his head, of course Gerard would get the wrong idea, thinking that Patrick had hurt him, touched him without permission. He'd rather think that than consider that Mikey had gone willing to Patrick. Mikey really didn't understand what Gerard's problem with Patrick was. Mikey held up his left hand. "Whoa, Gee. I'm pretty sure I started the touching. He took nothing that I didn't offer." Gerard looked like somebody had lit a fire under his tail at Mikey's words, and he was instantly back in Mikey's space, crowding him against the wall. Mikey didn't like it; it felt wrong having Gerard so close to him and all he wanted to do was get away from him, back to Patrick. "Are you stupid?" Gerard snarled. "I suppose that's where you've been the last two days. Jesus Mikey," he tugged at his own hair in frustration. "He's just using you. When are you going to stop slutting around, and with a lone wolf at that?" The words are thrown at him in disgust. Mikey tensed. How dare Gerard say that? Patrick was his mate, he wasn't using him. Before he'd realised what he'd done he pushed against Gerard, raised a hand to his Alpha. "Don't even say that," he shouted. "He's my mate, don't you dare insult him." Gerard pushed him back. "Your mate," he said with contempt. "Just how stupid are you Mikey? You're a beta. He's just going to fuck you until he finds an alpha. Once he does he'll dump you and then where will you be? No other wolf will go near you. You'll be used goods, even more than you already are." That last comment hurt. Mikey couldn't believe that Gerard would say that to him, and he tensed, his wolf automatically wanting to defend its mate. Normally Mikey would pull it back, but he didn’t care anymore. He could feel his control, always tenuous when he was upset, starting to go and he lunged at Gerard, his hands becoming claws. Gerard obviously wasn’t expecting the attack and they both went down in a tangle of arms, fists and claws, teeth snapping at each other. Mikey knew he couldn’t win against Gerard but he didn’t care. It didn’t matter and, even when Gerard was holding him flat to the floor, his teeth against Mikey's throat, Mikey didn’t stop, continuing to try and push Gerard away. Gerard growled and dug his teeth in. He had more control than Mikey and his teeth were sharp. Mikey knew he should submit but he couldn’t, it felt wrong to submit to anybody other than Patrick. And that was something new. Gerard was one of his Alpha's and Mikey should submit, he normally would, but he had a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that Gerard was no longer his Alpha. That Patrick had taken his place. Gerard pressed him against the floor, his body hard against Mikey’s own, and for the first time in his life Mikey was scared of his brother. Of the thought that Gerard might seriously injure him. He couldn’t stop himself from struggling to get away though. "Enough," the word is growled and Mikey cried out in pain as Gerard was pulled off him, his teeth tearing at Mikey's flesh. It was Bob and Mikey took a shuddering breath, trying to calm himself. He watched as Bob wrapped his arms around Gerard and pulled him away. His throat hurt and he put his hand to it. His fingers were red with blood when he pulled them back and he stared disbelievably at them and then at Gerard. Gerard, who was still fighting to get away from Bob, still fighting to get back to him. Mikey pushed himself slowly to his feet and then he wiped the tears from his eyes, knowing that he'd be leaving smears of blood on his face from his fingers. But he didn’t care. He picked up a napkin from one of the tables and held it to his throat. Thankfully there wasn’t much blood, it was just a scratch, but he wondered what Gerard would have done to him if Bob hadn't appeared. Would Gerard have actually killed him? "Mikey." Bob's voice was low but urgent and Mikey turned to him. Gerard was still trying to pull himself away from Bob. He was snarling and his wolf was very much on display; eyes yellow, teeth sharp and marked with blood, claws fully extended. "Mikey - you need to go,” Bob said. “I can't control Gerard with you here. Go to Patrick. He’s your Alpha now, you need to be with him. I'll call you later." Mikey stared disbelievingly at Bob for a moment, then he gave one final glance to the feral Gerard before leaving the bar, pushing past a frozen Frank who was standing in the doorway. He pulled his jacket tight around his body as he stepped outside. He was shivering and the tears were still running down his face. It felt as though he was closing a chapter of his life. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and sent a quick text to Patrick, telling him he was on his way and carried on walking, away from the bar. A moment later his phone rang. It was Patrick of course, demanding to know what was wrong. "I'll tell you when I get there." Mikey told him. "Let's just say that I ran into Gee and his reaction wasn't great." He was feeling tired now, the shock of what just happened beginning to sink in and his voice broke. All he wanted to do right now was curl up in Patrick's arms and shut the world out. He didn’t want to think about his brother. He’d never expected Gerard to react quite like this. He never thought that he would turn on him. He put his phone in his pocket and set off for Patrick's. He needed to find his mate; nothing else really mattered to him at the moment. ======================= Bob waited for a few moments, giving Mikey time to leave then he looked toward the door where Frank was still standing. "Frankie," he said, "Get out and lock the door after you. Don't come back until I call you." Frank nodded tersely and Bob waited for him to leave before relaxing his hold on Gerard, positioning himself between Gerard and the entrance. He didn't want Gerard attempting to go after Mikey. Mikey was no longer Gerard's problem. Gerard was angrier than Bob had ever seen him, pacing up and down with his teeth still bared and his claws still extended. Bob could tell that he wasn’t too far from changing into wolf form. "Calm the fuck down, Gerard." Bob told him. "You should have better control than this. What the hell do you think you were doing attacking Mikey?" Gerard ignored him and continued pacing. Bob frowned. He wasn’t used to Gerard ignoring him and he didn’t like it. “Gerard! Goddammit, you could have killed him. Mikey has every right to sleep with whoever he wants. Patrick will be good for him." Gerard stopped walking and turned toward him. "You knew about this?" he snarled at Bob. "Yeah," Bob said, "I did. He got Patrick's address from my contact book ..." "And you didn't stop him." Gerard took another step toward him and Bob tensed. He didn’t want to fight his mate over this but he would. As far as he was concerned Patrick and Mikey were mated and there was nothing Gerard could do about it. Besides, Bob liked Patrick and in all honesty he thought he'd be good for Mikey. He didn’t really get what Gerard's problem with Patrick was. Well he did really – it was the big brother coming out in Gerard as well as the Alpha, wanting to protect Mikey, but it was about time Gerard accepted Mikey's an adult. Bob steadied himself, waiting for Gerard's attack. He knew his mate. Gerard needed to get this out of his system and Bob knew he was the only one that could deal with Gerard like this. The only one who was strong enough to put Gerard down. "Fucker," Gerard snarled and then he was on him. ========================= Gerard hesitated for a moment and then he knocked on the door. He was nervous, which was annoying. He was an alpha for goodness sake, he shouldn't be nervous. But he was. This was the first time he'd been to Patrick's apartment. Bob was sat downstairs in the car waiting for him. Gerard didn’t particularly want to be here but he needed to see Mikey, to talk to him and Mikey was refusing to come to the bar. He'd told Gerard that if Gerard wanted to see him then Gerard would have to come to Patrick’s. Gerard grit his teeth and dug his nails into his palms. He could do this. He had to do this. His instinctive antipathy toward Patrick was not strong enough to overwhelm his desire to see his brother. He'd tried calling Mikey but Mikey had refused to take the calls, letting them go to voicemail which he'd then ignored, along with Gerard's texts. The thing that hurt the most out of all of this was that Mikey had chosen to speak to Bob over him, calling to tell Bob that it was down to Gerard now to sort things out. So here he was. At Patrick's apartment, about to enter Patrick's territory. If he was allowed in that was. The door opened and Patrick stood there. Gerard tried to peer around him to see if he could see Mikey but Patrick took a step forward into his space. Gerard had inches on Patrick in height but at that moment Patrick seemed taller. For a minute Gerard wondered how the height difference worked with Mikey but he pushed the thought away, still not wanting to think about the two of them having sex. "Gerard?" Patrick's voice was cool and low, and Gerard could hear the wolf in it. "I've come to see Mikey." He put his hands in his pockets and stared at Patrick. "Have you now?" Patrick said, "And tell me this, why should I let you see him? After all, how do I know that you're not going to try to attack him again? Patrick was bristling now and it was almost as though he'd gotten bigger, his body filling the doorway. Gerard stayed still. The last thing he wanted was to provoke Patrick further, to give him any reason for refusing to let Gerard see Mikey. Patrick would be well within his rights to attack Gerard for daring to touch Mikey, even though Mikey was Gerard’s brother. By their rules, Mikey was Patrick's mate first and foremost, even though Gerard may not like it. And he didn’t... like it, that is, but he knew he had to accept it if he wanted to see Mikey again. He knew he was being unreasonable as well but he couldn’t help it. He was Mikey’s big brother and his instinctive reaction had him wanting to protect Mikey from Patrick, even though it was irrational. "I ... Patrick, look. I just want to see Mikey. That's all. I need to talk to him. I'm not going to hurt him." Patrick glanced behind him into the flat and he tensed. A moment later Mikey came into view behind him. He didn’t look at Gerard though; all of his attention was focused on Patrick. "Patrick," Mikey put his hand on Patrick's arm. "Let him in. Please. I need to speak to him." Patrick glanced sideways at him and then he focused his attention back on Gerard. "After all..." and now Mikey was looking at him instead of Patrick. "It's not as though you're going to hurt me again is it Gerard?" He tipped his head back slightly, touching his throat. Gerard flushed with shame looking at the mark on Mikey's throat. The mark that he’d made. He knew full well he could have killed Mikey, and he was so damned grateful that Bob had come in when he did, even if he hadn’t felt that way at the time. "No," he choked out. "I'm not going to hurt you. I promise." Patrick gave him a hard stare and then he stepped back into the flat. He turned his back on Gerard and hustled Mikey down the corridor in front of him. "You'd better come in then, Gerard." he called back. "Close the door behind you." Gerard stared after him and then he stepped inside. Patrick's actions were very telling. By turning his back on Gerard he was showing that he was not scared of him, and by putting himself between Gerard and Mikey he was clearly saying that Mikey was his to protect. That he was now Mikey's Alpha, not Gerard. Gerard sighed and closed the door behind him. He knew that to keep his brother he needed to concede here. To acknowledge that Patrick was Mikey's mate. He stood with his back against the door for a moment and then quietly followed Patrick. ***** Patrick closed the door after Gerard and locked it. Things could have gone a lot worse tonight, but thankfully there had been no blood shed. No matter Patrick’s own feelings on Gerard, Mikey needed his brother. If it had been down to Patrick he'd have been happy to never see Gerard again; every time he saw the mark on Mikey's neck he wanted to attack somebody, preferably Gerard. However, no matter what Mikey had said about not wanting to see his brother again, he'd been distraught since Gerard attacked him. In the end it had been Patrick who had pushed it, telling Mikey that he should speak to his brother and Mikey’s agreement had been at best reluctant. Mikey had been nervous and restless before Gerard had arrived and in the end Patrick had bent him over one of the kitchen cabinets and given him a good hard fucking until Mikey had quietened down. It had worked and Mikey had been a lot more relaxed afterward. The meeting had been on Mikey's terms and Gerard had apologised. Patrick knew it wasn't a particularly worthy thought but he'd quite enjoyed seeing Gerard so uncomfortable and uncertain in front of Mikey. He'd also been pleased to see the marks on Gerard, marks that he presumed Bob had made. Gerard had left as soon as he could, for which Patrick was grateful. At least now the worst was over. It would take time for Mikey and Gerard to get back to the way they'd been before, but it would happen. Of that Patrick was sure. He went back into the lounge. Mikey was curled up on the couch his arms wrapped around his knees. He looked up as Patrick walked back into the room and Patrick could see he was close to tears. Mikey looked so vulnerable right now and Patrick felt a surge of protectiveness go through him. He strode over to Mikey and sat on the couch. He pulled Mikey into his arms. "Hey," he murmured. "It's okay, it's going to be okay. Gerard will come round. At least he apologised." "Yeah," Mikey responded, cuddling into Patrick almost as though he was trying to crawl inside his skin. It was as though he couldn't get close enough to Patrick. "I wasn't sure that he would." "Shush," Patrick said. He put his hand under Mikey's chin and lifted his face. He touched his lips to Mikey’s. "Of course he was going to apologise. You're his brother. His problem was always with me, not you. Everything will be fine and in a week or so we'll go over to the diner and sit down and have a drink with Gerard and the rest of them. Okay?" "Okay," Mikey nodded his head and then rested it on Patrick's chest. "Yours," he said. "Mine." Patrick tightened his arms around Mikey. "Always mine." And Mikey was. His to protect and love, no matter what, and he was never letting Mikey go. He had everything he wanted now. He nuzzled Mikey's hair and closed his eyes. "Mine," he repeated.