

Lies and Consequences

by Kaje Harper

Smashwords edition

Copyright 2011 Kaje Harper

Warning: this title contains M/M sex and explicit language.

_Lies and Consequences_ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Note: Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. Thank you for your support.

Chapter 1

Christopher Fletcher eyed himself in the mirror. He wasn't sure if he liked the hair. This new gel was a little stiffer, and combined with the deep blue color, it edged him a bit closer to punk than he had in mind. Oh, well, at least his clothes weren't punk.

The pants might be black and leather, but they gleamed in the light and the cut hugged his ass sinfully well. The shirt was aqua blue silk, slightly shimmery, and gashed in the right places to flash a little skin. The boots were soft and low, for dancing in.

He fumbled on the edge of the sink for his contact lenses. _Shit, don't drop those down the drain._ Good prescription contacts in intense colors weren't cheap, and his funds were strictly limited. He fished one out on a fingertip and leaned close to place it in his left eye. A couple of blinks to seat it, and he inspected the result. Right eye muddy hazel grey, left eye bright turquoise to match the shirt. He put in the second lens, and there he was, looking back at Chris in the mirror. Robin, the Club Boy. It had been a while.

He tried out Club Boy's smile, wicked with more than a hint of come-hither. Full lips, and even white teeth in the gold of his tanned face; he touched the tip of his tongue to his lower lip. On second thought, he liked the hair. The upward sweep accentuated his cheekbones, and the dark blue was exotic. Done.

In the bedroom, he puttered, checking for money and condoms, easing his tight pockets over ID and a single pack of lube. He clipped his keys to a belt loop. There was really no point in hurrying. Jenny wasn't even home yet, let alone ready to go back out.

But he'd spent the entire day hunched over his keyboard, writing sentences destined to be revised six times and finally erased. He was well and truly blocked. He needed...he wasn't sure what he needed. But at the very least, to get out of this house and do something new. Or some _one_ new.

He turned at the sound of the garage door going up. Finally! He wandered into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. Jenny hurried in through the back door. Her hair was starting to come down in wisps from her neat bun. Her uniform was less pressed and precise than when she had headed out at oh-dark-hundred that morning. Or so Chris assumed. Not like he'd been up to watch her go.

He sauntered over and kissed her cheek. "Welcome home, sweetiecakes."

She glanced at him and then took a second longer look. "Pulling out the heavy artillery tonight, are you?"

He did a little spin for her. "You like?"

"Very edible," she said. "Listen, I'm sorry I'm late. Fifteen minutes for a shower and change, and I'll be ready."

"Hey, I'm not the one with an appointment," he said. "Take your time and doll up if you want."

"You could come up and keep me company while I change."

Jenny asking for company meant she needed a sympathetic ear. "Need to vent, do we?"

"Hah. Yes."

"I'm all ears." He followed her upstairs to the master bedroom, and stood at ease in the doorway as she tugged at her buttons. She muttered a curse.

"Don't rip those off, honey. I'll make _you_ sew them back on."

She snorted, but slowed her fingers, working the blouse open.

"So spill it. What has Captain God's-gift-to-womankind Markham done this time?"

"We're missing two cases of MRE's on the inventory," she said. "Two freaking cases. We're not talking weapons, here. We're not even talking screwdrivers. These are some of the most unappealing food products known to humankind. The only people in America hungry enough to eat them without being ordered to, are too broke to pay money for them. This is not a black-market scheme. This is a bookkeeping error."

"Markham disagrees?"

"Markham thinks he's on the trail of another master criminal. He had me spend two hours on the computer trying to follow those supplies back to the source, and get a list of all the poor saps who might have had contact with the shipment. Then we'll track them all down and check their teeth for traces of pureed spaghetti or something. Like I don't have a hundred more important things to keep me busy. Bleh."

"The man is persistent."

"The man has the intelligence of a walnut." Jenny snapped.

"Now, now, Lieutenant Wallace. The man is your superior officer."

"Don't freaking remind me." Jennifer stepped out of her uniform skirt and started pulling the pins out of her hair.

Chris watched her affectionately. Jenny was slim and strong, taller than Chris was. Although that wasn't hard - Chris's driver's license claimed he was five-nine, but the last two inches were pure fiction. Nonetheless, Jenny was built like a runner, all long lean lines, long dark-brown hair, grace and power. She worked out fiercely and it showed in the tight muscles under her smooth pale skin. Even hurried and frustrated, she exuded competence. Pity Chris wasn't in a position to really appreciate the show.

"Want me to pick out your new underwear for tonight?" he purred as she headed for the shower.

"Jeeze, Chris, tone down the swish," she retorted, disappearing into the bathroom.

"Just getting into character," he said more normally.

"Don't waste it on me," she called back. The door shut behind her and he heard the shower come on.

Chris wandered across the room and amused himself by eying the civilian clothes in Jenny's closet, trying to decide what she would pick for tonight. He hadn't heard what was on the schedule, which made it a bigger challenge. A movie would call for casual out-with-friends wear. But since he was going clubbing by himself, Jenny might have a romantic evening planned with her lover. Then she might pull out the big guns. Maybe something slinky and black. He looked more closely.

"Hey," he commented as he heard her come back into the bedroom. "Is that grey dress new?"

"Yes."

"You went shopping without me?"

Jenny frowned at him, as she twisted to adjust the straps of her black bra. "I'm capable of picking out clothes by myself."

_Sometimes._ It was Chris's theory that wearing uniforms all day every day atrophied your fashion sense. Although, come to think of it, Chris had been vetting Jenny's clothes since junior high. "Well, let's see it."

"Not tonight." She reached into the closet and pulled out a soft blue sleeveless turtleneck and black slacks. "We're going to have a curl-up-on-the-couch-and-watch-movies night. It doesn't call for dressing up."

He nodded. "I like that blue." It picked up the color of her eyes, a blue so dark they sometimes looked black.

"You should. You picked it."

"I'm the best."

She smiled and scooped up her purse off the dresser. "You're incorrigible. Come on, we're late."

"No makeup?"

"You think I need it for an evening in?"

"No," he said honestly. "You look fine. But Becca might appreciate the effort, even if it's just for her. Especially if it's just for her."

Jenny hesitated. "You're smarter than you look. Particularly in those clothes. Wait here." She reemerged from the bathroom five minutes later, with mascara, eye shadow and a touch of lip-gloss in place.

Chris nodded. "Very nice. Your car or mine?"

"My car. Yours smells like pizza."

"You appreciated it when you ate it."

"Not the anchovies. We'll take my car. You have the black car to use later."

Chris's small beat-up compact sat in the garage next to Jenny's pride and joy. He eased himself into her sports car's low seat carefully. These pants were tight, and he didn't want to do himself damage. They pulled out of the driveway, and Jenny toggled the garage door shut. Chris sat back to enjoy the ride. Jenny's car was her baby. No one drove the 'Vette except her. Chris was fine with being chauffeured. He leaned back and sang along to the radio softly.

"So," Jenny said, "Where are you going tonight?"

"I thought I'd try the Gold Coast," he mused. "It got good reviews online."

"You'll be careful?"

"Oh, please. When you're this good, you don't need to be careful."

She eyed him closely. "That better be your alter-ego for the night talking, or I'll hog-tie you in the car while I spend time with Becca."

Chris sighed. "Yes, mother, I'll be careful."

"Sorry," she said more quietly. "It's just, I worry about you. It's been a while since you went out. And you seem restless lately. Sometimes you've been less than smart about men when you've been bored. And I know I get more out of our arrangement than you do."

"I'm fine," Chris told her. "I like our arrangement, fiancée-mine. You get a beard, and someone who gives you space when you want time with Becca. I get free room and board, and plenty of chances to go out when I want to. You're an easy roommate, and you even do windows. What's not to like?"

"You'd tell me if you're not happy?"

Chris reached over and squeezed Jenny's knee. "I'm good. It's the writing that's bugging me. I'm kind of blocked. Nothing to do with you."

"Okay." She turned her attention back to the road. A few more blocks, and they were turning into Becca's drive. Jenny reached in her purse for the other remote and opened the garage door. As soon as they pulled into the empty space, she clicked it closed again. They both got out of the car in the gloom of the garage.

The door into the house opened, and Becca came running through. The small Eurasian woman leaped down the single step to the concrete floor and bounced into Jenny's waiting arms. Jenny spun her once and then bent for a kiss. Chris watched, trying to be cynical and feeling only envious. The women only had eyes for each other. The kiss was sweet and hard, and it was a long time before they came up for air. It had been a while since anyone had kissed Chris that way.

_Face it. No one has ever kissed you that way._ He cleared his throat. "So, one-o'clock? Two?"

Jenny sighed, her eyes fixed on Becca's face. "Better make it midnight. I have to work tomorrow."

"But it's Saturday."

"Food-stealing master criminals never rest. Neither do those who hunt them down."

"Huh?" Becca said.

"It's a long story," Chris told her. "I'm sure you'll hear _all_ about it. Midnight it is. See you later. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Wow, that leaves the field wide open," Jenny said. "Go away. Have fun. Come back later."

Chris got into the third car in the garage. His sleek black beauty. _Right, sleek fifteen years ago_. It almost qualified as a ghetto cruiser. Except all the doors still worked. He reached up and hit the remote. Before the big door cleared concrete the two women were stepping into the house, arms around each other. _Lots of movies going to be watched there._ Becca had been out of the country for two weeks on a buying trip. They were clearly going to make up for lost time.

The interior of this car was pimped up with a furry steering wheel, seat covers in black plush and dangling crystals on the rear-view. The sun visors had extra mirrors, and even the overhead liner had been replaced with something silver and black. It had come to Chris that way, and Chris had left it alone. He liked the contrast with his tidy little grey Honda Civic at home. This was his cruising car, his let-off-the-chain and no-one-knows-who-you-are car. He cranked the stereo and headed downtown.

Gold Coast was fairly new, but not trendy enough to have a line-up at the door. Chris paid the cover, and ducked inside. Too dark, too loud, too warm and sparkly; it was perfect. He made his way to the bar, and caught the hunky bartender's attention. _Mm, nice chest._ He ordered a chocolate martini. Perching on a bar stool, he surveyed the meat market.

It was a pretty middle-of-the-road crowd, with a good sprinkling of women. Not much leather, a few bears, a mix of young and middle-aged guys all posturing, talking too loud, laughing like they wished they meant it. Club Boy would fit right in.

Some of them were pretty hot. A blond guy out on the dance floor moved with the kind of heat and sensual grace that drew eyes. His partner looked possessive though. There was a black man over there, six-foot-four if he was an inch, with fine shoulders and narrow hips. The lights reflected off his bald scalp as he threw his head back to laugh. _Tasty._ But he seemed pretty well surrounded.

Chris let his eyes scan the scene. He sipped his drink, drawing his tongue over his lips, savoring the taste. Beside him, a deep voice asked, "Hey. Are you here alone?"

Chris turned to the man. Not too old, not too heavy, nice teeth. _Let the games begin._ He smiled slowly. "I was."

Two hours later his shirt was damp with sweat and he needed a breather. He had danced with a series of hot guys, enjoying the freedom of getting out there and just moving to the beat. The pants were clearly a hit, judging from the number of hands that had found his ass. The hair gel was still holding. _I'll have to remember the brand._ He looked around for a place to park for a moment.

Over by the bar, one of his dance partners raised a glass at him. Chris pretended he hadn't seen. A hot body was nice, but he needed at least a room-temperature IQ to spend more than one dance with a guy. He turned away, and his attention was caught by a flash of white teeth. At a table up against the wall, a dark-haired guy was smiling at him. It wasn't an appreciative smile. More like an amused look-at-the-fool kind of smile. And wasn't that just the kind of challenge Club Boy would take on?

Chris sauntered over and pulled out the other chair. "Mind if I sit?" He sat down as he spoke.

The other man raised an eyebrow. "What if I said yes?"

_Mm, nice chocolate voice._ It almost made up for the nondescript look. Chris smiled his best pure sin. "Then you'd be a fool."

"My mama didn't raise no fool," the man acknowledged. There was unwilling heat in his eyes. It made Chris feel better.

"I just need a breather," Chris said. "I'll be out of your hair in a moment. It's hot on the floor."

"It is the way you dance."

Chris flushed with pleasure. For all his studied indifference, the man had been watching him. "Only way there is," Chris said. "If you're not going to lose yourself in it, what's the point?"

"You like getting yourself lost?"

Chris hesitated. Was that a crack, a come-on, a genuine enquiry? "I like dancing," he compromised.

"I could see that."

"And you don't?" It was a shot in the dark. He hadn't noticed the man before, one way or the other. But the lack of sweat on his brow and the lounged-back not-moving-till-I-have-to pose suggested an onlooker.

"I have the moves of a rhino," the man said. "A drunk rhino. At least on a dance floor. I like beer better."

"Bad place for beer," Chris offered. "Unless you're into Bud Light. They make a mean chocolate martini though."

The man shook his head. "Not my thing. But don't let me stop you."

"I've had one. Or two." Chris sighed and leaned back in his chair. The boots were not quite as good a fit as he'd thought when he bought them. One of his ankles was rubbed raw. He looked across at the other man. Lean, wiry, maybe an inch under six feet tall. His hair was straight and dark in the low bar lights, brown or maybe black. His features were nondescript, a narrow face, straight nose, cheeks hidden by a light stubble that looked more like failure to shave than deliberate fashion. His eyes were shadowed by thick straight brows. Chris suddenly wished he could see their color.

"So. What's a guy like you doing in a joint like this?" Chris asked.

The man laughed. "What are we all doing here?"

"Most of us are drinking, dancing, and trying to get laid," Chris said. "You seem to be peeling the label off a single bottle of beer."

The guy glanced down at his hands, and the scatter of tiny colored confetti on the table. When he looked up his expression was wry. "I'm here for moral support."

"Of?"

"My friend had a bad break-up. He wanted someone to shove him back into the game so he asked me to come along."

"Yeah?" Chris surveyed the crowd out on the dance floor. "One of those your friend?"

"The guy in the black T and jeans."

Chris laughed. "Oh, yeah, that narrows it down."

"The blond, over by the staircase, dancing with the guy in the silver spandex."

Chris scanned the floor, and located the couple in question. They were in a tight clinch, only nominally moving to the music. "He seems to be rebounding nicely."

"Seems to be."

"Which should leave you free to do your own thing."

"In here?" The guy tossed a quick glance around. "This beer bottle is the most interesting thing going."

"Ah." Chris bit back a moment of disappointment. Which was stupid, because who cared if this ordinary guy wasn't falling for Club Boy? He was a bad candidate for Chris's _dance, get drunk, get laid, and sober up by midnight_ agenda anyway. Chris stood. "I'll leave you to it, then."

The man shot out a quick hand to touch his wrist. "No, wait, I'm sorry," he said. "That came out wrong." When Chris hesitated, he said, "Please, sit."

Slowly, Chris resumed his chair. Club Boy's voice in his head was saying, _what the hell are you doing?_ because this guy was clearly not a quick-fuck-in-a-motel candidate. But Chris was interested. Club Boy could just shut up for a bit.

The man held out his hand. "I'm Ian."

"I'm...Robin." Chris never used his real name out cruising. The temptation to say it now came as a surprise.

"Good to meet you," Ian said. "I'm sorry if I've been grouchy. You're right. This place is not where I would spend the evening, given a free choice."

"So let's go somewhere else," Chris said recklessly. He had a sudden urge to get away from all the plastic people and spend a few hours with someone real. This guy felt real. "Where would you choose to go?"

"Um." The man looked him up and down. "Nowhere you'd enjoy. At least not looking like that."

Now there was a challenge. Chris grinned. "Sit here. Give me five minutes." He got up and headed for the door before Ian could open his mouth.

Chris had a plain blue T-shirt in his car. The hair gel and blue hair color washed out with water and a little soap in the bathroom up front. It wasn't his favorite pure herbal shampoo. His hair would probably be like straw tomorrow. But he felt reckless and charged up. He rubbed at his blond curls with paper towels. _Okay, slightly green curls._ Evidently, "washes out with one shampooing" was marketing hype. _It should look fine in dim light._

Ian was still at the table, sipping slowly from that prop bottle, when Chris walked up. Chris struck a pose. "Better?"

The man hesitated a moment, then smiled. Chris had to blink at the wattage of that grin. He couldn't help answering it. _And fuck, in that one look heat was flashing between them like Chris had never felt before_. Suddenly his intention to go out and have fun with this guy added a whole second agenda. One that involved _naked_ and _soon_.

Ian's face changed too. For a moment he looked really uncertain. But then he just said, "Let me go tell my friend I'm taking off."

"You may have to pry that other guy off his earlobe."

"I'll manage."

Chris watched as Ian made his way across the dance floor and accosted his blond buddy. It was interesting. Ian wasn't big, wasn't heavily muscled, and yet something about the way he moved just lent authority. The guys on the floor moved around him, instead of making him go around them. He got his friend's attention, and there was a brief conversation. At one point the blond looked Chris's way. Chris dropped his eyes and turned away slightly. No point in being too memorable.

Ian made his way back over. "All set. He'll catch a cab."

Chris said reluctantly, "I have wheels, if you need to leave yours here." For the first time, he was reluctant to let a pick-up ride in his car. Most of the men he met in bars were either amused or heated up by the pimp-mobile. But Chris thought Ian might be...disappointed.

"No," Ian said. "I don't want him driving anyway. He's had way more than two of those martinis."

"Works for me."

Chris followed Ian toward the door and out into the night. The air was soft and warm, with just a lingering touch of summer. The neon bar signs flickered off glass and chrome. Ian's eyes were still a mystery.

"I'm three blocks down," Ian said, pointing. "Do you mind?"

"I think I can manage." Chris fell into step beside him, not touching him, trying not to limp in his boots. For once, he had absolutely no clue where the evening was going.

Chapter 2

Ian scanned the curb for his truck, partly to keep his eyes off the man walking beside him. He wondered what the hell he was doing. This whole evening was screwed from the beginning. The Gold Coast was the sort of place he never voluntarily set foot in. If Trent hadn't practically sobbed on his shoulder, he wouldn't have been there tonight.

And this guy next to him. So not his type. Everything about him screamed empty-headed twinkie. The shirt, the hair, the smile, the way he danced out there on the floor. Those painted-on leather pants. Which maybe explained what he was doing, because the guy had a world-class ass inside that leather. And Ian had eyes. He wasn't immune to that body, moving that way.

He tried to think about where they were going. If he were on his own, he'd head for Mac's. A dozen good brews to choose from, low lights, no strobe, no dancing. But Mac's was a pretty rough bar. Even in a regular T-shirt with his hair down, this guy was not going to fit in.

Well, hell. Ian didn't blatantly advertise that he was gay, but he'd never been in the closet either. Maybe it was time Mac's caught up with the rest of the world. He reached his truck, and unlocked the passenger door. "Here," he said, buoyed up on a wave of reckless elation. "I'm gonna show you a real bar."

He had time to change his mind a few times before they got to Mac's, but he kept changing it back. The drive was silent, almost restful. This Robin guy didn't seem to feel the need to make random chatter. Once at a stoplight he glanced over and met Ian's eyes and said, "Blue," in a voice of satisfaction.

"Huh?"

"Your eyes. I just wondered."

"Oh. Yeah."

Suddenly Ian felt it again, that flash of heat running through him, pooling in his groin. Robin's steady gaze was like fire across his skin. He almost reached for the guy without thinking. He was saved by the turning of the light. _What the hell was that about?_ Ian was in control. He was always in control. It was how you survived.

The parking lot at Mac's wasn't full for a Friday night. Ian slid out and strode to the door before he could change his mind. Again. Robin caught the swinging door behind him and followed him in. A couple of the regulars nodded to Ian as he made his way to a table. He sat with his back to the wall and surveyed the room as Robin lowered himself into the other chair.

Sitting down was good. It was mainly Robin's leather pants that screamed fag. Well, that and maybe the green hair. Luckily, the type of assholes that would make an issue of it seemed to be absent tonight. Ian might get away with this crazy stunt. He beckoned a waitress over and ordered two home brews.

Robin looked across the table, his head tilted curiously. "This is really your kind of place?"

"Yes," Ian said roughly. "The beer and food can't be beat."

"And the ambience is so gay-friendly."

"Shush," Ian said. "That usually doesn't matter."

"So you don't come here with your boyfriend?"

Ian lowered his voice still more. This guy had no sense of self-preservation. "Don't have a boyfriend."

"Because you tried to take him to bars where he had to worry about getting his nuts kicked in?" Robin grinned.

Ian frowned. "Look, if you're uncomfortable, we'll leave."

"Nope. I can't wait to taste the best beer in town." He flashed Ian a hot look. "I'll have to count on you to protect me."

And Ian realized that his subconscious had been playing games with him. Because he _wanted_ to do that. He was just itching to kick someone's ass, and he'd set things up to get the perfect excuse. _Stupid._ It was Trent's ex, Jonathon, whom he wanted to beat to a bloody pulp. A random bar fight was just dumb. And anyway, he now was getting a far better idea about what to do with the excess adrenaline. He said. "This was a bad idea. I apologize. We'll drink our beers and then I'll take you someplace nicer."

Robin shrugged and took his full mug from the waitress. He handed her a five and waved away the change. Ian did the same. He watched as Robin took his first sip.

The man paid attention. He might be a twink, but he tasted the beer reflectively and then gave Ian a nice smile. "You have good taste." He let his eyes sweep the bar. "Well, in some things."

Ian took a deep draught of his beer. He wasn't apologizing twice. "So what do you do out in the real world, Robin?" he asked.

"When I'm not picking up strange men in bars?"

"I thought I picked you up."

"Maybe it was mutual."

Loud, laughing voices interrupted them. Ian looked up and then winced. Coming in the doors were just the type of guys he'd been glad not to see here: young, stupid, drunk and belligerent. Three of them swaggered in, shoving each other and laughing. "Shit," Ian said.

"What?" Robin's blue-green eyes were intense.

_Surely those were contacts; no one really had eyes that color._ And Ian had to get his brain back on track. "Just some bozos we don't want to party with. Hopefully they'll drink fast and leave or pass out." At least he'd had the sense to pick a dark corner table for Robin.

But Robin started getting to his feet, saying, "Why don't we just go?"

It was just the wrong thing to do at the wrong moment. The bozos were still standing, looking around, without drinks in their hands that they might hesitate to spill. Ian reached out to yank Robin back into his chair, but it was too late. A ceiling spot behind Robin shone off those pants and lit his hair to an almost fluorescent lime. _Ah, hell._

"Lookie here," the tallest bozo said, turning their way and gesturing at Robin. "Ain't he pretty? What's a thing like that doing in our bar? This is a no-faggots zone."

Ian aborted his grab for Robin, and slid his chair back. Better to be on his feet if things went sour.

Robin said in a reasonable voice, "Look. We're just leaving. So chill, okay?"

The heavyset bozo stuck his chin out and scowled. "You telling us what to do?"

"No. Just had a beer and now I'm leaving." Ian had to admire Robin's level voice. The guy couldn't weigh more than one-forty soaking wet. The biggest of those bozos was maybe twice that.

Ian took a quick look around. If Hank had been behind the bar, he would probably have cooled things down enough for them to walk out. Unfortunately it was Tricia. She had a sharp tongue if a creep was hassling someone, but the most she would offer in this situation was a 911 call. Which Ian would rather avoid.

Rudy was off near the kitchen, clearing tables and watching the place. He was big enough to give these guys pause. Unfortunately he was also one of the most equal-opportunity bigots Ian had ever met. Spics, japs, niggers, fags; Rudy hated them all. Ian saw Rudy's gaze slide over Robin and come to the obvious conclusion. The man picked up a tray of dirty glasses and disappeared into the back. _Thanks so much, man._

The three men began moving toward Robin instead of heading to the bar. The other customers looked more interested than worried. Bar fights were a time-honored entertainment at Mac's.

Ian stood carefully and eased out from behind the table, putting himself between Robin and the trio of morons. He let his voice slide to ice. "Just keep your cool, and everyone walks away from this. You came here to drink the famous beer, right?"

"You stay out of this, unless you want to end up tossed out on your ass like the fag," the big guy said.

_Idiot still thought this would be a joke._ Smart guys usually read Ian better than that. Of course these three were already drunk. "Believe me, you don't want to do this," Ian said. "Take the warning, and go have a beer."

"You're kidding, right?" The heavy guy edged left around the tables while the other two headed straight for them. "What are you? The faggot's boyfriend?"

"That's right," Ian said evenly. "And the guy who'll kick your ass if you lay a hand on him. So back off." It wasn't going to work though. They were too big, too young and way too stupid.

"No fighting in the bar," Tricia called out.

The tall guy laughed. "Don't worry, sweetheart. This won't take long. We're just gonna take out the trash."

_In a fight against the odds, make the first move unexpectedly and aggressively on the leader and the others may back down_. Ian had been taught that at a very early age. But in a bar fight, whoever made the first move was in the wrong, legally. He didn't need the complication. And with these bozos he was unlikely to need the advantage. He reached in his pocket and tossed the truck keys to Robin. "When this starts, go warm up the truck and wait for me."

"What?"

"Just do it," was all he had time for, before the biggest guy swung at him. It was a roundhouse blow, and telegraphed long before it happened. Ian stepped past it and buried his fist in the guy's gut. The hit should have dropped the man, but maybe he was too drunk to feel pain. He doubled up with a grunt, but then straightened. Well, shit.

The second man closed the distance with a roar. Not that he was hard to deal with either. Ian dropped the new guy with a couple of well-placed blows under the ribs. He ducked sideways even before the guy's ass hit the floor. The first man's meaty arm flashed past him. Ian grabbed it, torquing it up to bring the big guy to his knees. And that would have been that, except that Robin was standing staring at him, instead of moving out of harm's way. And the third guy lunged toward them, pulling a knife.

The knife was probably meant for Ian, but he couldn't take the chance. Ian yanked hard, and felt the pop as the big guy's arm slipped its socket. Ian let go immediately. That pain would hold an elephant, even if he was drunk. In the same move he pivoted. His foot lashed out. There was a crunch, and the knife went flying. The knife-wielder grabbed his wrist with a scream. _Not broken, but it's gonna feel like it._ Ian had pulled the strike, but not by much, with Robin standing there in arm's reach of the blade.

And then they were all done. The biggest guy writhed moaning on the floor, holding his shoulder. His pal was curled around his gut, whimpering and gasping like a fish as he tried to catch his breath. Ian's lip curled. He wasn't hurt, just the wind knocked out of him. The last guy standing had his left hand wrapped around his right wrist, clutching it tightly to his chest. His eyes were saucers, staring at Ian. Ian sighed. _Damn it._

He walked over to where the knife had fallen, took a napkin off a nearby table, and picked it up by the blade. Then he turned back to the trio. "Listen up," he said coldly. "You can call the cops if you like. But I have the blade, with your prints on it. I have witnesses that you swung first, three on two. And I have a clean record." He raised an eyebrow and nodded toward Tricia, who stood holding the phone.

"You son-of-a-bitch," the standing man ground out.

"That's faggot son-of-a-bitch to you," Ian told him. "Cops? Yes or no?" He was aware of Robin standing completely rigid beside him. The other man might be scared, angry, or just desperately anxious not to talk to cops. Ian couldn't spare the attention to check right now.

After a long moment, the bozo shook his head. "No cops."

Ian nodded. "Wise choice." He turned to Tricia. "They might want an ambulance for that shoulder, once I'm gone."

Rudy came out from the back and stood beside her at the bar, glaring at Ian. "You're not welcome here anymore," he snarled.

"Fair enough," Ian said evenly. "Robin? Ready to head out?"

Robin choked a laugh. "Oh, yeah."

"I'll take those keys." Robin handed them over and Ian shepherded the man outside, keeping himself between Robin and any possible source of trouble. Not that he expected anyone to take him on after that little demonstration. But you didn't stay safe by being complacent.

He opened Robin's door for him, and shut it safely before rounding the truck and getting in. He tucked the wrapped knife in the door pocket, just in case. A slow cruise for fifty feet and they pulled out into steady evening traffic. After a few minutes Robin blew out a long breath. "Okaaay. You have a different idea of Friday night entertainment."

"I didn't plan on that."

"Are you certain?"

_The hell of it was that he wasn't really sure. Which he wasn't about to admit_. "I don't like to fight."

"You're good at it though." Robin eyed him speculatively. "Special Forces?"

"No." After a moment Ian relented. The guy was entitled to some kind of explanation. "My dad was, in Vietnam. He was a little...obsessed with survival skills." Ian's father had seen so many boys die overseas, that he'd made sure his kids learned every skill he could instill in them. When Ian's mother was alive that had meant mostly lessons; diving, rock-climbing, marksmanship, karate. After his mom died things had become more...intense. Ian added, "He taught all us kids to fight, pretty much from the moment we could walk. My sister was the deadliest cheerleader in Birchmount High."

"How many kids?"

"I have two brothers. Just the one sister."

"So four of you. All combat-trained?" Robin quirked a smile. "Remind me not to piss off your family."

"Good idea." Ian maneuvered the truck through traffic. Beside him, Robin was quiet. "So," Ian ventured. "Do you really want to go to another bar?"

"I'm not sure I can handle that much excitement."

"What _could_ you handle?" And with that question, the heat between them came roaring back. Ian caught a short breath. His skin felt too tight, his palms itched.

"What would you like me to handle?" Robin asked, and his voice was pure sex.

Ian grunted. "I could show you, if you want."

"I'm up for that." Robin ran a hand across his own thigh and around between his legs. Ian _was not_ looking. Mainly because it was already getting hard to drive.

"You got a place, Robin?"

"Nope. Not nearby."

"We could go to my place," Ian heard himself say. _What the hell?_ He _never_ brought a man home. Not ever. But maybe he owed this guy something, for almost letting him get cut. And maybe he wanted to see that golden body laid out on his dark brown sheets.

"If you like." Robin smiled wickedly. "Is it far?" He slid that exploring hand from his own leg to Ian's, scratching with his fingernail up the inseam of Ian's jeans.

"No. Although it might be too far, if you keep doing that while I'm driving." Ian had been half hard already. The touch of that hand was like fire running up his nerves. He lifted the man's hand and replaced it on Robin's own thigh. Then he let his own hand explore a little. There was substantial muscle under that smooth black leather, for all the man's small size. And not a half bad package either. Robin shivered under Ian's fingers. _Desire_ or..."You're not scared to come home with me, are you?"

"Should I be?"

"I'd never hurt you," Ian said seriously.

The other man nodded slowly. "You didn't start that fight, other than maybe by putting us in a position to provoke it. And you stopped the moment things were under control. So while I may not buy the "I don't like to fight" thing, I don't think you're into uncontrolled violence."

"Thanks, I think."

Robin slowly ran the tip of his tongue over his full lower lip. "I like it hard. I don't like it painful. If you know the difference, then we're good."

"I'm not into pain, mine or anyone else's. But I can do hard," Ian told him. And it wasn't his own breath that he heard catch. _Good._ He liked to think that he wasn't the only one whose pulse was pounding right now.

The drive home had never felt so long. Somehow, the casual touches of their hands turned into a serious contest of who could drive the other further round the bend with just the motion of fingers over fabric. Ian thought he was losing. After all, Robin had both hands free. Or perhaps he was winning. The definition was unclear.

He steered the truck into his garage with a sigh of relief. _Switch off the ignition, remove the keys._ Then he reached for Robin, and found that hot mouth with his own. He slanted his lips over Robin's full ones, and forced his tongue deep. Robin moaned and opened for him. But Robin's hands were still busy and _...oh, shit, that was too good_. Ian pulled back. "Fuck," he groaned. "I am not doing this in the truck like a pair of teenagers. Come on."

They stumbled up the steps and into his kitchen. He swiped at a light switch, missed, tossed his wallet and keys toward the dish. Then he wrapped his arms around Robin. The kiss was even better like this, face to face. He rubbed his hands down Robin's back, and dug his fingers into round butt-cheeks under soft leather. He pulled them together, and found Robin doing the same, straining closer. Their hips collided, pressing against the barriers of fabric and leather. Robin kissed Ian like he wanted to inhale him. They were both panting when Ian broke the kiss.

"Now. Need you now," he rasped. He'd never had a guy wind him up this far before they even got to skin. Never been unwilling to wait long enough to get up one flight of stairs. But damned if he would wait this time. He spun Robin around in his arms and shoved him up against the kitchen counter. That amazing ass pressed against his crotch. He groaned, and reached around for Robin's zipper.

In his arms underneath him, Robin uttered little whimpering moans. Ian jerked open the man's fly and grunted, wrestling with the tight leather. Then Robin freed a hand from his grip on the counter to help. Together they peeled the pants down far enough to prove there was nothing under them but sweet naked ass. Ian pressed in tight, bending his knees, running his denim-trapped cock up the man's crack. Robin shuddered and wriggled, straining up on his toes and opening more. He gripped the counter, pulling himself higher and tipping his hips back.

Ian fumbled with his own fly. _Condom, condom._ Thank God some part of his brain still worked. "No condoms," he grated. _He hadn't planned for this._

"Front pocket." Robin leaned sideways as he dug down and passed a wrapper back. Ian ripped it open. It was hard to suit up. His hand was shaking, and he barely wanted to touch himself, for fear he would go off like a firecracker before he ever sank home in that tight ass.

"Lube," Robin said on a panting breath. "It's been a while, and I felt that monster you've got. You're not getting inside me without lube. Oh, God, _please_." His words dissolved into a needy moan as Ian ran a hand up between Robin's legs and cupped his balls.

_Lube._ Ian's mind went blank. He wasn't going upstairs for it, just wasn't. It occurred to him that this lithe man under him probably had some. Probably had single use packs all ready in one of those tight pockets, for whichever man from the bar he decided to let fuck him. Probably flavored or sensitivity or some other fancy thing, for whoever he hooked up with to pound that willing ass tonight.

Ian ground his teeth. His fumbling hand found the olive oil carafe and he grabbed it around its ceramic neck. _Don't be fucking empty._ He tilted the little jug, and a thin golden stream ran over his fingers and down onto Robin. In the dim light, the golden oil matched fine golden skin perfectly.

He aimed better, letting the slick shine trickle down from the base of the man's spine into that sweet dark groove. He meant to lick it, to tease, but need had him by the throat. He slid two fingers through the oil, and pressed in deep. Robin groaned, and Ian hesitated. But Robin bucked toward him, pushing his fingers in further. Robin was babbling, and between the panting whimpers the words were _yes_ and _please_ and _more_ , not stop. Ian crooked his fingers, rubbing, trying to find the swell of Robin's gland in that tight clinging softness.

_There_. Rounded, firm; he tapped and pressed, and felt Robin jerk in response. Each touch of his fingertips had Robin shoving back into him, humping his hand, gasping in response. Ian slid his fingers apart, spreading wide, and then pulled out and arched over Robin's back. He reached down and placed his latex-covered head against Robin's pucker. "Yes?"

"God, yes," Robin begged. "Now! Fuck me now."

"Damn." Ian shoved home. For just a moment, Robin's body resisted. Ian shifted, frantic, searching for the right angle. Then that hot, tight ass opened for him and he sank deep. There were no words in the sound Robin made, but the shuddering clutch of his deep muscles dragged Ian inward. Ian swayed forward, his hands digging into those narrow hips. His breath came in rough gasps. He thrust hard, drew almost out, and then plunged again. Robin whimpered and spread his legs wider. And Ian lost control.

He pounded home, slamming himself deep into that welcoming soft grip. His skull echoed with Robin's begging moans, his own harsh grunts, the fuck slap of flesh on flesh. He was thrusting harder than he meant to, harder than he had ever used a man before, but Robin was still saying yes. He leaned over the man, feeling that hot firm back against his chest. His face was in Robin's hair, his mouth on Robin's neck, salt skin under his tongue. Ian bit that sweet flesh, hard. Robin's groan was pure desire. And Ian came in one overwhelming rush, losing himself completely as he climaxed inside Robin's tight clasp.

When he could breathe again, he heard Robin whimpering, "Please, God, please, so close, so close."

Ian pressed in steadily with his hips and slid his oil-slick hands around. Robin's cock was iron in his fist. Robin's balls throbbed with the pulse in his groin. Ian stroked the man, closing his fingers firmly, rhythmically, and Robin wailed. Thick hot spunk boiled up through Ian's fingers. Under him, the man's small toned body bucked and shuddered with the force of orgasm. He felt Robin's weight sag as his knees went weak. Ian changed from stroking to a firm support around the guy's hips, pinning them together. Tremors rippled through them both, as Robin shook in his arms.

"Holy Christ," Robin whispered.

Ian looked down at the man he was holding. The smaller man was stretched tight and pink around Ian's big dick. Streams of oil and spatters of his own cum streaked Robin's thighs. On the side of his neck, the deep red print of Ian's teeth was visible, even in the dim light.

"God, I'm sorry," Ian whispered, reaching down with one hand to hold the condom as he eased Robin down and pulled out. "I...that was too rough. I'm sorry."

Robin turned against his arm and kissed him lightly. "I'm not," he said. "I asked for it. Christ, I wanted it. That was awesome."

"Still." Ian reached out and ran the tip of his finger over the bite mark on Robin's neck. "Can we...can I take you to bed now and do it right? I want to show you I do know better than to pound your ass into the counter."

"I'm not sure I can handle anything righter than that."

"I want to see you, all of you. I want to kiss all of you, lick you, taste you."

"Wow." Robin smiled at him. "I'm not sure that's an offer it's possible to refuse."

Ian tugged his own jeans higher and zipped carefully, leaving his button open. He dropped the condom in the kitchen trash behind him. Robin tried to wrestle those shiny pants into place. Ian could have helped, but he'd rather watch.

"How'd you get those on in the first place?" he asked curiously.

A wicked dimple appeared on the man's cheek. "Holding my breath and thinking about icebergs. Which is not happening right now, soooo..." He gave up the struggle with the zip. "Lead on, McDuff."

"This way." Ian started up the stairs, all too aware of the man behind him. Robin breathed softly. Leather brushed leather. A minute ago Ian would've said he was good for an hour's foreplay before he'd want anything else serious again. He was downgrading that time frame with every step.

"In here." He liked his bedroom. The walls were pale cream. The wood trim was dark walnut. The floor gleamed faintly as he switched on the lamp. A simple dresser, a night stand in the same dark wood. No fuss, no clutter. And the big bed, with sheets and comforter in chocolate brown and cream.

Robin paused, his head tilted, looking around. "Nice," he said. "Very you." His hands went to the hem of his T-shirt.

"Let me," Ian said quickly, stepping toward him. He wanted to unwrap his present slowly. Robin dropped his hands and stood relaxed, head back a little, as Ian bent to kiss him. The heat between them was different now. Slow molten streams of gold moved through Ian's body, mouth to hands to groin. He kissed the man, long and sweet, stroking Robin's lips with just a tongue tip. Even when Robin's mouth opened and he made that sweet little begging sound, Ian kept his touch light. He slid down and licked gently over the mark of his teeth on gold skin. He kissed the hollow of Robin's throat.

He let his fingers trail up the flat stomach under the shirt to the hard swell of Robin's pecs. Not that it was easy - even this T-shirt was freaking tight on the man. He took hold of the hem and slowly pulled it upward. Robin's skin was the same even gold everywhere. His stomach was toned, his chest taut. Round flat copper discs surrounded the small nubs of his nipples. Ian bent to lick and kiss in the wake of the sliding cotton. Smooth warm satin under his lips, no hair anywhere. He swirled his tongue around one of those tight nipples, and was rewarded with a shudder.

"Mm, yeah, that's nice," Robin murmured.

Ian pulled back a little to lift the shirt higher. Robin was smiling, eyes half closed. He had a cat-got-the-cream expression. Ian yanked the shirt up and off him, and then grabbed a fistful of hair, and took back that full mouth.

The kiss slowly got hotter. He played inside Robin's mouth, stroking tongues, testing the smooth sharpness of teeth. Robin's arms came around him, his hands warm on Ian's back. Their hips ground together. Ian was steel-hard again already, and it sure felt like Robin was the same. Ian wanted to see it.

He dropped to his knees, sliding through those small strong hands. The leather waistband gave under his fingers and he pulled slowly down. And yeah, the front view was just as nice as the back. Flat stomach, deep grooves from hip to groin leading his eye down to a nice package. Robin wasn't big, but he was pretty, all golden tan, even along that hard arching shaft, and shaved clean. Ian wasn't used to that, but he found he liked it. Everything right there to look at, to taste. He licked at Robin's hip, and then down toward his soft sac.

Slowly, he eased the leather pants down to the man's ankles. Short black boots blocked him. Robin put a hand on Ian's shoulder and toed off one and then the other. Together, they worked the smaller man's legs free of the leather. Then Robin took a step back from the heap of clothes, and held out his arms a little. "You like?"

Ian did. The man might not be big, but he was _fine_. Not muscled like a gym rat, but some work had gone into that golden body. Ian stood and smiled. "You tan nude?"

"Nope. I don't know my heritage but I'm some kind of mutt. That's just the color I am."

Ian reached out and pulled him closer, and bent to get his mouth busy across that chest. "Pretty," he mumbled around the other puckered nipple. "You are so fucking pretty." Pretty had never been his type, but this night was breaking all the rules. He straightened. "Pull down the sheets and get on the bed."

Robin raised his eyebrows at the tone of command, but he did as he was told. And if he took a little extra time to move the comforter, and if his ass just happened to point right at Ian as he bent to smooth it, well that was all part of this game. Robin stretched out on those chocolate sheets on his back and cupped himself with one hand. Ian's breath caught. _Yeah, that was the picture, all right._

"Come here, Ian," Robin purred.

"Eventually." Ian stripped himself slowly, eyes on the man in his bed.

From Robin's expression, he liked what he saw. Ian knew what he looked like. He wasn't handsome, wasn't anything special, but he was fit. After all these years, he had built the body he wanted, fast and lean. It would take being in a coma for him to neglect it now. _A voice in his mind said, "Your body is your first and last line of defense." He shook his head. Get out of my mind, old man._ His body was not involved in combat here.

He stalked over to the bed and crawled up it from the foot. Robin's thighs opened to give him room. When Ian reached a position over the man, he caged him with his body and arms. Then he smiled and began.

Jack had taught him where to lick, where to kiss. How a puff of hot breath, when touch was expected, could make a man shiver. How to use kneading fingers, a graze of teeth in a vulnerable spot, and then move back up to take a kiss. Robin's hands found his hair, and then dropped to his shoulders, urging him on, but he took his sweet time. He wanted this man trembling with need under him.

He moved lower, spreading firm thighs to run his tongue over naked balls and down to that sweet ass. He looked as he kissed. Not too red, maybe a little swollen? He'd never pounded a man like that. Jack would have had him across the room with his own ass in traction if he'd ever been that rough. He and Jack had slowly realized that they were both more top than bottom. It had worked to take turns, as long as the man on top did it right. Past a certain point, you could get most anyone begging for it, if you kept it hot and slow. Ian licked gently, caressing that abused pucker with his tongue.

He liked Robin's voice. And those little bucking shudders as the man's body sought his touch, those were nice too. He licked his way back up, swirling around the base of that slender cock, and then took him in. He could deep-throat this guy as he never had Jack and he did it, swallowing him down. Robin groaned hard. He pulled Ian's arms, hauling him off and up, and kissed him like he never wanted to stop.

Man, Robin could kiss. His mouth was sweet, his tongue gentle and skilled. He touched Ian, held him, licked him. Ian was melting into it like ice-cream in the sun. Robin's smell, Robin's touch, made him dizzy.

Ian pulled back and looked down at Robin. He pressed his hands firmly down on the man's hips to keep him pinned to the bed. Robin's lips were swollen and red from Ian's kisses. That ridiculous green hair was mussed, falling into the turquoise eyes. Robin was breathing hard, and the heaving of his chest sent lamplight sliding over the wet trails from Ian's tongue. _Holy God._

"I wish I'd kept the hard stuff for later," Ian whispered. "I would so like to be inside you again now."

"Then do it," Robin said. "I'm fine. I want it."

"You'll be too sore."

"I don't care." Robin reached down and caught Ian's throbbing length in his hands. He stroked, squeezing, twisting. "I like thinking I'll still feel you inside me tomorrow. Please, baby." He guided Ian lower.

_Christ. How could Ian say no to that?_ "Slowly," he said. "With lots of lube. And you tell me if you need to stop."

Robin grinned wickedly, and ran his tongue over his flushed lips. "Fuck me."

Ian leaned over to the nightstand. All this time, and the supplies were still there. He checked the condom carefully as he unwrapped it, but it seemed fine. Slowly he unrolled it down his dick, eyes fixed on Robin. The lube was more recent vintage. He poured some into his hands.

Robin took hold of the backs of his own knees and hauled himself up and open. The guy was limber. Even with his knees up around his ears he breathed easily, his face just a little flushed.

"Nice view," Ian growled. He sat back on his haunches, and put slippery fingers where they would do the most good.

Robin wriggled under his touch, angling for more, but Ian kept it light. The lube glided under his fingers over the man's ass, cock, sac, up and around. He pressed in just a little, just one fingertip, and then withdrew for more lube. When he pulled out the second time Robin gasped and Ian cocked an eyebrow at him. "Okay?"

"Don't go so fucking slow, you torturing bastard."

Ian smiled. "I like slow. I want you begging for it." He bent to his task again.

Robin was panting, babbling, and begging, by the time Ian slid a handful of lube along himself. He shifted, leaned forward, and pulled Robin's legs onto his own shoulders. Robin curled upward, hands clenched in the sheets. Ian reached between them and slowly, inch by inch, filled the other man.

He watched as best he could, through the pounding pulse in his ears, through the black veil of haze that dropped over him. He shook with the sensation of sliding into that gloved softness. Robin didn't flinch. Those turquoise eyes were wide, demanding more. Ian shifted his hips, a tiny motion, sliding in, in, in. "Please," Robin begged. "Please, Ian, Ian, baby, please." Ian bent to kiss him, holding them still. The taste of Robin was in his mouth. The heat that enveloped him was seconds away from dragging him over.

Robin bit at Ian's lips, reached around to dig fingers into his ass cheeks. Then one slender fingertip reached Ian's hole. A brush of touch, and he knew he was going. He changed the angle, thrust forward and nailed Robin's prostate. He could feel the electric jolt go through the other man. _Yeah, just like that_. Ian drove in again and again, keeping the angle, dragging over Robin inside. And it was all over. Ian heard himself shout, wordless and hoarse. Robin groaned and shuddered, the cream boiling from his slit as he rubbed against Ian's straining belly. And Ian collapsed on him, jolting the breath out of both of them.

_Gotta move_. He got an elbow under himself enough to get his weight off Robin's chest, and stuck there, trembling. A push, and he rolled to his side. He pulled free of Robin's ass as he fell, and Robin gasped. Ian gathered him in, clumsy and half blind. He kissed that soft green hair, the sweaty golden skin. His eyes closed.

Their breath came hoarse and fast as they lay there. Neither one moved. Ian felt cool liquid trickling down his thigh. _Got to deal with the condom_. It was more than he was capable of right now. Robin was the first to shift, curling in a little against Ian's side. His chuckle was soft. "Okay. Stick a fork in me, I'm done."

"Not sticking anything anywhere," Ian panted. "Maybe next week."

Robin kissed his shoulder, a light brush of lips. "That was fantastic. Thank you."

"Not too much?"

"I may never move again. But no, it was perfect." Robin sighed. "I could sleep for a week."

"Stay here," Ian urged. Suddenly that was all that he wanted. To wake up in this bed with Robin curled around him, warm and golden and smelling of sex. "Spend the night. I'll take you back as early as you like."

But he could feel Robin shaking his head. "God, I wish. But..." Robin eased up on one elbow and looked at the clock radio. "Shit. Damn. It's almost midnight."

"You what, turn into a pumpkin?"

"No." But Robin rolled away from him, reaching for tissues. "I promised I'd pick someone up at midnight. They'll be waiting for me."

Something about the way he said that set off alarm bells in Ian's head. "Someone who? Another lover?"

"God, no." Robin's surprise seemed genuine. "I don't play those kind of games."

Ian sat up on his side of the bed and eyed Robin. No eye contact. "Wife?"

A headshake, but there was a flush creeping up the side of Robin's neck.

"Girlfriend?"

"It's not what you think," Robin said urgently. "I mean, yeah, we're supposed to be engaged but..."

Ian reached out and clamped his hand over the other man's mouth. " _Don't._ Don't say one more word, okay?" He felt dirty, used. This guy was going to get up out of his bed and go home to his _fiancée_.

"But..."

He replaced the hand, harder this time. "No excuses. Get dressed and I'll take you back to your car. I'm going into the bathroom to get cleaned up." He strode out the door before he could hear another word of _she doesn't understand me, she's fine with this, we both mess around, we both cheat, it's just fun, she'll never know_...God!

He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He'd gone and done it. Well, what did he expect? Pick up a guy in a bar like the Gold Coast, bring him home, fuck the shit out of him, it was a one night stand. He hadn't asked about Robin's lifestyle. He hadn't asked anything. The guy might live with a woman and fuck a different man every night. Probably did, if the clothes were any indication. Ian started the water in the sink. He grabbed a cloth to clean himself.

The condom had leaked. Or maybe just overflowed. God, he couldn't remember the last time he'd come that hard. Couldn't remember _ever_ coming that hard. And that was what was so fucked. Because this had been the best sex of his life. And not just the hard stuff, but the soft, sweet, tender stuff too. And the best sex of your life should be with someone who means something to you. Not some hot body you pick up off the dance floor for a quick fuck.

Ian splashed water over his face. The taste of salt trickled into his mouth from his sweat-soaked hair. His eyes stared back at him, dilated and blue. Ian McCallum, secret romantic. Or not so secret, because he knew that about himself. It was why he'd had sex so seldom since Jack died. He wanted each one to be more, to be special. He wanted a lover, not a fuck-buddy. And somehow, that special guy just hadn't come his way.

He should go back out there. The man was stranded without his ride. He owed Robin at least a lift back to the club. And he should say something about the condom. He knew he was clean, but he couldn't prove it. And wouldn't that be romantic, trading phone numbers so they could exchange test results later? He washed thoroughly. Maybe the leaking had come after the fact. Probably it had.

He finally forced himself to step out of the bathroom and go back to the bedroom. Which was empty. _Where the fuck was the guy now?_ He was suddenly angry. What did he know about Robin anyway? He might be downstairs robbing Ian blind. Ian pounded down the stairs.

The ground floor was also empty. Ian checked the dish for his wallet and keys. Still there. All the credit cards intact. There was a note scribbled on the back of a grocery receipt, lying on the counter.

"Caught a cab. It was fun. Have a nice life."

It wasn't even signed. No address, no phone, not even a last name. No indication Robin ever wanted to see Ian again. Of course, given the way Ian had treated him, he probably didn't. Ian walked naked to the door and opened it a crack to peer out, but the street outside was empty. How had Robin caught a cab so fast? Or was he walking out toward the main street? Ian didn't like the thought of that small man walking the streets alone at midnight. Even these quiet suburban ones. He grabbed his keys. He had a long coat in the closet.

_So now what, you're going to follow him like some creepy stalker?_ Ian dropped the keys back in the dish.

_It was a one night stand. It was just a hot, sexy, different one night stand with a really good-looking, cheating, closeted bastard_. There was irony for you. The guy in shit-kickers was gay and out; the guy in silk and leather was deep in the closet.

_Just drop it and move on_. Ian's body ached a little as he climbed the stairs. For some reason, the ache seemed to be centered deep in his chest.

Chapter 3

Chris had worked up a pretty good head of steam by the time the cab dropped him off at his car. The only catch to getting a really good mad on was the realization that he wasn't sure who he was angrier at, Ian or himself.

He'd never been quite so thoroughly dumped. Or at least not since he stopped telling his dates anything real about himself back in college. Ian had looked at him like Chris was some cheating slut, like mud he wanted to scrape off his shoes as fast as possible. And it hurt worse because for just a moment, Chris had felt this incredible sense of connection to the man. He'd actually _wanted_ to stay the night. To wake up in the morning plastered up against Ian's hard body and looking into the heat of those blue eyes.

Which was probably why he'd fumbled the excuse for leaving. He'd been so busy making sure Ian wouldn't think there was another man, that he'd actually let the word 'engaged' slip his lips. That _never_ happened. Chris had his cover stories practically tattooed on his brain. Robin's carefree and encumbrance-free life was second nature. And _damn_ Ian for scrambling his brains to the point where he messed it up.

Luckily, the man had been so disgusted he hadn't asked for any details. Unless Ian showed up somewhere in the future and recognized Chris, it wouldn't matter. Chris figured he just wouldn't go cruising again for a while. No letting Robin loose where he might be seen. It didn't feel like a sacrifice at this point. Just sitting down in his car was a good reminder that he'd had his fling. And after Ian, picking up some other stranger just didn't appeal.

Despite the man's uptight personality, Ian had given Chris exactly what he was looking for. He forced back the last of his bad mood as he neared Becca's house. He'd had fun, and his little slip hadn't had consequences worth worrying about. Chris had been about to leave and never see Ian again anyway. So what did it matter if the guy would remember Robin as a mistake instead of a hot date? Not like Robin didn't leave his pick-ups behind on a regular basis and never think about them again. Ian was just one more.

It was late by the time he pulled into his slot in Becca's garage. He expected to have to knock on the inner door, but Jenny was waiting for him, leaning against the Corvette. Her expression was not forgiving.

"Sorry, ran late," he offered as he slid out of the black bomb and locked it up.

"Ten minutes is running late," Jenny snarled. "Forty-seven minutes is just fucking inconsiderate. Get in."

_Well, okay then._ Chris slid carefully into the passenger seat of the Corvette, trying to hide the wince as he sat down. Jen peeled out of the drive and headed for home. Chris just waited. Whatever was eating his girl, it did no good to push her. She just got stubborn. She would tell him in her own time.

It was only four blocks before she said bitterly, "Becca wants a baby."

Chris stared at her, and then looked again. Jen was blinking hard, and tears welled in her eyes. _She was crying? Jenny never cried._

"Pull over," Chris said firmly.

"Don't tell me what to do." Jenny took a swipe at her eyes.

"Pull over. You're going to cry a lot harder if you wreck the Corvette."

"Shit." A quick swerve, and Jenny slotted the car neatly into a curbside space. She sat looking out the windshield. After a moment she raised her hands to her face, rubbing hard.

"Tell me about it," Chris urged softly.

"I can't." Jenny ground her teeth, clearly fighting back more tears. After a couple of tries, she cursed again. "I can't talk about it just sitting here. You drive."

"What?"

She flung herself out of the car, and stalked around to Chris's side. "Get the hell out and drive."

"Okay, sweetie, chill." Chris slid out carefully, and made his way to the driver's side. He adjusted the mirrors and the seat, waiting for Jenny to regain her senses and order him out again.

She just glared at him. "I assume you do know how to drive."

"Yes, ma'am." He checked twice and then pulled back onto the road. The Corvette was a sweet ride. Too bad he was too worried to enjoy it. "Spill it, Jen."

Jenny turned to stare out the window away from him. "Becca got offered a promotion. She'll travel a lot less. And she's thirty-three. She says she always swore she'd have her kids before she was thirty-five. Because of her mom, you know, having her late and then dying while Becca was in high school."

"So she's feeling the clock ticking."

"Right. She wants a baby soon."

"Does she want you to carry it?" _That could be hard, with Jenny's career._

"No. No, she's willing to be the birth mom. She's even eager to. But she doesn't want to have a kid with someone who's on the down low. She says she needs her child's other parent to be there for them, out in the open. To do her share of the child rearing, go to Mommy-and-me classes, doctor appointments. She doesn't want her kid to have to keep secrets."

"I guess I can understand that," Chris said slowly.

"Yeah, I can too," Jenny said. "But I can't do it. Not unless I quit my career." She pounded her fist on the dashboard. " _Damn_ Obama and his promises. He was going to repeal DADT. He's had two fucking years with a Democratic congress and he just let it slide away." She slumped in her seat. "If I was a guy, Becca could have the kid and she'd even be covered by my health insurance. We could have a life, a family. But just because I'm a woman, I can't even touch her in public." Jenny was silent for a long time and then wiped her eyes. "She gave me an ultimatum, Chris. Six months. I have six months to find a way to come out and be with her openly. Or she's going to go looking for a lover who's not in the closet."

"She wouldn't do that," Chris said firmly. "She loves you."

"Yeah, but she hates this sneaking around. And up till now it hasn't been too bad, with her out of town so much. We get together whenever she's home. But what happens when she's home for months at a time? I can't be there every night. I can't take her out for meals and movies too often. I can't introduce her to my friends or my family. _Shit!_ "

"Are you thinking about quitting the Navy?"

"I've been thinking about it ever since I met Becca. But now, yeah, a lot more. The job's changed. Markham treats me like a glorified secretary, instead of a trained investigator. It's not the same with Sanders gone."

Captain Sanders had been Jenny's mentor, as well as her boss. They had worked well together, until the day Sanders discovered someone in their own office had been stealing right under his nose. Chris remembered the evenings of Jenny pacing and cursing, as she and Captain Sanders uncovered systematic thefts by a man they both had trusted. The losses had gone on for years, until the man got greedy. They had caught the thief, but Sanders had taken retirement, with the black mark on his record. And Markham had been brought in to replace him.

"So quit, then," Chris suggested. It would blow his own living arrangements, but suddenly that felt liberating, not scary. "You've done nothing but bitch for two months."

"But I used to love it," Jenny said. "I was serving my country and doing something worthwhile. And this is the military. You can't just say goodbye and walk away. I have to put in the request, and wait God knows how long. I have two years before my reenlistment comes up. Unless I come out and get booted, and lose all my benefits. And if I do get out, then what? There aren't jobs just hanging on trees these days. I don't want to sit around collecting unemployment. "

"You'd find something."

"I kept thinking it would work out," Jenny said bitterly. "The law would change. They'd let me stay on my terms. But six months! I can't make myself believe it will happen within six months. Especially with politics the way they are now, with the elections this fall. I hate ultimatums."

Chris nodded. "Becca knows that. I think she's actually been pretty patient. But you've been together what, four years now? And you're still having me tag along when you go out to sneak in a visit with her. I can see her getting impatient for you to choose."

"Not tonight." Jenny closed her eyes. "I can't do this tonight."

Chris pulled the car into their driveway, and steered carefully into Jenny's slot in the garage. _Do not scratch the Corvette._ He cut the ignition, and turned to Jenny. "You need to sleep on it. And maybe think about next year and in ten years, where you want to be."

"I can't have where I want to be," Jenny said plaintively. Then she got out abruptly, her motions jerky. "Fuck. Listen to me whining. I'm not like that. I don't whine. I solve problems or I kick them down and roll right over them."

"Maybe not the approach to use with Becca," Chris quipped.

Jenny's mouth twitched, and she glanced at him. "Hey, I never even asked how your evening went. Have fun?"

_Fun?_ Flashes of the evening, of sex with Ian, of Ian fighting in the bar, of strong bitter beer on his tongue and a man's taste, a man's deep chocolate voice, sex with Ian..."Sure," he said lightly. Jenny didn't need any of his shit right now. "I met a..." _Not cute; nothing about Ian was cute_. "A hot guy, and got my ass fucked into next week. It was fine."

Jenny peered at him for a moment. Maybe his tone had been off. But she was wrapped up in her own problems and she let it go. "Good. TMI but otherwise good."

_I wish._ Chris tossed her the keys and followed her into the house.

***

"...so then he asked me back to his place and it was amazing," Trent said.

Ian rubbed his aching head and tried to listen better. "You went home with a stranger?"

"God, yes," Trent said. "Did you see that guy? Man, he's hot. We partied all night. I had to call in sick to work. I literally could not get my ass out of the bed."

"You get time-and-a-half pay for Saturdays."

Trent shrugged. "It's just money. Anyway I'm going to meet him again tonight. And Jonathon can just choke on that."

"Do you actually like this guy, or are you just rebounding?" Ian asked. Not that he thought Trent knew the difference. You couldn't ask for a sweeter guy, but honestly. Every relationship was true love for Trent. He was up in the air or crushed in the depths of despair on a regular basis. Ian got dizzy sometimes just trying to keep track.

"Of course I like him." Trent sounded hurt. "I adore him. Weren't you listening?"

"Sorry. Headache."

"I'll make you some tea." Trent got up and began bustling around his kitchen.

_Damn._ Now Ian would have to choke down some strange herbal brew and pretend it helped. Otherwise Trent would keep pulling out the remedies until Ian got better out of self-defense.

Ian leaned back and watched Trent fuss with his copper kettle and stoneware mugs, and a cute little infuser shaped like a teapot. Ian didn't look too closely at the herb canister. He didn't want to know what he was going to be drinking. Eventually Trent set a steaming mug in front of him. Ian picked it up and sniffed cautiously. This time the smell wasn't too horrible. Ian closed his eyes and breathed in the steam, and it seemed to help a little. He took a sip. Trent nodded approvingly and sat back down.

"Didn't you have a good time with that blond twinkie you picked up?" Trent asked.

"He's not a twinkie," Ian snapped.

"Well, I kind of figured there had to be more to him than that," Trent said. "But he was nothing like your usual. He sure had the fuck-me-quick packaging."

_Stumbling into the kitchen, bodies on fire, so driven by need that he never even made it to the stairs._ Shit, he needed to stop remembering. "Yeah, nice package."

"So, did you fuck him?"

"Since when is that any of your business?" Ian snarled.

Trent stared at him, holding up his empty hands. "Hey, chill, Ian. I didn't mean anything."

"Sorry." Ian rubbed his forehead again. "Sorry, I'm just in a bad mood. It started out nice but kind of ended badly." _When I called him a cheating slut and drove him out of the house._ "I don't want to talk about it."

Trent put a gentle hand on his arm. "That's too bad. I was really happy to see you hooking up with somebody. You've hardly looked at a guy since Jack died. But I guess I could have seen that one wasn't going to be a winner."

"I've dated other guys since Jack."

"What, two in three years?"

"Three _." If you counted Robin. Which he shouldn't, except that he couldn't stop thinking about the man._

"You need to get out more, go places you can meet the kind of men you might like." Trent looked excited, engaged. "I can check it out, find out which bars are a better fit for you than the Gold Coast. Or you could go online."

No, no, no! "I don't need help. I'm doing fine. I don't want to meet a bunch of men and cruise the bars." _He heard the echo of a light amused voice; 'This is really your kind of place?'_ "The bars I like, you don't want to go hitting on other guys in."

"See, that's your problem," Trent said. "You hang around with straights all the time. You're never going to find a boyfriend."

"I don't want one right now," Ian said firmly. "You should concentrate on yourself and what's-his-name, Justin. See if he's really everything you're imagining."

"Okay, I'll butt out," Trent said. He got up and cleared Ian's cup. "I'll have you know, Justin is everything you can imagine and more. He's pretty damned versatile, he could do push-ups with his tongue, and he has the best ass in the city."

_Second best._ "What about out of bed?"

"I haven't had time to find out yet."

"Just, try to go slow. Get to know the guy."

" _You_ are giving _me_ relationship advice? Since you've had so many of them?"

"At least I had one that worked," Ian growled.

"Well, yeouch!" Trent said, turning with his hands on his hips. "I'll have you know, Ian Donald McCallum, that catty does not work for you."

"Sorry," Ian said contritely. That was all he seemed to be doing lately, apologizing for his sorry ass. It wasn't as if his relationship with Jack had been perfect either. He'd loved Jack, he truly had. But they had changed so much over the years they were together. At least, he'd changed.

Jack wasn't the first guy Ian had been with, but damned close. There Ian had been, nineteen and naïve and horny and, let's face it, needy as hell. And Jack had walked in, taken one look at him, and just taken over. Jack was almost twenty years older, smart, experienced and hot. Everything Ian knew in bed, and a lot of what he knew out of it, Jack had taught him. They had been together twelve years. Even after Ian had outgrown the need for a daddy, Jack had been tough enough and sexy enough to make it work, to make Ian willing, even eager, to play his games. And he thought Jack had loved him too, as much as he was able. Only now, three years later, was he beginning to realize how much of himself he had suppressed to be with Jack. And how little he knew of what he really wanted in a relationship.

_Golden skin, warm scent, soft mouth._ Well, other than sex. He thought he was beginning to have a pretty good idea of what he wanted there. If he could find it in a package that didn't come with a fiancée attached.

"Be smart and go slow. I just don't want to see you hurt again," he told Trent.

"If you're scared to lose, you'll never win," Trent said airily. "I love this part. When you've just met someone new, and it's all about the possibilities. When you think about the man, and you can hardly breathe for the taste of him in your mouth. When the sky's the limit."

Ian nodded slowly. He wondered what that felt like. All he ever imagined, when he met a new guy, was the ways it could end. All he thought about was how to do the right thing, say the right thing, for as long as necessary. He pretty much never got to the point of mouths and taste. Except last night. When he had been feeling and wanting, and not thinking at all. _Which got you in a bar fight, and into bed with a closet case. So that worked out well, didn't it?_ He was a fuck-up, no doubt about it. So far he'd just managed not to let anyone find out.

He glanced up as Trent set a box of cookies in front of him. "What the hell?"

"I think you have low blood sugar," Trent said. "Did you eat this morning?"

_Had he?_ He couldn't remember. He had gone for a run. He remembered that, pounding out the shit in his head with the rhythm of shoes on pavement. A good sparring session would have worked even better. But since Jack died he hadn't found anyone at the dojo whose skills fit with his eclectic style. He trained by himself, mostly, and when he was stressed, a long run in the clean air beat katas on a mat in the sweaty gym. And truthfully, he couldn't remember eating anything. He picked up a cookie and bit into it. The taste of chocolate spread over his tongue. He took another and smiled up at Trent. "What do you know; you're good for something."

Trent took a swipe at him, not coming close. He dropped back in the other seat. "Share, you pig."

Ian put a third cookie in his mouth before extending the package.

Trent cocked his head and chewed slowly. "What's really bothering you? You've been grouchy as a bear since you got here."

_Other than Robin?_ Ian frowned. Maybe it was the accumulation of things that had him so on-edge. "My sister-in-law, Tracy. The pregnancy isn't going well. She's on bed rest and her blood pressure is high. Joe says they can handle it, but I know he's pretty stretched trying to work and take care of her and Devon too." He imagined his burly brother chasing a toddler around the house while doing laundry and burning the dinner. It would have been funny, if he hadn't been worried about Tracy. "I'm thinking maybe I should go out there to help. He says no, but..."

"None of you McCallums ever liked to ask for help."

Trent had known them since tenth grade. "Yeah. If I wait until he asks, it may be a full-blown disaster."

"What about your sister? Wouldn't she be a better person to take care of a kid and a fat broad?"

Ian shoved Trent's shoulder. "Respect for the fetally afflicted. Yes, Anne would be great. Except that she's in London right now, and won't be back for a month. Joe would kill me if I even suggested that she cut her trip short."

"Your dad?"

They looked at each other and both snickered. Ian said, "He tried to tell Tracy that morning sickness is all in the mind. She offered to puke on his shoes. Not a good choice."

"So can you take time off work?" Trent asked, absently taking another cookie.

"I own the business. I can do whatever the hell I want." Except he couldn't, not when four other guys counted on him for their income too. "Things are a little slow. Brad could handle it, for a while. He knows the tree-trimming end just fine. He's just not good at sales. He can't seem to close a deal. Once the existing jobs are done, we might find ourselves out of work." Ian sighed. "I need someone with a silver tongue, to supplement the strong silent types with big muscles. I don't suppose you're looking for a change of career?"

Trent put his carefully-manicured hand on the table next to Ian's work-scarred and callused one, and looked at them pointedly. "Not likely. Clean, warm, safe computers, my friend. It's the way of the future."

"Pussy." It was a pro-forma sneer. Trent had never been one for the great outdoors.

"But if you tell me what to say, I could try to help out, just with the sales part," Trent offered tentatively.

Ian's heart warmed. That was Trent. He'd give you the shoes off his feet if you asked. Unfortunately they would be handmade leather when you needed to wade through a swamp. But the offer was genuine. "No, really, it's okay," he said. "I think I'll let Brad run the jobs on site this week and I'll get out and pound the pavement, try to line up more work. If I get enough advance orders, I can take off for a week or two, until we get behind again. I'll make it work." He reached out and gripped Trent's forearm warmly. "You're a good guy, Trent Dawson."

Trent colored a little. "I try." He hid the rising color in his face by standing suddenly and sweeping the cookie package off the table. "Now look what you made me do. I ate three of those. I'll have to hit the gym."

"Invite Justin along," Ian suggested. "You can learn a lot about a guy by the way he works out."

"Mm," Trent said dreamily. "Justin, all stripped down and sweaty. Maybe I will." He looked at Ian. "What about you? Do you think you'll ever see the twinkie again?"

"No," Ian said. He managed not to sigh. Really, it was a good thing. "I doubt I'll ever even know his last name."

***

Jenny came in the study door Thursday evening and hung over Chris's shoulder, squinting at his computer screen. "Back off," Chris growled, scrolling to a blank page. He might be unblocked again, although his hero had a disturbing tendency to lose three inches off his six-two height and turn dark-haired if Chris didn't concentrate. Still he didn't want Jenny kibitzing on the new book yet.

She grinned at him. "Don't worry. Not my kind of story anyway. I brought in the mail. You really need to unplug yourself from the machine enough to walk to the curb now and then."

"I got it yesterday," Chris protested. _Hadn't he?_ He did get really caught up in his writing when it started to flow.

Jenny was sorting the mail into piles. "Yours, mine, mine, occupant, yours." She paused. "That's odd."

"What?"

She handed him an envelope. "It's addressed to you but there's no stamp."

Chris's stomach did a little lurch. He took the envelope, slit it open, and slowly pulled out the simple sheet of paper. One page, folded in three.

Jenny read over his shoulder, "YOU'RE IGNORING ME." She frowned. "What the hell is that? A secret admirer?"

Chris laid the paper on the desk. Enough was enough. "I'm not sure. Wait here a second." He went to the kitchen and dug around in the recycling. Good thing he hadn't taken it out to the can yet. He found the two other pages, brought them back and laid them beside the new one. "You're the investigator. You tell me."

Jenny leaned over and read them without touching them. "DO YOU EVEN REMEMBER ME?" and "DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT I DID FOR YOU?" She looked at Chris. "When did you get these?"

"That one was Monday." He pointed at "WHAT I DID FOR YOU". "The next one was Tuesday. Nothing yesterday, and now this one."

"That's just...weird," Jenny said. "Not really threatening but a little creepy. Do you know who it is?"

"No." He frowned. "I've been trying to figure it out. There aren't a lot of people who could claim they've done stuff for me. I mean, other than strangers who are being paid to take out my trash or serve me a latte. My agent and my editor, my friends, none of them make sense. Anyway my editor and publisher are in New York, so they're not hand-delivering letters in San Diego."

"An ex-lover, a recent hook-up, someone with a crush?"

"I've only been with the one guy in the last couple of months," Chris said reluctantly. "And he just doesn't seem right for this."

"Tell me about him."

He'd wanted to tell her about Ian, and yet he didn't. Definitely not like this. But it was creepy. "He's mid-thirties, quiet, kind of tough, a little in-your-face. He doesn't seem like the type who would sneak around dropping letters in a mailbox."

"Name?"

"Ian something. We didn't actually exchange last names. And that's another thing. I don't see how he would have found me. He didn't have my name, number, anything."

"You had ID with you, though?"

"Yes."

"And he had his hands in your pants."

_He had his hands a whole lot of places._ Chris tried to remember if Ian had ever picked up his clothes without Chris in them, where he might have seen a license or cell number fall out. He didn't think so but..."I guess it might have been possible."

Jenny eyed the pages. "Maybe he thinks this is romantic. Like an homage."

"What?"

"Well, maybe he's one of the seven people who actually read your first book."

"Bitch."

She grinned. "What I'm saying is, didn't the girl in the book get anonymous messages, written on plain paper and dropped off at her door? Maybe he thinks it's cute, to show he read your work."

"Those were _threats!_ " Chris protested. "Stuff like, _'You're going to die'_. How would that be cute?"

"Maybe he's a fan. Someone you met at a book signing. Maybe he brought you a coffee or something and thought you would love him forever."

"I haven't had a book signing, and you know it. Not yet." The first one was next week, in fact. Sign the old book, read an excerpt from the new one coming out soon. The small town that he had given his hero as a birthplace had invited him to their local bookstore. Probably they didn't get mentioned in print very often.

"Maybe this is publicity for your first one then."

"Pretty private publicity."

"Just trying to help. Maybe they're going to up the ante to something more splashy. What came after the threatening notes in your book?"

"The dead squirrel," Chris said sourly.

"Oh, yeah. Yuck. Count me out for that one."

"It would certainly separate the romantic from the publicity," Chris couldn't help pointing out.

Jenny snickered. "Unless you really attract the weirdoes."

"So what do you think I should do?"

"Ignore it," Jenny said firmly. "What else can you do?"

"Well, there might be fingerprints or something."

"Yeah, but there's no crime. No specific threat. Hell, not even a non-specific threat. I suppose you could hang onto those, just in case this guy does escalate. But the odds are he'll get bored and quit." She stretched her back and groaned. "I'm going to take a shower. Let me know if you need someone big and strong to protect you."

"Double bitch."

Chris turned back to his screen as she went out, but the flow of the narrative had been broken. _Someone big and strong to protect you._ Ian had protected him, and he had been grateful, then. He really couldn't make these stupid notes mesh with the man he had met. But what did he know? They hadn't really talked, unless _fuck me harder_ could be considered conversation. If Ian was this weird...it made Chris sad, and a little cold somehow. Like a source of warmth had gone out of the world.

***

On Friday night, Ian was just sitting down to his first coffee after getting off work when his doorbell rang. It rang about four more times in the minute it took him to get to the front porch. He yanked the door open. "What the hell is your problem!" he barked.

It took a second for him to recognize the man on his steps. The green curls had tamed down to soft blond waves that lay almost flat. The eyes were...what, grey? Not turquoise, anyway. Robin wore a polo shirt and regular jeans with black Nikes. He looked...ordinary. Well, still damned hot, but not flashy. Ian blinked at him.

"You may think this is funny," Robin ranted, waving some papers under Ian's nose. "But it's really fucking pathetic! Who do you think you are?"

"Slow down," Ian said.

"Damn you," Robin retorted. "I thought you were a decent guy, you know."

Ian reached out and caught one of the waving sheets of paper to hold it still. A picture, and a sentence in block printing, had his brows drawing down. "What the fuck is this?" The picture was a photo of a KA-BAR knife. The sentence said, "I KNOW WHO YOU REALLY ARE. YOU DON'T BELONG WITH HER."

Ian looked down at Robin. "Is there a reason you're shoving this in my face and screaming like a banshee on my front steps?"

"Huh?"

"Banshee. Scots monstrous hag, sits on battlements and makes a hideous noise."

"I know what a banshee is," Robin retorted. "Are you saying you don't know what this is about?"

"What what is about? That knife is a KA-BAR by the way. If you're here for me to identify it or something."

"I know that too." Robin paused, and his voice got a little less strident. "I've been getting these notes, hand delivered to my door. Almost every day this week."

"Notes."

"Pieces of paper with these stupid messages on them. They just show up in my mailbox in an envelope with my name. No stamp, no postmark. I thought..."

"You thought what?" Ian felt a roll of hot anger in his gut. "You thought I was sending you pictures?" He pulled the rest of the pages out of Robin's slackened grip and flipped through them. "You thought this...crap was from me?"

"It started Monday," Robin said. "Right after..."

"Right after we had such a wonderful time that I psychically discovered your name and address, became obsessed with you, and traveled the hell across town in my spare time to drop piddling little love notes off for you?" Ian shook his head. "And then what? You figure I was hiding in the bushes, watching you go to the mailbox so I could drool over your hot ass?"

"I don't know."

"No, you don't." Ian shoved the papers back in Robin's hand. "If you think this shit is my style, then I don't think you were ever with me at all."

"I didn't," Robin said. "I mean, I told...I said it didn't seem like you. But the timing, and talking about what you, he, did for me. And there's no one else."

"What about all your other tricks?" Ian asked sourly. "You obviously picked up some weirdo at some time. Go down the list."

Robin's eyes flashed. _Those grey irises were laced with amber, bright under his long lashes, prettier than the artificial blue_. Ian pulled his attention back to what Robin was saying. "Contrary to what you may think, I don't go around picking strange men up on a regular basis. So there isn't much of a list."

"Right," Ian drawled. He wished that was true. He liked thinking that not every other available guy out there had peeled the leather off that compact ass in some private room. He also knew what he'd seen in the club. Trolling was trolling; Robin had been looking to get laid, and it surely wasn't the first time. "Well, however short or long, you'd better go check them out. Because it wasn't me."

"Okay." Robin looked a little lost. "I guess...Look, I'm sorry if I insulted you. I didn't think...I just wasn't...I'll just go now." He turned and headed back down the steps.

Ian watched him go. That back view was fine, even without the tight leather. The guy walked like he danced, balanced and easy. The setting sun caught his hair, tinted the gold to red.

The car sitting at the curb was a small compact, battered and rusty, vaguely grey in color. It didn't fit the Gold Coast Robin with blue spikes and his pecs showing through the rents in his shirt. But it did fit this new Robin. The man opened the door and swung himself in.

Ian's eye was caught by a flutter of white at his feet. One of the stupid notes. He scooped it up and waved it at Robin. "Hey, you dropped one."

The engine started with a coughing rumble. Robin didn't pause or glance his way. The little car pulled out into the road, turned the corner and was gone.

Ian stared after it. _You never did tell me who you are._ It shouldn't matter. He wouldn't see the guy again, obviously. Whatever weird shit the man was into, it was nothing to do with Ian. He looked down at the paper in his hand. A simple white page, folded in three. Block printing in black pen. DO YOU EVEN REMEMBER ME?

Oh yeah, Ian remembered.

Chapter 4

Chris juggled his laptop and his carry-on as he ran for the gate. He should have guessed security would be slower with the new rules. And he should have known that a flight to a Podunk town like Ely, Nevada would go out of a remote gate.

There was an attendant waiting at the desk and the door was still open when he reached it. The woman gave him a forced smile as she swiped his boarding pass through the reader. "We have a small plane today, sir," she said, holding out a bright pink tag. "We'll need to gate-check that bag for you. If you would please fill out that tag as quickly as you can, and give your bag to the attendant at the foot of the stairs, you'll get it right back when you deplane in Ely."

_Which meant two hours in the air with nothing to read._ Unless he took the time to dig through the bag for his book. The attendant was eyeing him with impatience. _To hell with it._ He scribbled his information on the tag, hurried down the stairs and out along the yellow line on the tarmac to the waiting...puddle-jumper. _She wasn't kidding about a small plane._

The thing actually had propellers. A metal flight of stairs led up to the door. Like in the old days in those pictures with waving travelers at the top of the airplane steps. Robin figured he would skip the turning and waving part. Those were the good old days when everyone could come to the gate to see you off. Back before the Patriot Act and orange alerts and full body scanners.

The man in coveralls at the base of the stairs reached urgently for the suitcase and Chris passed it over. As he ducked in the door of the plane, the pilot began announcing that the last passenger was now on board, and they would be on their way shortly. Everyone in the seats looked up to see the schmuck who'd almost delayed their flight. _Yeah, it's me._

And hell. Over there, it's him. Ian What's-his-name, in an aisle seat. Just who Chris didn't want to sit next to for two hours. _Don't let that be row five._ But of course it was.

At least he didn't have to squeeze in beside the man. The seats were laid out one and two, but the plane was less than half full. Chris was technically on the aisle, but he had the pair of seats at row five to himself. Ian had the single across the aisle. Chris resisted the temptation to move as far as possible over to the window. He dropped into his aisle seat. He fastened his belt, and juggled the laptop underneath the seat in front of him, as the attendant quickly ran through the plane's safety features. Then he forced himself to look over casually.

"Hi," he said. "You're going to Ely?"

Ian obviously restrained himself from some sarcastic comment about being on the wrong plane. "Hi, Robin," he said evenly.

Okay, social niceties completed. Chris faced front and dug through his seat pocket in search of reading material. The in-flight magazine appeared to have...gum? Something stuck on it anyway. Yuck. The other seat was missing the magazine altogether. Maybe there was a spare across the aisle. As they taxied out onto the runway, Chris glanced over at Ian.

Ian wasn't looking at him. Or looking at anything, really. To Chris's surprise, the other man was gripping both arms of his seat in a white-knuckled hold. His face was still, almost calm, unless you noticed the wide eyes. Ian took a breath in, and then blew it out slowly through his nose.

Chris recognized those signs. He'd looked exactly like that, right before Jenny had convinced him to jump out of an airplane with a parachute. "You're scared of flying!" he said, before he could bite back the words.

Ian gave him a cold look. "I'm not scared. It just bothers me a bit. When I'm not the pilot."

"You can fly a plane?"

"Yep."

"But you're scared of flying." Okay, that was snarky. But he figured the man could use the distraction.

"I'm fine when it's under my control," Ian told him. "When someone else is controlling it, well, I had an...incident. And since then I've been a little claustrophobic about airplane cabins at takeoff and landing."

"What happened?" Chris asked sympathetically.

Ian gave him a look, and Chris figured he wouldn't get an answer. But maybe the man wanted the distraction too, because he said, "I was a passenger in a small plane that missed the runway and went down in water. It hit wrong, sank fast. I got out, eventually. Me and one other guy. We couldn't get the pilot out in time."

"That's awful!" Chris said. "I don't think you'd ever get me back into a plane after something like that."

"Well, I was planning to drive to Nevada," Ian told him. "But the schedule suddenly got accelerated. I'm going to be an uncle in a few hours, instead of three or four weeks."

"Congratulations. Your sister the lethal cheerleader?"

Ian actually cracked a small smile. "Nope. My older brother Joe and his wife."

The plane gathered speed down the runway, heading for takeoff. Chris saw Ian's face get tight and scrambled for something to say. "It's nice that you can be there for the new baby. Hell, it's nice that you want to be. And that they want you there. If my sister was having a baby, she would prefer me to be on a desert island far, far away from her. Not to mention that I know nothing about babies."

"Me either," Ian confessed. "They have one kid already, Devon. He's two and a half. I did hold him once or twice when he was small, but that's all the childcare I've done. But this is kind of a crisis. Tracy, my sister-in-law, went in to the doctor and I guess they decided to do a caesarian right away. She's had problems. The baby's not due for a month, my brother is scared for both of them, and they need a hand, even if I've never touched an infant. Mainly I think they need me to ride herd on Devon."

"That should be easier," Chris suggested.

"I don't know," Ian said doubtfully. "I saw him a couple of months ago, and he seems to run along the lines of _no limits, no fear_. He's certainly not afraid of me."

"He's not supposed to be afraid of you," Chris protested.

"Then how do I control him?" But Ian's eyes were smiling. "Actually, I love the little guy to death, but he's into everything and he never gets tired. I'm worried I'll turn my back for one second and he'll be trying to roast marshmallows on the stove or drive the car."

"Sounds like a handful."

"Yeah." Ian glanced around. "Hey, we're up."

"And you survived."

"This time." But Ian nodded. "Thanks. So what are you going to be doing in beautiful Ely, Nevada?"

"Um." He'd been Robin with this guy. He tried never to overlap his dating world with his real world. Telling Ian would mean explaining the name thing, but what the hell. He'd already mentioned his fiancée, and showed up on the guy's doorstep without the blue contacts. Ian had already seen a bit of Chris that he didn't normally let out. And Chris was still so freaking thrilled about this, he wanted to share it. "I'm an author. I'm doing a book signing."

"For real?"

"Yeah. I made my hero come from the town of Eureka and they were so thrilled that I think half the people in the town went out and bought the book. That's probably where most of my sales came from, as a matter of fact. They invited me out to read from my next book and do a signing."

"That's great." Ian was smiling. "What kind of book?"

"Fiction. Kind of a thriller."

"A gay thriller?"

"No. Or it probably wouldn't have been embraced by the good people of Eureka." Chris shrugged. "There's kind of a potentially gay subtext. See, my hero's best friend was a Navy SEAL who got killed in Afghanistan. And he comes back as a ghost, who hangs out with the hero and helps him. And there's this never-expressed love thing going on between the two of them, but it's never gonna be anything. Because the one guy is dead." Ian's expression was a little quizzical, and Chris reddened. "You'd have to read the book."

"I'd like to," Ian said seriously. "Of course I'd have to know the author's name." He gave Chris a questioning look.

"Fletcher," Chris told him. "Chris Fletcher."

"Not Robin?" Ian frowned. "That's what then, a nom-de-bedroom?"

"My middle name," Chris said curtly. "I use it sometimes." _Mainly in the bedroom. Or the back room, or the motel room._ Perhaps twenty guys over the last ten years had called him Robin, besides the ones who hadn't called him anything at all.

Ian was grinning. "Christopher Robin? Seriously?"

"My mother was..." _Sixteen._ "Eccentric."

"Ah. Sorry."

"No, it's fine," Chris said. He was babbling, but he had Ian's attention. "My real parents adopted me when I was one. They had a girl already so I got an older sister. They're good folks. I had a good childhood."

The plane was leveling out. The whine of the turbo props went from seriously loud to merely annoying. The sole flight attendant passed down the aisle between them toward the back of the plane. Chris pulled back out of the aisle to let her past, and dug into the seat pocket of the empty seat (well away from the nasty wad of gum) for the information card. He scanned it. Exits in front and behind him, in this EMB 120, whatever the heck that was.

"This is the smallest plane I've ever been on," Chris told Ian, once the attendant was past. "I don't fly much. I figure I should know how to get out, just in case."

"You could have listened to the nice attendant, when she asked for your attention," Ian said, but then he relented. "I already memorized that. Basic safety procedure." But he was looking a little tense again.

The attendant reappeared, pushing a beverage cart between them. Chris leaned away again. On Ian's side of the plane, the last rays of the setting sun shone brilliantly in. Ian squinted against the light, and then pulled the shade on his window most of the way down. The attendant was serving the front row first, as usual. The seatbelt sign went off. Two rows back, a heavyset businessman began listening to a DVD without headphones, the sound a dull buzz over the engines. No one else was sitting close by.

"Hey, Ian," Chris said, shifting over to his window seat. "I hate yelling across the aisle. Why don't you sit over here. You can distract me from the fact that I have to read my own work in public in about forty-eight hours." _And distract yourself for a while._

Ian hesitated for a few moments, and then shrugged. He shifted his lanky form across the aisle and sat beside Chris, carefully fastening his new seatbelt despite the sign being off. "Reading your work is a problem?"

"I don't know," Chris admitted. "I've never done it before. And I'm kind of shy."

Ian blinked. "You could have fooled me."

Chris colored a little. "Well, I am, but Robin's not. That's why I do Robin when I go out, which isn't often."

"So you're what, split personality?"

It was pretty obvious Ian was jerking his chain. "I just like to play the role."

"And you do it so well." Suddenly it was there again, that heat between them. Despite everything, Chris's breath sped up. Ian's knee was inches from his own. If he opened his legs, they would touch. _He had opened his legs for Ian before._ He held still with an effort.

"So," Ian said, and his voice was a little rushed, as if he too was substituting conversation for something else. "Did you ever figure out who was sending you those odd notes?"

_The ones Chris had accused him of._ The new heat in Chris's face wasn't desire. "No. I'm sorry about..."

"Don't worry about it," Ian interrupted. "I could see where the timing was suggestive. And after all, you don't know me very well."

"I knew you better than that. I just couldn't come up with any other possibilities."

"Have there been more?"

"More letters?" Chris tried to shrug nonchalantly. "A couple. I'm just filing and ignoring them at the moment."

Ian's brows knotted. "I don't like it. That picture of the knife especially."

"See, I think that was just an homage to my book. The hero carries a KA-BAR. Because his friend gets these PTSD episodes if he hears gunfire and he goes all poltergeist."

"His dead friend?"

"Yeah." Okay, it sounded stupid without the back story. "Anyway, the knife is what the character uses, instead of a gun. So that's probably where the picture comes in."

"Still." Ian shook his head. "It's creepy. What did the other new notes say?"

Chris realized he wanted to get Ian's take on this. "Monday was 'YOU NEED TO PAY ATTENTION. I WON'T WAIT FOREVER' and Wednesday was 'I'VE GIVEN YOU LOTS OF CHANCES.' Nothing on Tuesday or today."

"Do you get lots of fan mail? Have you had stuff like this before?"

"Fan mail usually goes through the publisher, or else as e-mail," Chris said. "I've had some, but nothing really weird. Mostly guys complaining that a Navy SEAL wouldn't do this or that of the things my ghost character does, and women wanting to know if my hero is based on someone real. They want to save him with true love. And then the ghost hunter types who tell me I have the paranormal aspects wrong."

"Like there's a right and a wrong way to describe the paranormal?"

Chris laughed. "Some of them are very passionate about it. I have a form-letter for those that basically says it's all fiction, I'm making it up and don't confuse it with any real experiences."

"Real paranormal experiences. Now there's an oxymoron."

"They don't think so. They desperately want to believe in that crap."

Ian looked a little relieved. "As long as you think it's crap."

"It's a fictional device that lets me give my hero an interesting friend who's not so much help that it takes all the suspense out of the story. I've never believed in ghosts."

Ian nodded. "Me either. But it's not a ghost writing those notes. And it seems like some of your fans are odd types."

Chris sighed. "I'm going to be out of town for five days now. One question is whether I get new letters while I'm away. The date of my reading is listed on my website, but not how long I'll be away. These things are hand delivered, so I don't know if I'm being watched or...okay, I admit it creeps me out a little. But there's nothing threatening."

"And no ex-boyfriends. Really?"

"Nope." For years, no one who knew his real name. Time to change the subject. "So, your brother lives in Ely?"

Ian glanced at him, but accepted the change of subject. "In Baker, actually."

"What's in Baker?"

"He's a ranger at Great Basin National Park."

"You said you have two brothers? What does the other one do?"

"Roger is an architect."

It was like pulling teeth to get personal information out of the man, but Chris slipped into Robin mode and persisted. He was suddenly curious, and it beat counting the squares on the seat fabric. He let the light talk flow easily, telling Ian about his sister, his parents, the house in Des Plaines where he grew up. Well, the Robin story: nice caring parents who'd been okay with their son being small and not athletic, a sister he was close to in a normal sibling way. All harmless fiction. Because he wasn't going to talk about his real family.

He felt a little lurch of nausea. He wasn't used to mixing his facts and fictions. Ian knew his real name, which made this backstory more risky. But it was so much easier to tell. And anyway, what were the odds he would ever see the guy again after today? He let himself do Robin, except for the name. Robin could talk about his life with light amusing anecdotes. In between his own stories, he extracted little nuggets about Ian.

The man clearly loved his father and siblings and spoke of them with pride. It seemed like they all knew he was gay. Chris had never come out to his own family. His mother's Christian fundamentalism and ill health were reason enough. Although there were a myriad of other reasons... "My parents are dead," he heard himself say. He clutched for a moment. It was the first provable lie. A happy childhood could be a delusion, but dead parents were kind of a cold hard fact. But that was Robin's story, and if he changed it now...he didn't think he could keep track of a third version. "I like to think they would have accepted the fact that I'm gay. They were pretty understanding about stuff. I'm just sorry they didn't live long enough to really know me as an adult, you know."

"I'm sorry," Ian said. "My mom died young too, but my dad is probably going to live to a hundred. He's too ornery to die." It was said with wry admiration.

Ian had come out at fourteen, evidently. The way he spoke of it suggested epic conflicts with his father, with enough affection on both sides to keep them from a complete rupture. He mentioned how his father had withheld permission to go out in the evenings, unless he was going with a girl. Ian had refused to compromise. He'd simply taken to coming and going via his bedroom window.

"But it sounds like you get along with your dad now," Chris probed. "How did you win him over?"

"I didn't exactly. He just decided to ignore that aspect of my life."

"When he figured out you were as stubborn as he is?"

Ian shook his head. After a pause he said, "I fell in love with a friend of his. Dad mentored Jack, and encouraged him to go out for SEAL teams when he was in the service. With Jack and me standing there side by side saying, 'We're here and we're queer; get used to it,' Dad decided to just drop the subject. It helped that Jack was only ten years younger than Dad and a decorated veteran."

"So," Chris said cautiously. The _only ten years younger_ thing piqued his curiosity. Ian didn't seem like the type to go for older men. But it wasn't a question you could just ask. "You and Jack; you're not together anymore?"

"He died." It didn't take sensitivity to recognize the flat keep-out-sign quality to that statement.

"I'm sorry."

"Mph." Ian looked away across the aisle, as if he was contemplating a retreat.

Chris reached out and put a hand on Ian's thigh. _Big mistake._ Ian looked down at it as if Chris had burned him. "What about your fiancée? Does she know about you?"

Chris hesitated. Jenny's secret wasn't his to tell. Until now, he'd never really been tempted, at least not with a date. Sometimes he'd wished he had a friend he could trust with the whole story, but mostly he lived in the pages of his writing. It had worked so far. He opened his mouth to say something, he wasn't sure what, when Ian gripped his arm tightly. The man's head was up, tense and alert as he stared toward the cockpit.

"Something's wrong."

"What?" Chris asked.

Ian shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure. It just feels...wrong." He looked over across the aisle at the dark line below the closed window shade, then turned and leaned forward to look past Chris at his window.

"Shit!"

Chris had no time to ask anything. Ian's hands moved fast, grabbing Chris's seatbelt and slamming the buckle home around him, and then fisting in his collar to double Chris forward onto his knees. "Brace!"

And the world came apart.

The clang sounded like a truck hitting a metal dumpster. At the same instant the whole plane lurched and tipped sideways. Ian's weight came against Chris's shoulder for a second. Then gravity was suspended as Chris seemed to float upward. He clung to his knees, holding his breath for a second that seemed to stretch toward infinity. Then he was tossed into a rock tumbler. Something whacked his knees, and then his back. He was slammed forward and tasted blood as he bit his tongue. Then something else crashed into the top of his head, and darkness took him.

***

Ian covered his head with one arm, and clasped his knees firmly with the other as they rolled. He'd had only a second of warning, a bare realization that they should have been climbing more, before the sight of a tree-top through the _side_ window had registered. They'd hit, and hit hard. Ian braced as the plane slid.

Beside him, Robin's smaller body slammed against his own and he tried to brace harder and take the weight. Ian's belt dug into his stomach. Lap belts sucked for this. He caught the whiplash of force as the plane pitched and rolled. Cold air rushing over him told him the skin was breached, badly. Small objects dropped past him. Something caught him hard on the shoulder. He wanted to put himself over Robin, but couldn't fight the gravity pulling him away. Something bigger just missed him, and he heard Robin grunt and then go limp.

When the rolling stopped the plane was canted on its side. The arm of his seat dug painfully into his lower hip. Robin on the higher side of the plane hung limp in his belt, his head against Ian's shoulder. He wasn't moving.

There were a few dim emergency lights, but most of the plane was in darkness. Ian reached for Robin's head, feeling the sticky wetness of blood in the man's hair. He cupped Robin's forehead in one hand, trying to stabilize his neck, and fumbled for a pulse with the other. For eternal seconds, soft skin with a hint of evening stubble slid lifelessly under his fingers.

_No, no, no, no, no_...his mind chanted it like a mantra. _You don't get to take this one away from me, motherfucker._

Then he found it; just a faint flutter of motion against his fingertips. This was Robin's jaw line, and neck and he adjusted his position and there it was more clearly. A pulse. Fast, a little light, but regular and even and _there_.

Ian blew out a breath and just let his fingers rest there for a second, feeling that motion. Robin was injured, but death was the real enemy. _Injured_ he could work with.

Sounds around him began to register, past the pounding of his own pulse in his ears. Someone was moaning. Someone else was screaming in thin little shrieks, like a rabbit caught in a trap. Metal creaked as the plane shifted slightly, settling. There was a snap like a branch breaking, and the plane lurched. The screamer rose in pitch, sharp with fear, and then resumed wailing.

_Observe, evaluate, respond._ Ian braced one foot and took his weight off his seatbelt enough to unbuckle it. He eased Robin's head back. Robin lay heavy against his shoulder, blood-soaked hair wet on his cheek, while Ian reached under himself with his freed hand. There was a small LED light on his key chain. He dug it out of his pocket carefully, balancing the precious weight of the man cradled against him. If Robin had a neck injury he should be moved as little as possible.

Much as he wanted otherwise, he used the first light from the key-chain to sweep away from Robin around the airplane cabin. _Okay, that's bad._ Because what he was seeing was only a section of the cabin. Three rows forward, there was empty space filled with twisted metal. The cockpit was God-knows-where. Certainly not attached any more. Two rows back, the cabin ended abruptly, straight and smooth as if snapped in half by a giant knife. A big dark bulk of pine tree filled one side of the opening.

In the seats around him, he spotted three other passengers. The plane had held eleven passengers, and the crew. He remembered the flight attendant near the front, turning toward the cockpit in those last seconds as if she too felt or heard something. The rows she had been tending, and the men in those seats, were missing in that forward darkness.

He let himself turn the light on Robin. The other man's face was a mask of blood, trickling from somewhere in his hair. He hung limp, flaccid and pale, but he was breathing. Ian put the small light between his teeth and unbuckled Robin. He eased the smaller man's body against his own, stabilizing his head with a cupped hand. Slowly he lowered them both to the canted floor of the aisle. When he had Robin stretched out, he reached up with one hand and freed his seat cushion. Bracing it in the angle between floor and seat legs gave him somewhere to rest Robin's head. Then he could stretch back up for Robin's cushion, and slide that under the man at hip level.

Robin twitched a little under his hand and moaned softly. _That's good._ Ian pinned him with a grip on his shoulders and leaned over him. "Robin. Hold still. Can you hear me?" he mumbled around the light in his teeth.

"Mmph?"

"Hold still and open your eyes."

"Wha? S'bright." Robin's eyes opened to slits.

"Don't try to move yet." Ian took the light from his mouth and checked. Equal pupils, responding to the light. Robin blinked up at him. "Does your neck hurt?"

"Head."

"Yeah, you're bleeding a bit. Move your fingers for me. Now your toes." Robin's hands and feet twitched obediently, and Ian heaved a sigh.

"What happened?" Robin was trying to sit up.

Ian held him down a moment longer, assessing, and then slid the hand under his elbow instead. "We crashed."

"Fuck." Ian wasn't sure if that was in tribute to the crash or Robin's injury, as Robin grabbed at his head with both hands.

"Yeah," he agreed anyway, as he helped Robin to lean against the seat beside him. "Move slowly now."

Robin looked around, eyes widening. "People are hurt."

"I'm going to check." Ian leaned a little weight on the seated man's shoulder as he stood up. "You stay put until your head stops spinning. You can't help if you pass out." The fact that the other man didn't protest told Ian he was right.

Two rows back, the heavy man in the suit was sprawled in the aisle. He had his cell phone out and was stabbing at it. Ian worked his way over and knelt beside the man.

"They're not answering." The man sounded mostly pissed. But the angle of his leg was nothing natural to human bone. _Broken for sure._ "I called 911 but they're not answering," the man repeated.

Ian took the phone out of the man's grasp, just to be sure. No signal. He'd figured. He turned it off to conserve the battery, in case they ended up trekking out to somewhere it could be used, and slid it into the man's breast pocket.

"They're ignoring me." The man's eyes were wide, tracking left past Ian's face. "They can't do that to me."

"There's no signal," Ian told him. "Let me get you untangled from that seat and lying down better." At least there were plenty of detachable cushions to pad the angle of the floor. He tried to ease the man over, straightening the leg. He expected a scream of pain, but the man just glared at him.

"I need to make a call." Then the man blinked rapidly and turned pale. "But not 911. _Shit!_ I didn't call them, did I?"

_Back injury? Shock?_ The man was writhing around, trying to get up.

"Who did I call?" he asked frantically.

"No one," Ian said, trying to keep him still. "The call didn't go through."

"Oh," the man said. His next words were garbled. Then he suddenly went rigid and passed out. _Damn!_ But he was still breathing.

Ian laid him out, head below his feet, braced with the cushions. He couldn't find any significant bleeding, but the leg was badly broken. The man stirred as Ian felt along his back. He began breathing in short harsh pants. "Hurts. Fucking hurts. My leg. Shit." The words came through gritted teeth.

_Feeling the pain was probably a good sign, but the man wouldn't think so._ "Don't move," Ian told him.

"No shit," the man hissed through his teeth. "Need something for pain, now."

"Sorry."

"Fuck you." The man ground his teeth and closed his eyes.

Ian hesitated, and then left the man for now. He worked his way forward to the source of the screams, now faded to thin whimpers. As he passed by, Robin looked up and said, "What can I do?"

"Try to get up slowly, see how you feel. Don't fucking fall, okay? If you can stand, then you can help."

He passed by toward the front of the cabin. The whimperer was a middle-aged woman. She had been buckled in her seat, and she still sat there, wedged against the side of the plane. Her face was bruised and purpling in the dim light. She clutched her right arm in her left. Each breath in became a trickle of a whine as she exhaled. She stared ahead at nothing.

Ian climbed cautiously into the space ahead of her, testing his footholds to be sure nothing would tear loose. "Hey there," he said gently. "I'm Ian. I'm going to help you get more comfortable in a moment. Can you look at me?"

She stared ahead over his shoulder, her eyes dilated to black pools. Ian waved a hand in front of her face. She turned to him slowly, unseeingly, and then faced back forward. Another thin whine tickled from her lips. The sound cut through Ian's skull like a knife.

For a moment, the intensity of her stare dragged Ian's gaze around. _What the hell?_ He trained his light on the mess of tangled metal that was the front of the plane. Then he moved fast, aiming the light back at the trapped woman, and putting his body between her and that sight. Because apparently the flight attendant hadn't been as far forward as he'd thought. Or she'd been thrown backward by the motions of the plane. Or _part_ of her had. _Holy fucking shit._

Beside him, Robin's voice said, "I'm fine. What can I do?"

_Don't look._ Ian said, "We need to get this lady unbuckled and moved away from that."

"From?"

He knew the moment Robin saw the headless torso of the flight attendant, pinned in the twisted metal like a fly in a spider web. He felt the jolt in the man's body as if it was his own. Then Robin leaned aside and vomited convulsively. Ian stretched out a hand to grip his upper arm hard. "Watch your balance."

"Sorry," Robin said, straightening immediately. "Just dizzy for a second. My head hurts. Tell me what you need here."

_The guy was tougher than he looked._ "I'm going to reach around and unbuckle this lady's seatbelt," Ian said. "I think her arm is broken. You're smaller than me. Maybe you can slide in beside her and help ease her out into the aisle. Wait. Grab a couple of seat cushions from the other side to lay her down on."

"Got it." Robin found cushions to pad the aisle, and then together they maneuvered the woman out of her seat. She came into their hands rigid, as if every muscle in her body was clenched. But when they eased her down in the aisle she sighed and relaxed to limpness.

Ian brushed the hair out of her eyes carefully. "Are you hurt anywhere besides your arm?" he asked.

"She's dead," the woman whimpered.

_Awake and not bleeding; it would do for now._ "Yes, she is. You rest now." Ian turned his attention across the aisle.

The man on that side was elderly. Somehow he had become jammed down into the leg space between the seats. He moaned when Robin touched his foot. "Hurts bad."

"What hurts?" Ian asked.

"Stomach, chest."

"We'll get you out, somewhere more comfortable." Robin was already preparing aisle space behind the woman.

Ian stuck the light back in his lips and they worked together, easing the man out of the tight confines of metal seat braces. He moaned with each motion, and then passed out. Ian slid an arm up the man's spine, trying to keep it stable as he worked. The man looked bad in the blue LED light as they laid him carefully on the pillows. His pulse was fast and thready, very shocky. His lips were blue-tinged, and his breaths rattled a little. Robin glanced at Ian, a question in his eyes. Ian shook his head slightly. He was no doctor, but he suspected something with heart or lungs, or maybe internal bleeding. Not good.

"I'll check the back of the plane," Robin said. Ian shone the light after him as he worked his way down the aisle, hanging on the up-side seats to avoid stepping on the injured. At the open end of the compartment, Ian saw Robin brace his hand on the sliced skin of the cabin and peer out. He turned to Ian and shook his head. "I don't see anything."

Ian made his way back to join Robin, and aimed his small light out into the darkness. Trees, bushes, weeds, a litter of metal fragments and debris. As far as the light could reach, there was no sign of anything big enough to be the tail section.

"Should one of us go look?" Robin asked. _The man was standing there swaying, face covered in blood, and ready to march out into the dark if Ian said it was necessary._

"Not in the dark," Ian said. "Too risky."

Robin nodded. "What now? Do you know first aid?"

"Some. I'm no medic. You?"

"Some," Robin told him.

"Okay. How about you check on our patients, and I start looking for emergency supplies. It's getting cold. And maybe I can find a way to signal for a rescue. If they're looking for us tonight, we need to make a light, a fire, something they can spot."

"Got it." Robin bent over the businessman. Ian began searching the cabin.

Fifteen minutes later he had found enough extra clothes in the tumbled carry-on bags to cover the three passengers lying in the aisle for warmth. The temperature in the cabin was rapidly dropping. Ian hadn't seen snow on the ground outside, but they were obviously high enough up for the night to be cold. Robin had gathered a couple of broken branches from their invading pine tree to splint the businessman's leg, and the woman's arm. He hadn't tried to pull the broken bones straight, just braced them as they were. Hopefully they wouldn't be lost long enough for it to matter.

Robin bent over the old man, and then came to Ian, shaking his head. He leaned in, his mouth next to Ian's ear. "That guy looks like shit. He's breathing worse all the time. I don't know what to do for him."

"Not much we can do," Ian said roughly. Robin shuddered, and Ian slid an arm around him. "How are you? Hanging in?"

"Feels like the worst hangover I ever had," he said softly. "But I'm still better than them. Any luck?"

"Damned FAA regulations. No lighters, no matches, no knives. But here." He pulled out a sweater. "Put this on. You're freezing."

For a moment, Robin just leaned into him. The warmth between them made the cold on Ian's back more intense. Then Robin took the sweater and pulled it over his arms. "You too," he said. "Find yourself something. You're not superman."

Of course he wasn't. But Ian was moving around enough to keep warm. It was barely fall, still warm down in the lower altitudes. Most of the extra clothes he'd found were lightweight, and the injured needed them more. He kept searching. Robin crouched beside the old man, hovering uselessly. The rasping wheeze of the man's breath filled the plane.

"They'll never find us." For a moment, Ian thought Robin had spoken. Then he realized it was the woman. "We'll die here. We'll freeze, starve, die just like her." The woman's voice rose in a thin wail. "We're going to die. We're going to die."

"No." Ian put all the authority he had into his tone. "They'll have started rescue efforts as soon as we dropped off radar. This is the twenty-first century. They have GPS, satellite photos, everything. They'll find us. If not tonight, then in the daylight tomorrow. We just need to stay put and stay warm. They'll be here."

"You're sure?" She sounded like a little girl.

"Certain. Can't say exactly when, but they'll be here. We just need to stay safe until then."

The woman subsided. Ian went to kneel beside Robin, and shone the light on the old man. _If help doesn't come soon, it will be too late for him_. The man's face had sunken in. His neck arched, his mouth gaped wide as he dragged air harshly into his lungs. Ian opened the man's shirt and searched his chest for open wounds, for something that could be treated, sealed, anything. But the caved ribs on the man's left side were bruised, not open. Probably he needed surgery. And Ian's self-confidence didn't extend to chest surgery without tools by penlight. Especially when he didn't know what he was doing in the first place.

He got up restlessly and walked to the back, staring out into the darkness. Robin came and stood behind him, just brushing against his hip. Ian picked up a length of broken pine branch that had jammed into the last row and flexed it between his hands.

"I can make a fire bow out of some of this stuff," Ian told Robin. "It's slow, but I've made one work before. That would give us a signal fire. But I want to do it well away from the plane. In case there's spilled fuel or something. Last thing we need is to set the cabin on fire."

"You said it was too risky to go out there in the dark."

"I'll be fine."

Robin looked at him carefully, eyes wide and colorless in the dim light. "Are you sure it's a good idea?"

"No. Probably. Look, they'll have the first rescue planes in our area soon. That's assuming they took off as soon as they realized we'd dropped out of sight. In the dark, they'll be looking for fire or lights. Unless one of the other pieces caught fire, there's nothing right now for them to pick up."

"You said GPS, transponders."

"Hopefully. But we're missing a couple of big bits of the plane. Who knows if this chunk has any signaling devices."

Robin nodded slowly.

"I need to do something," Ian admitted. _I need to get away from another guy who's going to die because I can't save him._ He could still remember how it felt to give up on the drowning pilot, down in the dark water. He'd headed for the surface after the last crash, knowing the man still trapped in the wreckage wouldn't survive. He'd sworn never to be in that position again. "I want to see where we are and how the plane is lying. I keep having these visions of us hanging over the edge of a cliff."

"Okay."

"I wish I could leave you the flashlight."

Robin shook his head. "You'll need it. But...don't go far, okay."

"Not likely." Ian picked up the bits he'd assembled: a pack of tissues for tinder, the cord from someone's headphones, the branch. He'd find the rest out there.

He took the flashlight in his other hand, and dropped to the ground out the back of the cabin. It was only three feet down to the damp earth. He landed in weeds and dirt. The night was cold and clammy. His little light gleamed through a cloud of fog. Or maybe it was low-lying cloud. Was there a difference in the mountains? He set his fire supplies temporarily on a flat spot close to the plane.

The plane had grooved deeply into the dirt and looked hung up on some trees. Which should be good for stability. Ian worked his way along the side of the airplane cabin, using the key light to sweep ahead of him. From the outside, only a hint of the emergency lights showed through the small windows. The plane would definitely be hard for rescuers to spot from above in the dark.

As he neared the front of the section, he slowed down. The ground was beginning to slope away. He held onto a tree and peered forward.

There was no sign of the cockpit. The hazy damp air made it hard to see very far, but the downward cant of the ground was not reassuring. At least they weren't truly hanging over a drop, just a slope. Maybe a kind of steep slope. He turned to head back the way he'd come, instead of trying to circle around the front.

Back at the tail end, he picked up his stuff. There was only a faint odor of jet fuel. He couldn't tell if it was spillage, or just the plane itself. To be cautious, he headed about fifty feet away, stepping over half-seen debris and branches. There was a flat spot of moss-covered rock that looked safe for a fire.

Ian searched for a couple of big pieces of bark, and a short hunk of branch for a spindle. He strung his bow, and grooved the spindle as best he could with the tiny file of a nail clipper, the biggest tool he had found. Usually he was better prepared. His father had taught him to always carry an emergency kit, but the airport scanners made it impossible to bring his survival tools onboard. Idly he began cursing the rules that were designed primarily to make people feel safe, despite their futility. Because it was a distraction from what he really wanted to be cursing. _Wrap the spindle in the wire, bark above, bark below, tissue shreds for tinder._ He set the spindle in place, held firmly with one hand, and began bowing with the other.

Half an hour later he eased back on his heels, holding his cramping left hand in his right. Three times he'd managed a glowing ember in the tissues. Each time, he'd lost it as he tried to coax the ember to a flame. The encroaching fog wasn't helping. He was vividly reminded of why this had always been his least favorite way to start a fire. His back ached, and his bowing was getting slower. Time for a break.

He clicked on the LED light, and headed back to the plane. As he hoisted himself up into the tail opening, Robin stood and made his way back to meet him. The businessman grabbed Robin's ankle as he passed. "If you don't shut her the fuck up, I will," he growled.

Robin shook loose, less than gently.

Ian held out a hand to him as they met. The woman was whimpering, steady and low. It was grating. But they didn't have much they could do for her. Ian saw that Robin had piled extra seat cushions over the injured passengers. Extra insulation from the cold, presumably. It made sense. Except he hadn't covered the old man. Then Ian realized what was different. There was no harsh gasping wheeze anymore.

"Damn," Ian said softly, drawing Robin toward him by the arm. "He's...?"

"Yeah. Not long after you went out there."

"I'm sorry." He'd left Robin alone with that. Well not precisely alone, but the other two weren't any help.

Robin shrugged, but he leaned in a little against Ian. Then he reached for Ian's hand. "God, you're freezing. It's no use to us if you get frostbite."

"It's got to be over forty. I won't freeze."

"Hypothermia then." Robin pulled off his own sweater and wrapped it around Ian's shoulders. "And don't tell me that can't happen above freezing. Here." He took Ian's hands and tucked them in under his own armpits, and then moved closer.

The man was like a small furnace. Where skin pressed close to skin, warmth radiated out. Ian let himself just take for a moment. He leaned his cheek on the Robin's head, careful to keep the touch light. The soft blond hair was stiff with dried blood on one side but Robin's sigh wasn't pain.

"I couldn't get a fire lit," Ian admitted. "He died while I was messing around with it."

Robin's shrug was just a minuscule shift of weight. "I haven't heard any planes or choppers."

True. A signal fire was only useful if there was someone out there to see it.

"They have to be looking by now." Ian straightened. "I was close. I'm going to give it another try."

"You sure? You could rest and warm up a bit."

"I'm good."

He couldn't see Robin's expression as the other man asked, "Do you want to trade off for a bit?"

_God, no._ He'd take an aching back and cramping hands over listening to the injured people moaning any day. But maybe Robin would too. "Are you good with a fire bow?"

"Probably not," Robin admitted softly. "But I suck with people skills too. Never mind. Go do the he-man thing with fire. I'll try to keep these two from killing each other."

"I'll be back soon." For a moment they didn't move apart. Warmth soaked into Ian from shoulder to hip, while chill ran down his spine. _Let go of the man._ Ian dropped his arms and shrugged off the sweater.

"No, keep that," Robin said. "It's warmer in here." He took a step backward. "Luck."

"Yeah."

Ian almost missed the place he'd left his tools. The mist was getting thicker, and the beam of the light barely reached the ground at his feet. He had to back-track twice before he found his bow by tripping over it.

The tissues on the bark base were damp. He dug into his pocket for more.

The fifth try was the charm. A red line of ember, bright in the wet velvet darkness, edged a big piece of tissue. This time when Ian breathed on it a flicker of yellow flame emerged. Carefully he fed the scraps of tissue into the base, not fast enough to create air currents and blow out the fire, not slow enough for one to burn out before the next was lit. Then regular paper, and tiny twigs, and finally he lit the end of a bigger branch and had it stay lit. That red-gold light was the prettiest thing he'd seen in a long time.

Ian gathered more wood and gradually built a good fire on the rock. When it was hot enough to catch one of the damper branches, he sighed in relief. Dry wood might be hard to come by. He tended it carefully for a while, until he was confident it would stay lit.

He jumped when Robin's voice came out of the darkness. "Now that's what I call a useful skill."

"Yeah." He couldn't keep the satisfaction out of his voice. He straightened up, his back creaking. "Now we're going to keep this motherfucker going, because the chances of me doing that again are not good."

"What can I do?" Robin came and held his hands out over the flames, moving them in the warmth. Firelight edged his fingers, turning the motions graceful and surreal in the darkness. Ian watched, mesmerized. "Ian?"

He jolted. "Oh. Gathering wood would be good. We should figure out a way to cover some to keep it dry. Drier. It feels like this mist is getting closer to rain."

"Because that's just what we needed." Robin's voice was sarcastic.

"Yeah."

With just one flashlight available, they searched together, hauling armfuls of branches to pile in a heap on the rocks. A downed tree was too big to move, but a few fat sections of branches had broken off, and they hauled the logs over. The cold damp soaked into Ian's back and down his neck. He resisted the temptation to hover over the blessed flames. Robin was working steadily and without complaint.

They tripped over chunk of airplane fuselage lying on the ground fifty yards behind their section. Robin hefted it experimentally. "This would be waterproof, if we could move it."

Ian joined him. The thing was bigger and heavier than he expected. He swept the meager beam of the LED around the area. _Was the flashlight getting fainter?_ He didn't know how long the battery lasted. "This thing's heavier than it looks," he said. "How about if we lean it up against these rocks? It would provide a shelter to keep the wood dry underneath. We might even start a second fire under it, in case the rain gets heavy enough to put the first one out."

Robin eyed it dubiously. "Wouldn't want to set the thing on fire."

"It's aircraft materials. It had better be fire resistant. And if we lean it up enough, it should be safe."

Together they wrestled the chunk of metal and plastic half upright, and rolled rocks into place to keep it stable. The curving arc of hull provided a small area of shelter. They shifted the biggest pieces of their assembled firewood underneath, while tossing smaller branches into the existing flames. The precious fire was hissing now, as rain began to drip onto the hot coals.

Ian built a new fire base, under cover but far enough from the woodpile to be safe. He hoped. The dry space was limited. He held a branch into the flames until it was well caught, and then transferred it. The new pile smoldered, smoked, and then lit.

Robin came and stood beside him. "What about the other fire? Do we just let it go out?"

Ian looked over, gauging the chances. Already the glow was becoming feeble, dwindling as the mist closed in. "Yeah. Let it burn as long as it will, but tend this one."

"This won't be as visible."

Ian nodded. "If we hear anything, we'll have to come running over here, grab some flaming branches, and wave them like mad. Best we can do."

Robin edged toward the fire. Ian could see the smaller man was shivering, long shudders wracking his body. Robin leaned toward the warmth. "Should we bring the other two people out here?"

"Too wet. Too cold, even with the fire," Ian said. "There's no room for even one person under the overhang if we want to keep the wood dry. They'll be better inside and covered up." He shuddered himself, as the mist became full-fledged rain. At least the wind was light. And it was coming from the back of the shelter, not the front. This fire burned on cheerfully, as the farther one flickered and went out.

"Will you have to stay out here?' Robin asked. "You should take more of the clothes to keep warm."

Ian looked back to the plane hull, judging distance. Staying dry was going to matter more to prevent hypothermia. "I can sit inside the back end there, come out when the fire needs feeding. Those hunks of log you found should burn for a while." He slid one of the bigger pieces into the base of the fire and watched it catch.

"We can take turns," Robin said firmly.

A scream from the inside of the plane brought them both up short. Ian's stride was longer, and he beat Robin back by a few steps. The woman was half sitting, staring at the front of the plane and screaming through the hand she pressed over her mouth.

The man shouted, "Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!"

Ian paused to check the man, as Robin squeezed past to get to the woman's side. _I'm a coward._ Screaming women scared him more than machine guns.

Robin crouched beside her and wrapped his hands around her wrists. "What?" he asked, his voice admirably calm. "What's wrong?"

"She moved!" The woman was staring at the flight attendant's remains. "She moved. I heard...I saw..."

Ian took another look. _Nope. No head means never moving again_. Nevertheless, he shone the flashlight forward. A few feet away from the dead woman, something did twitch and disappear.

"A mouse," Robin said reassuringly. "Just a tiny mouse. They probably don't see many people up here and it's curious."

_Or hungry._ Ian managed not to say that.

"I hate mice," the woman whimpered. "I hate this. It hurts and it's dark and cold and I hate this."

"Shit, lady," the injured man barked. "None of us are happy to be here, and you're just making it worse. And I need to pee." He glared up at Ian as if it was his job to provide a bathroom.

Ian thought for a second, and then went to dig through the pile of flotsam he'd accumulated in his search for fire starters. Yep, an empty juice bottle. He brought it back and handed it over. "Here you go."

The man stared at him. "I'm not using that."

"That or pee your pants," Ian said brusquely. "You try to move that leg and you'll regret it."

The man stared a moment longer, and then his eyes dropped. "Shit."

"That you'd better hold, if you can," Robin quipped, earning himself a glare.

"Hey, I'm the one who'll have to empty the bottle," Ian added. Then grudgingly asked, "Do you need help?"

The man's back stiffened. "I can manage."

As he fumbled with his pants, Ian moved forward to join Robin. The woman was still trembling, but her eyes were calmer. When Ian got close she whispered to them, "I need to, um, go, too. But I can't..."

_Yeah, women were less well designed for stealth peeing._ Ian exchanged a glance with Robin. He figured they both looked equally harassed.

"I can help you outside," Robin offered. "We can't go far and it's cold and wet, but if you prefer..."

"Would you?" The woman almost smiled. Then her face fell. "Except...I don't want to go past...I might step on him. And he's dead." She eyed the old man's corpse, its face covered with the thin layer of someone's flowery T-shirt.

Ian would have given her the like-it-or-lump-it treatment, but Robin said, "We'll move him. We could use the space anyway." He glanced at Ian. "It can't hurt him now to move him outside."

_True enough. And some of the odor in the cabin was undoubtedly coming from the body._ Ian nodded. Together he and Robin lifted the old man's corpse and stepped carefully back down the aisle. Robin lurched against a seat as he missed his footing on the slanted floor. He hissed as his hip connected, but didn't drop the man. At the open end, he lowered the man's feet, and dropped out to the ground. Together they slid the body out, and then maneuvered it alongside the plane. When it was safely stowed under the curve of the hull, Ian straightened up. Robin remained crouched a moment longer. He straightened the man's body, crossed the arms over the dented chest, and replaced the fabric over the face.

Ian waited, and offered a silent boost back into the plane. They were both soaked. Still Robin leaned out for moment and held his hands under a sluice of water dripping from the broken hull. Ian gave him the moment, and two more, and then gently tugged him away. "Come on. You should get something dry on."

Robin nodded at the woman. "After."

Ian looked at her. "You don't need to go out there. It's wet and cold. Just find a space in here. We won't look."

"I couldn't...Not in here."

"It's okay," Robin said. "Come on. I'll help you. I have a fiancée so you don't need to worry about me, okay?"

Ian leaned out of the aisle as Robin helped the woman past. _He has a fiancée._ For a while, Ian had forgotten that fact. Working together, with casual touches, warm body and breath, it had seemed so natural to be with Robin. But _Chris_ lived in the real world, with his fiancée. It would pay Ian to remember that. _Chris, he's Chris._ Robin was just a figment of their imaginations.

Chris called from the back of the plane after a couple of minutes, "Hey, give us a hand?"

Ian went back and together they got the woman back into the plane, up the aisle and bedded down in her nest of seat cushions. She was wet, but seemed more relaxed. Robin sat between the two injured passengers and pulled off his shirt. He wrung it out and began gently toweling his hair with it. Red streaks from the blood in his hair stained the fabric, although the rain had cleaned his face. His skin was pale gold in the dim light. The muscles of his chest and arms flexed lightly.

Ian went to the back, jumped down, and stalked to the lean-to to feed the fire. Then he stood for a while, warming his hands and watching the flames dance. It was burning well. The night was silent, the haze thick. It was like being wrapped in a cold wet blanket. The rain was easing again but the fog had closed in densely. With his back to the plane, he might have been alone in the universe.

"Ian? You okay?"

All right, not alone in the universe. "Fine," he called back. "I'll be right there."

The big businessman lying on the floor was grumbling under his breath as Ian climbed up inside. Robin... _Chris_ glanced up at Ian. He had pulled on some salvaged shirt that was way too big for him. He looked like a half-drowned boy in it. But his eyes were adult, and steady. "You should dry off and get changed," he said, shoving a sweater at Ian. "Save the wet stuff to wear on your next trip out."

Ian ducked his head, and pulled off his shirt in turn. He made no effort to hide. Instead he watched Chris's eyes as he dried himself. And yeah, that was more than indifference in those dark grey depths. Chris might be lying to the world, but he wanted Ian and they both knew it. Ian pulled the tight sweater on and sat down, head back, eyes closed.

"I can't sleep," the woman moaned. "When are they coming? Why don't they find us?"

"Listen," Robin said over the businessman's growled "Shut up already." Robin went on, "None of us are likely to sleep much. And we need someone to stay awake anyway, in case we hear a plane. But there's no reason we can't talk and pass the time. I'm Chris Fletcher. I'm a writer and I'm headed to Ely, actually to Eureka, for a book reading."

"I'm Anne Johnson," the woman wavered. "I teach Economics at UCSD. My sister lives in McGill and I'm going to visit..." She trailed off.

"Ian McCallum," Ian said when the other man was silent. He opened his eyes and gave the woman a smile. "I own a tree-trimming business. I'm heading out to see my brother and his wife."

There was a drawn-out silence and then the businessman said grudgingly, "Arnold Cornwall. I'm a CPA."

_And the gregarious sort, obviously._ Although maybe the guy was just in enough pain from the leg to be surly.

Robin said, "Anne, why don't you tell us about your sister. Have you been out to McGill before?"

"No," the woman said. "This is the first visit. She got married a couple of years ago, but...I can't think. I really just can't."

"That's okay," Robin said quickly. "I thought talking might help."

"Oh, it does," Anne said. "I just...I can't think straight. You should talk. You have a nice voice. Just...tell us things, until the rescue arrives."

"Um..." Robin... _Chris_ looked over at Ian, his expression harried. No doubt he wasn't eager to share the details of his life in the closet. Ian pressed his lips together. He was not the sharing kind either. He'd already blabbed more to Chris than he'd told anyone in his life.

Chris sighed. "I'm pretty boring. What I could do, if you like, there's a book I read recently that I have pretty much memorized. I could tell you some of it, like reading aloud. If you want me to. It's kind of a thriller, so maybe it's not the best thing for in the dark on a mountain. But I promise the hero survives. In fact, none of the good characters die. Well, the ones that aren't already dead."

To Ian's surprise, it was the CPA who said, "Go for it, kid. Keep us entertained. It's better than sitting here bitching and moaning."

Ian shifted a little, to where he could keep a better eye on the fire. But when Chris glanced at him, he nodded. He could imagine what book Chris had almost memorized. And he was curious.

Chris huddled down, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He was shivering a little. _You'd both be warmer if you sat together._ Ian didn't move. Chris laid his head on his bent knees and began.

"Ben turned the letter over in his hand. The paper slid under his fingertips, slightly rough and cheap. The first-class stamp from Germany was pasted askew. The address was written in haste in a familiar scrawl. Ben knew that hand as well as his own.

"He looked again at the postmark. Mailed eight days ago, in Munich. Three days before Grant died.

_"It was so unexpected, dropping into his hand from the mailbox that morning. Grant had never been a letter writer. Occasional e-mails had been his style, brief and to the point_. "Back safe in England. - way too much sand in my hair." _or_ "Returning Wed. PM. How about a beer? Same time, same place." _Grant ran full out all the time, on the job and at play. Pausing to write on paper wasn't his style._

"But Ben had seen that handwriting in the past, over and over. Ever since the first time they'd been stuck together to work on a joint project in Mrs. Forrest's History class. Grant's slanted scribble, written in a hurry, barely legible but always brilliant. This envelope was from him, all right.

"And Ben couldn't open it. Literally could not make his fingers unseal the flap. Because this was one last word from his friend, all unlooked for. This was a piece of Grant that wasn't just a memory, already known and in replay. And when he opened it, it would really be over. Grant would be nothing more than that quiet mound in Arlington, under the grass..."

Ian sat and listened as Chris's light smooth voice wove around them. He followed the Ben character through loss, and hope, and the moment when he accepted that the help in the darkness that looked and moved like his friend was only as real as a shadow. Twice Ian got up to pull on the wet shirt and feed the flames. Chris paused in the narrative until his return. The third time, when he climbed quietly back into the plane the younger man's warm voice didn't resume.

Near the front, the woman Anne was sleeping, her breath a thin sigh. Chris was slumped, half sitting, his eyes shut and mouth dropped open. It wasn't an attractive pose. Ian wasn't sure why the sight of the man tugged on his heart. _Or maybe some other part of you, moron._ Because his heart was hardly involved, with a man he'd known less than a day in total. But _something_ sure moved at the sight of that man.

As he settled down near the tail of the compartment, the businessman's eyes flicked to him, open and dark. But the man said nothing. Probably too painful to sleep, but at least he was silent and let the others rest. Ian whispered, "Let me know if you hear anything, or if I don't get up in an hour to feed the fire."

The man's "Yes," was no more than a breath.

Ian closed his eyes and napped lightly, his mind roaming but his senses still keyed to the world around him. His father had taught him to catch rest this way. And taught him the consequences of falling too deep asleep. He would hear a rescue plane, if it came.

Chapter 5

The rain intermittently picked up and slackened overnight. On one of his excursions, Ian filled a couple of empty soft-drink bottles with the run-off from the hull, before it dropped to a trickle. By now hopefully it was clean of whatever contaminants an airplane hull might carry. Two bottles of water weren't much for four people, but it was all the empties he had found. Except for the one being used for more...organic purposes.

The night was dark and quiet. Once, Ian heard an owl on the hunt. Later and further away, what might have been a coyote yipped. But no rescue.

Near dawn, he fell into a deeper doze. His mind filtered the sounds of Cornwall shifting restlessly, of Ann whimpering in her sleep, of other now-familiar breathing. He woke stiff and sore, the metal brace of a seat imprinted deep into his hip. The light outside was brighter, but grey and somber. A cool fog pressed in on them.

Ian struggled upright and stared toward the fire in sudden alarm. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out. But through the mist he could just make out a warm flicker of light. It was still burning.

He got up and dropped silently out of the back of the plane. The tight sweater pulled across his back, already dampening in the fog, but he couldn't make himself pull the wet shirt on and off again. It was daytime. It would get warmer.

There was a larger pile of wood beside the fire than he remembered. As he stood looking at it, Chris appeared out of the fog, dragging a branch. "This stuff is pretty wet," he said, dropping the end of the branch under the shelter. "But maybe it'll dry before we need it."

"Good idea."

They worked in silence for a while, passing each other in the mist with arms full. The woodpile grew. The daylight was bright enough to move around by, but the visibility was almost nil. As he worked to pull a drier stump from under a log, Ian found himself counting the minutes Chris was out of sight. Not that he didn't trust the man to find his way in the fog, but...when the count got a little long, he called, "Hey, Chris, need a hand with anything?"

"Nope." The voice was close by, and Ian jumped, and then relaxed.

Chris appeared out of the fog, and slid those elegant hands, now scraped up and grimy, under the log Ian was wrestling with. Together they freed the wood and dragged it back.

"That had better be enough," Chris said, dusting his palms on his grubby pants. "There's no more room under the shelter anyway."

"I'm going to build up the fire a little," Ian said. "They might be using thermal imagers to search. The bigger the heat signature the better."

He added some branches and then rolled the end of the log into the flames. There was room to lay it out on the rocks and let it burn without endangering anything. Not that this soggy forest was much of a fire risk. He stood and watched the flames play around the end of the log, slowly kindling a sullen smolder from the damp wood. Beside him, Chris held his hands toward the fire, working his fingers like they were stiff.

"I liked the book," Ian said, so that he wouldn't reach out to rub those fingers. "I see what you mean about the friendship being just on the subtle side of gay. If you're not looking for it, the two men were just good buddies. But if you are..."

"Yeah, that's actually the problem I'm having," Chris said. "With the new book."

"A sequel?"

"The third one. The sequel comes out soon. But in the one I'm writing now, I have to decide." Chris paused. "Grant's ghost keeps pushing Ben toward Miranda, the girl he met in the first book. And I have Ben all set to finally ask her out seriously. But I can't decide."

"Decide what?"

Chris looked up at Ian. His grey eyes were dark and uncertain. "I had planned to have Ben and Miranda slowly get serious about each other. But every time I go to write it, it doesn't sound natural. Ben gets all stiff and stilted, like he's trying too hard. So I'm thinking about having him realize that it isn't working. That what he really wants is to find a man like Grant, not a girl."

"So? Why don't you write it that way?"

"Well, for one thing, it's much less commercial." Chris dropped his eyes. "That sounds shallow, I know. But I gave up my day job to write full time, after the first book began selling well and I got a decent advance for the second. I don't know if I can afford to write something marginal."

Ian was surprised that he felt a twinge of disappointment. _This is Chris, the closet guy. What did you expect?_ "And you'd be outing yourself. After all, what straight guy would have a gay hero?"

"Maybe." Chris shrugged. "Maybe that's part of it too. All I know is I'm kind of blocked. Neither version seems to flow naturally. I was hoping this trip might help. I'll get to meet the fans of the first book, feel out their attitudes, see how attached they are to the character of Miranda."

"I guess that's reasonable."

Chris nodded, but he moved closer, until his thigh brushed against Ian's. "Maybe I need to stop being reasonable and do what feels right."

_Okay, not just my imagination here._ Ian glanced toward the plane. The fog was thick enough to make the wreck just a dark shadow among the lighter shadows of the trees. When he turned back, Chris was looking up at him. It felt inevitable that Ian would bend over him and find his waiting mouth.

The kiss was soft, gentle, more like _hello_ than _I want_. Ian held still, hands at his sides, and just kissed Chris back. Mouth, lips, a slight touch of tongue. They explored in a leisurely way that denied the rising heat. Ian clenched his hands behind his back to keep from reaching out, so it was Chris's fingers that tangled in his hair and pulled him deeper into the kiss. A small step forward, and they came together from shoulder to hip. And then Ian let himself touch.

The wet shirt muffled Chris's form. But under the catch and slide of damp cotton on damp skin, Chris's body was the same hard hot shape Ian remembered. The same body he had worshipped with mouth and hands. He could recall every inch, every taste. He couldn't keep himself from groaning into that full mouth.

Simple kissing had never been Ian's thing. Jack had been all for the effect of mouth on sensitive skin, but kissing itself hadn't been a big part of that. At least, not this soft sweet play. But Ian was drowning in the taste and feel of Chris's mouth. He whimpered as Chris pulled back. His hands locked behind that narrow waist.

"I'm sorry." Chris's voice was a whisper. "That wasn't fair. This isn't the time or the place. But I just wanted..."

"Oh, yeah. I want." Ian slid a hand up to cup the base of Chris's skull and pull him in again. And for a while, time stopped.

When they separated, Ian tucked the smaller man in against him, with Chris's cheek on his shoulder. There was an unfamiliar comfort in just standing there together. The curly blond head fit perfectly under his cheek. Ian struggled to remember what he was doing.

After a while he said softly, "I wish you really were Robin."

That wasn't very articulate, but Chris seemed to understand him. "You would be bored pretty fast," he murmured. "Robin's a shallow guy, fun for an evening maybe, but he has no connection to the real world."

"And Chris has too much?"

"That's one way to put it." Chris's arms dropped away and he took a step back. Ian unclenched his fingers to allow it. "I have responsibilities and..."

"Your fiancée." Ian took his own step back.

Chris's expression was pained. "It's not as simple as it sounds. I want to tell you."

From the plane, a plaintive call of "Chris?" drifted toward them. "Chris, could you maybe help me?"

Chris fluttered a hand toward the sound. "That's Anne. I should probably go give her a hand."

"You do that. Mustn't keep the woman waiting." He could hear the acid in his voice, but didn't make the effort to change it. Chris eyed him for a moment, and then turned and headed back without a word. Ian stayed where he was tending the fire. And cursing himself.

By early afternoon, the mist began thinning. Ian was shifting the signal fire out from under the lean-to when he heard the first faint whine of an engine. Slowly it grew louder. Chris burst from the back of the plane into the clearing, eyes on the sky. He turned slowly, a hand shading his eyes.

Ian closed his own eyes and pivoted, listening. _There._ He pointed. "It's that way. They probably can't see us yet."

Chris hurried over and together they piled branches on the open fire, choking as the smoke from the damp wood thickened and swirled.

"That's good," Ian said. "Smoke may show better than flame in the daylight."

The engine noise grew, faded, and then grew again. Ian cocked his head. "I think they're circling."

The businessman was yelling something from inside the plane, and Anne appeared at the opening. Chris and Ian worked steadily, building the blaze up. The heat reflected off Ian's face. _Surely that ought to be detectable._ The engine sound rose and fell.

"They have to have spotted us," Ian said. "A random plane flying over would be gone by now."

The tatters of thin cloud drifted around them. Here and there faint sunlight broke through to brighten the ground. Then Ian gave a wordless shout and pointed. A small plane appeared in a gap in the cloud.

Chris jumped wildly, waving and yelling even though there was no chance he would be heard above an aircraft engine. Ian watched as the plane circled, appearing in snatches through the overcast. As he followed its path, the plane banked and waggled its wings. He breathed out deeply and felt the tension drain from his shoulders.

"They've seen us," he said, more loudly than he meant to. "Damn, that's a fine sight."

"What now?" Chris asked.

"Get ready for the PJ's," Ian suggested.

"You think?" Chris was grinning. "I researched them when I was deciding what branch of Special Forces to make the Grant character. It'll be cool to meet some real parajumpers."

Ian laughed aloud, and shoved Chris roughly. "Yeah, that's why it will be cool. Research."

"We should go tell the others."

"Right." Ian followed him to the plane.

***

The helipad on the roof of the hospital rushed toward them, as the chopper they were riding in swung down for a landing. Ian watched the painted tarmac below. The seriously wounded had gone on the first helicopter, and were hopefully already inside the hospital. Beside him in the chopper, a young man in BDU's gave his arm a gentle punch and then leaned in to speak into his ear. "You look eager. Got a girl waiting for you? I heard all the families were brought here to wait for word."

Ian shook his head. He didn't bother trying to talk over the noise of the rotors. The helicopter settled down lightly in the landing circle. In the other passenger seat, Chris fumbled with the buckles of his seatbelt. The men around them were alert but somber. Ian had heard that their section of the plane was the first to be found, and it had come with two dead bodies. These men were about to go out and look for more. Finding any survivors in a plane crash had to be considered a win but Ian knew men like these. They would have wanted to save everyone.

Ian let himself be guided out onto the pavement, and then helped away from the chopper. The man beside him handed Ian over to a waiting medical team. On the other side, Chris was being treated the same way. Ian resisted a medic's pulling hands long enough to see the PJ's scramble back into their bird and take off. His mind followed them back toward those mountains and the remaining pieces of the plane.

There were several other helicopters circling overhead. One peeled off to follow the PJ's; the others dipped nearer. For a moment Ian was confused. Then he spotted the network logos on the undersides. _Plane crash; news teams._ He ducked his head, and let himself be guided inside. He had no interest in being splashed over people's television screens.

In the elevator down from the rooftop, he submitted to having his pulse taken and his eyes checked. "Are you injured anywhere?" a medical-type asked urgently.

"I'm fine." Ian and Chris said it in unison.

Inadvertently, their eyes met for a second. Chris's dropped.

"That guy had a head injury bad enough to put him out cold for several minutes," Ian said clearly, gesturing at Chris. "He needs to be checked out. I'm fine."

The elevator doors opened into a lobby. It was filled with people, sitting and standing. All eyes turned to the elevator. A tiny Asian woman let out a small whoop and then ran for Chris. Chris took two steps to meet her and then pulled her in tight in his arms.

_The fiancée? She certainly didn't look like a blood relative. Although Chris did say he was adopted._ Ian suddenly just didn't want to speculate any more. He turned away and looked around for an exit.

The booming voice behind him caught him by surprise. "Ian! Jesus!"

He was caught in a bear hug, and his mind recognized the hold. For a moment he let himself sag. "Joe. Why are you here? How's Tracy?"

"Tracy's good, she's recovering." Joe eased back and set Ian on his feet. "She'll be even better once she knows you're okay."

"And the baby?"

Joe's face split in a wide grin. "Nina Rose. Four pounds nine ounces. She's in the NICU nursery, but the doctors think she'll be just fine. She's gorgeous." He dug out his cell phone. "Here, look."

The baby in the picture was tiny, curled and pale, with a tube up her nose. Ian touched the screen with a fingertip. "Big blue eyes."

"Yeah. And I think she'll be a redhead. The doctors say Tracy's blood pressure is already improving. So all we needed was you."

"You didn't have to come get me."

"Are you kidding?" Joe stared at him. "When we heard the plane was down, Holy God. We were pretty freaking scared. And then when they finally found survivors, they wouldn't say who. I had to be here. Otherwise Dad was coming."

"Dad knows I crashed?"

"Of course." Joe looked a little sheepish. "I had to call him."

"Right." Ian sighed and ran a hand over his hair. "Anne and Roger too?"

"Yeah. Roger's set to drive up. Anne's booked on a flight back from London in a couple of days and she's waiting standby for something sooner."

"Fuck." Ian glanced around. "Look. Call them all. Tell them I'm fine, it was nothing. Tell Anne if she cuts her trip short I will personally skin her alive. I'll call them myself soon. Right now I just need a bathroom, a candy bar, and a quick exit."

"You should get checked out by the doctors. And the media are all over this crash. Everyone knows some of the passengers died. I can't tell them it's nothing. And all kinds of people will want to talk to you."

"Tell Dad, Anne and Roger that I'm not hurt half as bad as after a karate sparring match with Anne. And if you haven't located at least three ways out of this hospital that the media don't know about, you aren't Dad's firstborn."

Joe grinned. "Maybe I have. And I do want to get back to Tracy. Bathroom and an exit, huh? I could do that."

"And a vending machine."

Joe nodded. "This way. Walk casually, like we're heading to the bathroom over there. Then duck right to the stairs."

Ian followed him. The other people in the room had hungry eyes fixed on him and Chris. Family of the other passengers, presumably. The last people he wanted to talk to. A man in a suit was making his way toward Ian. Ian pointed at the bathroom and raised one finger, like he would be right back, and the man slowed and nodded. _Sucker._

For just a second, as he stepped around the corner, Ian looked back at Chris. The man was almost surrounded, and his cheek was still pressed to the sleek black hair of the woman in his arms. But his eyes met Ian's through the crowd. Ian fought to stay expressionless. What would he say anyway?

Just around the corner was the men's room, but he and Joe slipped past it and into the stairwell. Then they were running down the steps, laughing like loons. _Oh yeah, escape back to Ian's real life._ He felt high on the relief. But somewhere inside, tears were all too fucking close. He quit laughing, and kept running.

***

Chris saw him go. One moment Ian was talking to the huge guy who had to be his brother. The man was Ian in an XXL, same hair, same nose, same jaw line. It could be either Joe or Roger, but he was definitely family. Then they were heading for the bathroom. But Chris saw purpose in Ian's stride. And that last look; that felt like some kind of goodbye. So he wasn't surprised when Ian didn't reappear.

He laid his cheek on Becca's hair and let her babble on about how relieved she was, how happy Jenny would be, and watched that hallway. Eventually, the guy in the suit, who had been waiting for Ian, disappeared after him. And then came back empty handed. _Yeah, gone._ Chris shivered inadvertently.

Becca hugged him tighter and then stepped back. "You know Jenny would be here if she could," Becca said. "That bastard Markham wouldn't give her leave. He said she'd just be sitting around waiting, so she might as well keep busy until there was news. So she sent me. Are you okay? I swear, she wanted to come."

"It's okay," Chris said. "I'm fine. I'll call her in a minute."

His attention was being sought from all sides. He gave himself one more moment to close his eyes and pull the shreds of his old life back together. He was Chris Fletcher, successful writer, for whom publicity was a good thing. The Chris of the crash site, the one tinged with Robin, could go away now. He opened his eyes, and turned first to the doctor in medical scrubs, putting on his best cooperative smile.

Five hours later he had been X-rayed, CT-scanned, interviewed by the FAA and the airline and the cops and other people he hadn't bothered to identify. He had a new shaved spot on the side of his head, and seven very itchy stitches. On the plus side, he'd been given a handful of Tylenol, a shower, a new cell phone and clean clothes. And coffee.

He sat on the side of a bed and munched on a stale Danish, with the hot coffee cup clutched in his other hand.

"So tell me what you want to do," Becca said. "The doctors say you can check out if you have someone staying with you for the next twenty-four hours. Or you can stay here overnight."

Chris tried to think. "What time is it?"

"About eight."

"Do I still have a reservation at the hotel in Eureka?"

"I'm sure you do," Becca said. "I can't imagine they gave it away, under the circumstances."

Chris frowned, which pulled on the damned stitches. _Okay, live without facial expressions._ "The circumstances of me not showing up last night?"

"Of _'Famous author in plane crash'_. You've been on the news today. Once all the next of kin were notified, the media got the passenger names. It was a small enough list, you were near the top in star power."

Chris choked. "The advantage to crashing in a really small plane. Good publicity." He wondered if his mother had been watching the news. She hadn't called his cell; they'd got his number transferred to this new one, and none of the missed calls were from his parents. Had the news exposed some detail of his life that his mother didn't know, that had made her angry? Or did they just figure a good son would call his parents, and not make them do it? He really should call them. Soon. "Do you have any suggestions? I sure as hell don't want to stay in the hospital."

Becca shrugged.

"Where are we again right now? Fallon? That's Nevada, right?"

"Yeah," she said. "We could find a hotel, although with all the people flooding in, it may be hard. It's not that big a town. It's maybe an hour west to Reno. We could stay there overnight. Or about three or four hours east to Eureka along Route 50. It would be midnight before we check in."

"We?"

"You're not driving yourself anywhere."

"The airline said they would give me a car and driver to wherever I want to go," Chris reminded her. "A limo even. They're scared I'll sue them or something. They want to throw money at me before I talk to the media. Especially..." _since Ian has disappeared_. The various interviewers had complained about that. Chris figured they only had to check the brother's place in Baker, wherever that was. Ian wasn't some fugitive. He'd probably just had no patience for the trivia that would delay seeing his sister-in-law. But it was none of Chris's business and he'd kept his mouth shut.

Becca looked at him for a moment. "Chris. You crashed in a plane. You may have had a concussion. Jenny would rip my entrails out if I let you go off by yourself. If you want to take up the offer of a limo and a driver, far be it from me to argue. But I'm sticking with you until you're safe back home."

Chris started to argue with her anyway, and then just sighed. No one budged Becca when her mind was made up. And truthfully, he'd be glad of the company.

"Eureka then," he said. "They can provide the ride. I can sleep in the car, if I want. Unless...I bet you didn't sleep much last night either. Would you prefer Reno?"

"If I'm not driving, I'm good. I'll call ahead and make sure we have two beds at the hotel."

The reporters were waiting for them on the hospital steps. Chris stopped and talked for a while, answering what he could, getting in a few pitches for his book. He praised the PJ's, which they deserved, describing the helicopter rescue with the baskets cradling the wounded as they were reeled up to safety. He hooked in his book, though, with a rueful comment about how they put his SEAL hero into the shade. _Smile, dimples_. There was a fine line between a good commercial pitch and a publicity whore. Since he hadn't crashed the plane on purpose, he figured he was still on the good side. _There was no reason to worry about what Ian would think of it._

When they wanted the gory details about the dead flight attendant, he called a halt and worked his way to the waiting limo. Becca followed him and they climbed into the plush climate-controlled interior. The reporters snapped final shots, and then fell back as the driver pulled out onto the road.

"God, it's like being Princess Di," Becca said. "Ick. Don't you dare ever get really famous, because that shit would get old pretty fast."

"No worries." Chris leaned back and closed his eyes. The limo rode smoothly, almost silently. "I don't think even Stephen King gets that kind of treatment. Writers just aren't glamorous without the plane crash."

The quiet was seductive. He wanted to sleep. But he couldn't put it off any longer. In the hospital he'd called Jenny, whose usual brusque attitude hadn't quite hidden her relief at hearing his voice first-hand. He'd sent a text message to his publisher and anyone else who gave a shit - "rescued, doing fine, not hurt, will continue to book signing as planned". They could get the details off the news, or call him tomorrow. But his parents would be completely offended by a text.

He sighed heavily and dialed.

"Chris?" His father's deep voice was cool. "It's late. You may have woken up your mother."

So much for imagining them glued to the news, waiting for word of him. Not that he'd really been able to picture that. "I'm sorry, Father. I thought you might have heard that I was in an accident, and I wanted to let you know I'm okay."

"What kind of accident?"

"Um, a plane crash. But not a bad one. I mean for me. I'm fine, not even a scratch."

"Really? That's good. We won't tell your mother about it then. She doesn't need the stress." A little curiosity tinged his father's voice. "What were you doing on a plane?"

"Remember I told you? My book. I got invited out to Nevada to do a signing."

"Oh yes, that thing you wrote," his father recalled. "I still think it's an odd place to do a book signing. Surely it won't make much difference to your sales. I'm surprised you took time off from school for a trip like that."

"Um, yeah." Chris pressed the phone tighter to his ear. Jenny and Becca didn't know that he hadn't told his parents when he left college. That he'd implied, all right, that he'd told them flat out that he was still in medical school like they'd always wanted. That his writing was just a side thing. What he would do next spring when he was supposedly graduating, he hadn't decided. Maybe if he didn't think about it, it would go away. He told his father, "That wasn't a problem. I won't miss anything I can't make up for."

"Well, just remember what's really important," his father said. "It's nice you can write something that sells, but Fletchers have always been physicians. Don't let your little hobby interfere with your real work."

Chris sighed. "No, Father."

"I won't wake your mother. You can call at a decent hour if you want to speak to her."

"Yes, Father." He flipped the phone shut.

Becca eyed him with a sympathetic look. "Your parents not killing the fatted calf for you?"

"Well, it's two hours later there," he said defensively. "Mother goes to bed early because of her MS. And they hadn't heard the news, so they weren't worrying about me. It's really best if they don't worry about it."

Becca looked at him for a moment. Chris wondered what Jenny might have told her about his family. But after a moment she just nodded, and curled up into her blanket.

Chris tried to get comfortable in his seat. But somehow sleep wouldn't come despite the pillow and blanket so generously provided. He wriggled deeper into the corner of his seat, punched the pillow down, and stared out the window at the fading sky. He wondered what Ian was doing. If he and his big brother managed to sneak out right at the beginning, they might be all the way to Baker by now. Not that Chris really cared.

He turned over to look at Becca. "You look exhausted, sweetie. Thanks for coming for me. It can't have been fun. I'm sure Jenny is grateful too."

"You're welcome. Jenny said she didn't like to ask me, but hell, you're like the kid brother I never had. I was pretty worried. I'd have come even if she hadn't asked."

"I'm pretty lucky," Chris reflected. And not just because the other two sections of the plane had been located without any more survivors. The cockpit was found deep in some ravine, and not yet retrieved. Figuring out the cause of the crash might be a challenge. Chris wanted to know what happened, but he didn't _need_ to know. He'd lived through it, against the odds. And he still had good friends, and a book reading to do, and a career that would only be boosted by this experience. _And what don't you still have?_

It was crazy to miss that mountainside. To feel flat and incomplete without the wet shirt clinging to his back, the smell of wood smoke, _the deep voice of another man in the darkness._

Firmly, Chris closed his eyes. He needed sleep. And for certain, Ian wasn't mooning over being marooned on a hillside in the rain without food or heat. Only a fiction writer would twist something like that around into something to be missed.

Becca woke him as they pulled into the Best Western in Eureka. "Hey, Chris, we're here."

He stretched, wincing at the stiffness in his neck. A couple of hours dozing had left him muzzy and really sore. He wanted his bed, and a solid eight hours.

But the entire staff of the Best Western seemed to be on hand to greet him. From the front desk concierge, falling over himself to provide every comfort, to the bellboy who seemed devastated to have only Becca's overnight bag to carry, they all surrounded him. He was offered food, drink, a toothbrush, extra pillows. They were delighted to have been able to change his room to one with two beds, devastated that a suite wasn't available. Then a pen appeared, and he realized he was expected to sign copies of his book that were proffered in every hand.

_Good publicity, good publicity._ He dug out a little Robin for the occasion, finding a dimpled smile and a quip as he signed each one. _Good publicity._ "Get me out of here soon," he muttered to Becca. "Before I fall over."

Bless her, she took over. Pleading understandable fatigue, she reminded them of the book signing scheduled for the next day. She moved herself and Chris toward the elevator, shedding the front desk staff, the local reporters and a half dozen others Chris didn't recognize. By the time they got to the room, there was just the bellboy and one receptionist left. Becca thanked them, tipped them, and pushed them firmly toward the door.

Then just as the door was almost shut, a woman came puffing up. "Here. We forgot. These were waiting at the desk for Mr. Fletcher." She handed over a sheaf of envelopes. Becca took them, and closed the door firmly. She tossed the papers on the dresser.

"Okay, famous author man. Shower or bed?"

Chris paused on the verge of collapsing onto the comforter. A shower sounded like heaven. The dribble of water in the hospital had gotten him clean, but a really hard stream of water on his back would be so good. "Shower first. But if I'm in there more than ten minutes, come get me. I'll probably be asleep on my feet. I'd hate to survive a crash and then drown in a hotel shower."

"You've got it."

The water was hot and clean, the bed was soft, the room was dark. Fifteen minutes later Chris was dead to the world. In a good way.

Chapter 6

Chris woke to the smell of coffee. For just an instant he wondered _how the hell did Ian make coffee?_ before his memory caught up with him. He sat up in the bed. The gap between the curtains showed bright sunlight outside. On the nightstand, a tray held coffee, juice, toast, muffins, and yes, that was bacon. "There is a God." Chris hauled himself up and pulled the feast over onto his knees.

The sound of the shower in the background gave a clue to Becca's whereabouts. She came into the bedroom toweling off her hair, as Chris devoured the last of the food. Becca frowned at him. "That was two breakfasts."

He went for a boyish grin. "I was hungry?"

Becca ruffled his hair as she picked up the phone. "You're entitled." She ordered additional food. Chris's new cell phone vibrated against the desk, and Becca tossed it over to him. "Here. You've been getting calls all morning. You'd better go through them."

Chris took it. He hadn't bothered to look at the full back-log yesterday. Thirty-four missed calls. Fifty-one text messages. He scrolled the list. His publisher, his agent, Jenny, Matt, Rick, and then further back a bunch more from Jenny. In between, dozens from numbers not in his contact list.

Not worth looking through. He should just erase it all, call his friends and agent, let the rest go. They could contact him again if necessary. He found himself scanning the recent texts, the phone numbers. Nothing that seemed to be from Ian. _Of course, how could he tell? They'd never exchanged numbers_. Still he scanned back to in time to the previous evening. Nothing.

Becca was sorting through the papers from the front desk. She looked up at him as he shut his phone off. Her face looked hesitant, but she held one envelope out to him. "Well-wishers, interview requests. And this."

Chris took it slowly. A familiar block printing included his name and the hotel address. This envelope bore a stamp. The postmark was San Diego. There was no return address. Reluctantly, he opened it. "GIVE CREDIT WHERE CREDIT IS DUE."

"Your stalker, right?" Becca said.

"Yeah. As cryptic as ever."

She came to read the page over his shoulder. "Maybe it's someone who thinks they deserve credit for your book."

Chris shook his head irritably. "I wish he would either go away or get to the fucking point. This is just annoying."

"Maybe he's just trying to drive you around the bend."

"Right now, it wouldn't take much." He tossed the paper in the trash.

"I thought you were saving those."

"For what? There's no clues, no requests, no threat. Time to move on." He slid out of bed and stretched. "I have what, six hours to the signing? I need clothes, a razor, a laptop. Do you think Eureka has a Wal-Mart?"

"Every town in America has a Wal-Mart."

Chris nodded. "On the other hand, the airline is paying for this, since they lost my bag. Do you think Eureka has Abercrombie and Fitch?"

Becca snorted. "Stick to Wal-Mart."

A little calling around provided them with a rental car, which Becca insisted on driving. Eureka might not have Abercrombie, but it did have a mall. Chris spent a relaxing couple of hours shopping. Becca had much better taste than Jenny, and much more patience with the process of creative dressing. Although as a fabric buyer, she had a wealth of critical comments about the make, cut, and finish of much of what Chris tried on.

He ended up with dark slacks in a flattering cut and a muted blue shirt that showed off his tan skin. And if it also picked up the spreading bruise on his face, well, that was part of the package. He couldn't hide it, so he might as well flaunt it. It was a good bet that he would field more questions about the crash than about his book. Who said, there's no such thing as bad publicity?

By the time they made their way to the bookstore, he had reached a stage of vibrating tension. He wondered if anyone would even come. He wondered if any of them would care about the book, or if it would be all ghouls and vicarious thrill seekers. He wondered if he would develop sudden hysterical muteness. He wondered if he should have skipped that drink at lunch. He wondered if he maybe should have had a couple more.

Becca gave his arm a squeeze as she turned off the car. "It will be fine. Relax."

"Easy for you to say."

They made their way into the front of the store. Chris's eyes were drawn to the prominent display of his first book, half of them racked backward to display the author photo. He hated that photo. There were signs welcoming him, giving the time of his reading. And there was a small crowd waiting.

The bookstore owner hurried over to shake his hand. From her remarks, Chris gathered that he had been brilliant to get into a plane crash just in time to boost attendance at her event. He muttered something about _pleased she was pleased_. She led him to his chair, knelt on the floor to plug in his laptop for him, put out a bottle of water. Chris settled in, feeling foolish under the gaze of so many eyes. He pulled out the precious thumb drive, which had survived the whole ride in his pocket, and pulled up his text on the screen.

The store owner clapped her hands loudly. "Thank you all for coming to Hillside Books. I'm very excited to present Mr. Christopher Fletcher. Chris Fletcher is the author of _Running Silent_ , a book whose hero comes from our own town of Eureka. Now not only is Mr. Fletcher going to read to us from his forthcoming second novel for the very first time. He also comes to us from the actual site of a terrifying airplane crash. We are extremely fortunate to have him here with us today. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Fletcher."

Chris was startled by the volume of the applause. The small store was filled to capacity. For a moment he clutched, looking around at the crowd. Becca caught his eye and nodded. Chris cleared his throat. "Thank you. It certainly was a lot more exciting getting here than I expected." There was a small ripple of laughter. "I don't want to dwell on the plane crash," he went on. "It was a tragedy and people died. I don't want it to be confused with an adventure, or publicity, or the fictional events in my books. Things happen in real life that are hard to deal with. But I survived and I'm here to talk about my work. And I hope that's why you're here to listen."

He glanced around the crowd, which had sobered a little with his remarks. "When I started writing _Running Silent_ I was looking for a good home for my lead character Ben and his friend. I wanted a small place, but not too small. A place where people still get to know their neighbors, but don't judge them too harshly. A place that might produce both a Navy SEAL of extraordinary quality, and a reporter with an enquiring mind. I chose Eureka." He paused for a hum of applause. "Hopefully you've read my first book. If not, I see plenty of copies are available." He smiled and gestured at the display. "Later, I'll sign any of those that you want. But first, I've agreed to read for you just a few pages of the sequel, _Tangled Lines_ , in which our men from Eureka find themselves in an even more complex mystery." He turned to the laptop, pivoting the screen a little to cut the glare, and began reading. _"Chapter One..."_

His publisher had agreed to let him preview the first chapter. It went more smoothly than Chris had expected. Apparently telling the first story from memory in the hold of a crashed plane was good preparation for this. The words flowed smoothly. The audience seemed engaged. When he stopped, and closed the laptop, there was a gratifying sigh.

The store owner opened the floor for questions. Those which touched on his experiences in the crash he passed, with a simple, "I'd rather not discuss that." A few people left early on, probably disappointed that they weren't going to get the gory details. The questions about his work he tried to answer. _Did he have a SEAL consulting on his character of Grant?_ \- No but he tried to do appropriate research. If there was a SEAL out there interested in volunteering, he'd be glad to discuss it. _Had he ever seen a real ghost?_ \- No, but there are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio. _Would there be a third book?_ \- Yes, it was under way.

A voice from the back of the crowd asked, "Is Ben really gay?"

Chris blinked. _A rough light voice, not Ian's deeper tones._ He shouldn't be surprised that someone else had picked up on the possibility. He was just surprised they would ask the question out loud in Eureka, Nevada. And from the guy's clothes, it was a personal question. "I'm not going to comment on any plot element that's not in the first book," he managed. "You'll just have to read on and see." _When I decide myself._

"Will he fall in love with Miranda?" A woman asked.

"Same answer," Chris said. He took the opportunity to ask, "Do you think he should?"

"I don't like her," the woman said. "She's kind of shallow. Ben deserves better."

Chris couldn't help grinning to hear people talk about his characters as if they were real. "I'll bear it in mind."

When the questions wound down, the store owner organized a line for meeting and signing. The customers milled around, some getting in line, others heading for the door. Chris was putting his new laptop in its case to make space on the table when there was a sharp sound.

Gunshot?

He blinked, hearing a second and third report, before he was slammed out of the chair and onto the ground. He gasped for breath, as a hard shoulder caught him under the ribs. People were yelling. The cracking sounds ran together and stopped.

The weight on Chris was familiar. So was the hard muscle of an arm around his hips, the smell of the hair against his mouth. "What the fuck?" he mumbled in Ian's ear.

"Stay down," Ian snapped. "I don't know. It doesn't sound quite right for gunfire. But you need to stay down and stay safe 'till we find out for sure."

The crowd noises were excited, but there was no screaming, no terror. Maybe no one was hurt. Chris relaxed slowly by inches, pinned under that familiar weight. Someone was shouting about firecrackers. Chris found his breath again. He shifted a little, to get Ian's hip off a painful spot. "So," he murmured. "Fancy meeting you here."

He could see Ian's blush, even with only about two square inches of neck visible. "I was passing by."

"Uh-huh."

Ian eased off Chris, and then backed away a little. Becca got between them and into Ian's face. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" She reached down and hauled Chris to his feet.

"It's okay," Chris said. "Ian's a friend of mine."

"What kind of friend?" she demanded suspiciously.

_A really hot one._ Chris was saved from having to answer by the approach of a uniformed police officer.

"Is one of you the writer?" he asked.

"That's me." Chris dusted off his dark pants. Someone had been slacking off on the floor cleaning here. He tugged his shirt straighter.

"Looks like some kids tossed a string of firecrackers in the back door," the cop said. "No one seems to be hurt. You don't know why someone would want to disrupt your book thing here?"

"No," Chris said. "Probably just kids."

Becca and Ian got identical mulish looks on their faces, but at his general glare they kept their mouths shut.

"Okay," the cop said. "Well, I'll hang around a bit, make sure nothing else happens." He looked at the stack of books on the table. "Are you really going to sign all of those?"

Chris grinned. "I sure hope so." He wasn't sure if the giddy feeling was relief that it was just a prank, or the presence of Ian, hovering at his back.

The store owner hurried over, fussing around him, righting the chair, offering coffee, water. The customers were reforming the orderly line.

"I'm fine," Chris told her. "Let's not keep the folks waiting." He settled down to sign his autograph in a formal setting for the first time. _Maybe that's where the giddy comes from._ He hoped so, because he wasn't sure he wanted to be that into Ian.

Becca stood at his shoulder, eyeing each customer closely as they stepped up. Ian held station one pace back, scanning the room. Chris felt like he had bodyguards. Feuding bodyguards.

A few people still wanted to ask about the plane crash, but Chris gave them a bland, "No comment." Most people wanted a dedication or a name in addition to his signature on the book. Maybe when his tenth book came out, he would be too jaded to do more than sign his name. Right now, Chris had to restrain himself from writing paragraphs. He concentrated on his signature, with the shortened first name and artistic capital F that made it different from his legal signature. He glanced up when a rough voice said, "Could you write, "To Mark"?"

The kid was younger than he'd looked from across the room, maybe not even legal. Brownish hair, thin features, remnants of a bad case of acne, pink shirt, tight pants. _How much courage does it take for a kid like that to be out in a place like this?_

Chris hesitated for a moment, and then wrote: _"To Mark, who had the courage to ask. Yes, he is. Chris Fletcher."_ He passed the book back. "But don't tell yet."

The kid read it, and his face lit up. "Now I really have to read the next book."

"You do that," Chris said. "Because I need good sales numbers to convince them to publish the third one. And that's the one you'll really want to read."

"Okay." The kid held out his hand. "Thanks, Mr. Fletcher."

Chris shook hands gravely. He caught Ian's restless motion beside him and glanced over. Ian gave him an approving nod. _Trust the man to figure that out from three feet away._ Chris shrugged. His stomach lurched a little, because he'd really planned to think this out a lot longer. But now he couldn't disappoint the gay kid from Nevada. Ben was gay.

Chris realized it would make the writing easier. It was right. Suddenly he was eager to get back to writing that third book. Plot options unfurled in his mind.

Of course, it would make other things harder. He imagined his mother's reaction if he put a positive gay character in his book. He imagined her voice over the phone, ice inside velvet, asking him to explain why his hero in the latest story was a homosexual. He could hear the twist of disgust she would give to the word.

But he was damned if he'd change it now. The decision was made. He'd just have to keep it below her radar. He didn't think she'd actually read his first book anyway. She wasn't likely to make it through book three. He'd tell her it was a delusion on the part of those left-wing book critics. She'd never know. This kid in Nowhere, Nevada would care a lot more than his mother ever would. Hopefully.

The line wound down at last. Chris's hand was cramping from gripping the pen. But the stack of books at the sale register was gratifyingly smaller. The store owner was happy, smiling and apologizing for the firecrackers. She told Chris he was welcome back when the next book came out. She would call.

Chris pushed away from the table and turned to Ian. "So, you were just passing through about three hours' drive out of your way?"

"Something like that," Ian said. "Listen, Chris, I don't like the thing with the firecrackers. It might be harmless, but it seems awfully coincidental that you just got done reading a passage about a random shooting and then someone simulates it in the crowd."

Chris opened his mouth to comment and Becca grabbed his arm. "Chris, we need to talk." She hauled him a few feet away. "Look," she hissed. "I don't know who this guy is but I don't trust him. Speaking of coincidences."

Chris started to defend Ian, and paused as his name was called. The store owner hurried up to them, holding out an envelope. "Mr. Fletcher. This was under the stack of books on the desk."

Chris took it automatically _. Familiar block printing, just his name, no stamp_. Ian's hand reached over his shoulder to take it from him. "It's the same writing, isn't it?"

Chris snatched it back. "Yeah." He sighed. "Would you two stop glaring at each other. We're all on the same side."

"You think," Becca persisted. "Is this the guy? The one night stand you were suspicious of back in San Diego?"

Ian stared at her. "He told you about me?"

Chris grabbed each of them by the arm. "We are not doing this here," he hissed. "Come on. Hotel room. Now."

They consented to be dragged out of the store, but then Ian shrugged free. "I have my own car. I'll follow you."

"Don't tell him where you're staying," Becca insisted.

"Best Western," Chris told Ian, ignoring her. "Room 117. Three blocks that way, make a left and about a half mile down."

"I can find it," Ian said. "You start and I'll follow you, make sure no one else has the same idea."

Becca turned to Chris as Ian strode off toward a dark-blue Tundra. "You're an idiot, Christopher. I get that the guy is hot, but you need to think with the big head, not the little one."

"I trust him," Chris insisted. "Anyway my stalker already knows where I am, remember. He knew long enough ago to mail me a letter there." Unless he sent one to every hotel in Eureka. Either way this guy was starting to give Chris the serious creeps.

Becca huffed, but led the way to their rental. She drove toward the hotel in pointed silence, although her frequent glances in the rearview mirror were eloquent. Chris caught an occasional sight of the Tundra behind them. For him it was comforting to have Ian there. He remembered how safe it had felt, back in Ian's truck, when he realized that for once he didn't have to worry about gay bashers because he had a protector tougher than any of them.

Chris expected the other man to be right behind them when they entered the hotel room, but it was almost ten minutes before the knock came on the door.

"Security sucks," Ian said as he slipped in past Chris. "Especially on the ground floor."

"It's good to see you too," Chris told him.

Ian stopped abruptly, and then quirked a small smile. "Hello, Christopher."

Chris stepped up, and slid a hand behind Ian's head. Ian's eyes went wide and startled, darting toward Becca, but he didn't resist as Chris pulled his head down. The kiss was light and quick, and then Ian took a step back. Chris grinned. "Ian McCallum, meet Becca Avery, my fiancée's girlfriend. Becca, this is Ian."

"Okay," Ian said. "Didn't see that one coming."

Becca snorted. "Chris has a twisted sense of humor. If Jenny wasn't coping with Don't Ask, Don't Tell, she'd have kicked him to the curb long ago." She frowned at Ian. "Don't think you're off the hook though. Here you are in Eureka, and here's Chris getting another hand-delivered message, complete with sound effects. You want to tell me that's just coincidence?"

Ian's response was to turn to Chris. "Speaking of the letter, have you opened it yet?"

"Nope." Chris set his laptop case on the dresser and pulled the envelope out of the side pocket. He turned it over. "No address at all, so it was left there in person." He slid a finger under the flap and popped it open. "DID THAT WAKE YOU UP? YOU HAVE ONE MORE CHANCE TO MAKE THE RIGHT CHOICES."

He tossed it on the bed. "This is such bullshit. I'd almost rather have death threats."

"I wouldn't." Ian said shortly. "Those firecrackers could have been real gunshots, or a bomb. Whoever's playing these games has upped the ante enough already. You didn't see anyone you recognized?"

"Just you." Chris eyed Ian. The man looked good, clean-shaven, neatly dressed, more rested than when they'd last seen each other. _Although it would have been hard to be less rested._ "You want to explain what you're really doing here?"

Ian rubbed his forehead, his eyes rueful. "I'm not quite sure. One minute I'm admiring my new niece, and telling my sister-in-law how thrilled I am to watch a toddler whenever they need me to. The next minute I'm Googling author signings in Eureka, and borrowing my brother's truck."

"And driving three hours."

"So it seems."

Chris smiled. "I'm glad. I hated the way things were left between us. Jenny's lifestyle isn't something I tell anyone about, but it's hard to be a stranger when a guy saves your life."

Ian looked uncomfortable. "I didn't."

"Hm. Seatbelt. Fire. Minor details?"

"You'd have been fine without me."

"I hate to interrupt this love-fest," Becca said caustically, "But I'm not quite as trusting as Golden Boy here. I still think the way this stuff only started happening when you're around is suspicious."

"He couldn't have tossed those firecrackers," Chris pointed out. "I was smooshed underneath him seconds after they started."

"I could have used a long fuse, or a timer," Ian pointed out. "But I didn't. This crap does feel like a lover scorned though."

"You're not scorned," Chris said. "Ignored a little, maybe."

"I could fix that." Ian moved closer. The heat in his eyes could have started that fire without the bow. Then he shook himself. "Not the point. I didn't come here to get laid. Well, not mostly. Fuck." He glanced at Becca and colored. "I was worried about Robin. Chris. And I did want to see him again, but I don't need anonymous notes to make him pay attention to me." He looked back at Chris. "Do I?"

_If Becca wasn't in the room, I'd be on my knees paying some serious attention._ "No, you don't."

"So it's someone else. Someone who was there, maybe watching, maybe waiting for you to notice them or talk about them, thank them like that one note said."

Chris kicked the bed in frustration. "There isn't anyone. Not for years. The last guy I had sex with..." He broke off and glanced at Becca.

She grimaced. "Don't mind me. Jenny tells me all about your adventures in unsafe sex."

Chris blinked and hastened to reassure Ian. "In the sex-with-strangers version of unsafe, not the fucking-raw sense. Well, I'm glad to know I provide you two with a topic of conversation when you get tired of munching on the couch."

"You're just grouchy because Jenny's getting more than you do." But Becca relented. "She worries about you, Chris. Occasional anonymous sex is no substitute for a real relationship."

Chris grunted. How had they moved so far from the topic? Conversation with women required unrolling a ball of string to find your way back to the original point. " _Anyway_ , it's been years since I was with anyone more than once, and I never use my real name. I really think it ties in to the book."

"Could it be someone in the publisher's office or your agent?"

"They're in New York. The letters were hand-delivered." Chris paced restlessly. "I don't use a pen name. It wouldn't be hard to find my address. The real question is whether I should even pay attention to this shit. It's not like the guy is threatening to kill me. They're just letters."

"And firecrackers," Becca said.

"Shit." Chris sat on the bed. "So now what? I'm not calling the cops. They'd laugh at me."

"You're engaged to an investigator," Becca said. "Get Jenny to really investigate."

"On the free time Captain Markham gives her?"

"She'll find the time." Becca glanced back and forth from Chris to Ian. She told Ian, "I'm going to give your name to her at the top of the list. You have a problem with that?"

Ian reached in a pocket, pulled out his wallet, and liberated a business card. "Here. Full name, business number. She can start from there. Anything else she wants to know she can ask me. I'll probably tell her."

"Probably?"

"Yeah."

Chris edged between them. "We're all on the same side. Really."

Becca gazed at him from under her straight black hair. "I hope so. I'm going to go find real coffee and an Internet connection, and talk to my lady." She pinned Ian with a glare. "You two obviously need to talk too, but if anything happens to him, I'll know exactly who to go after."

Ian held up empty hands in placation, but Chris noticed he made no promises.

"I'll be back in a couple of hours," Becca said.

Ian stared after her until the door closed, and then turned that intense gaze on Chris. Chris stepped back and put a bed between them. Because they did need to talk, and if Ian kept staring at him with that hot, hungry look, Chris was going to drag him down on the mattress and there would be very little room in his mouth for conversation.

Ian must have thought the same, because he glanced down and when he looked back up his eyes were cooler. "So. You're engaged to an investigator."

"Jenny. She's career Navy."

"And a lesbian."

"Yeah."

"So you're what? Providing each other with beards?"

Chris felt a touch of disdain in Ian's tone. He jerked his chin up. The guy might be out himself, but he had no fucking right to judge them. He didn't know the kind of pressures Jenny was under.

"Something like that. We were best friends in high-school, and we pretended to date to keep our parents happy. Well, her parents, mostly. Mine wouldn't have cared." _Fuck, it was hard to keep this blended back story straight._ "We roomed together in college. When she went into the Navy, we kept in touch. She got assigned to San Diego and I wanted to live there. We started out as roommates again, and it...escalated."

"Into an _engagement_?"

Chris shrugged. "She had met Becca and it was getting serious. There was a guy at her work who was hitting on her. When she didn't respond he started ragging on her, calling her a dyke, stuff like that. She was scared that if someone looked too closely they'd find Becca. So we did the engagement with the ring and the whole bit. The guy backed off, things were good. She wears the ring, but it actually came from Becca. It works."

"For her. What does it do for you?"

Chris shrugged. "I have a much nicer place to live than I would on my own. I have a great friend to share a meal with, go shopping with, or bitch about my day with. She's my best friend. And when I want to, I can go out and cruise. I just dress up to look different and do it well away from the base. It works for both of us."

"And you don't mind being in the closet, lying to your family and friends?"

"What's _left_ of my family are much happier this way, believe me." Chris tried to ignore the flush that he could feel creeping up his neck. He _wasn't_ ashamed of the choices he'd made. Ian had no idea what Chris's life was really like.

"And your friends?"

He shrugged again. He didn't have close friends other than Jenny. He was just a loner. Casual friends didn't care. "They're happier this way too."

"Some friends."

"Look." Chris was suddenly angry. He didn't need Ian coming in and messing his life up more than it already was. "You don't need to be here. I'm fine. You can go back to your nice understanding family and your nice out life, okay?"

"I can't do that." It was Ian's turn to pace. "I don't want to be here. But I couldn't stay away. I don't want to get mixed up with someone who has a fake fiancée, a weird stalker, and thinks sex is something you do in the stall of a public men's room. But I've got you under my skin."

"Oh, that's nice," Chris growled. "You know nothing about me but you're pretty fucking quick with the judgments. For your information, I vastly prefer a motel bed to a public can for sex."

Ian met his eyes, and Chris tried to put all of Robin's heat into that gaze. _Sanctimonious motherfucker._ And he succeeded too well. Because the air between them could have come out of a blast furnace. And there was a big queen bed right there.

Step away from the dangerous man. Slowly.

Instead, Chris took three steps around the bed towards Ian. "What about you?" he purred. "You, the slow responsible one. Where do you like your sex best? How long do you need to get to know a guy before you are willing to strip him naked and get inside him?"

Ian stared at him. He might have seemed unmoved, but Chris could see the rapid rise and fall of the man's chest. Ian's hands curled into fists at his side. Chris should have been worried about that. But he wasn't the least bit afraid of this man. He took a step closer.

"I seem to remember it didn't take you that long to get revved up." He put out a hand and just touched his fingers to the buckle of Ian's belt. "With a stranger."

Ian grabbed one finger in a hard grip. Chris knew he could probably break it with one squeeze. But Chris just smiled wickedly at the man, holding his eyes. And Ian used his grip to pull Chris in close. Chris tilted his face up.

He didn't get a kiss. Ian's hot mouth landed on Chris's throat. He bit, hard enough to leave a mark, and then slid up under Chris's jaw, sucking and licking. He got both of Chris's hands trapped in his fists. When Chris wriggled to free them, Ian's squeeze was warning to stop. Slowly, Ian bent him back toward the bed, his mouth ravenous.

Chris felt himself falling and the mattress smacked against his back. He was pinned across the bed by Ian's weight. His hands were trapped at his sides, tight to the sheets. Ian moved his assault to Chris's mouth. The man was everywhere, lips, tongue, teeth. The tip of his tongue brushed to roof of Chris's mouth and then dove for his tonsils. Chris opened breathlessly. For a long time, there was nothing but the rough demand of mouth on mouth.

Ian pulled back and braced himself over Chris, panting. The man's eyes were dark, with blue lights in the depths. His brows came together, angry and wanting. Chris worked for his cat smile as he struggled for breath.

"Well. Mr. Cautious isn't so slow today."

"Damn you." Ian bent to kiss him again, roughness giving way to pure desire. "How do you do this to me?"

Chris jerked away and gritted his teeth. "Must be all my practice."

"No." Ian eased back a little and met his gaze. "I'm sorry. I have no right to be judging you. You are...you're amazing. And it has nothing to do with anyone except you and me."

Chris felt his body melt. "Kiss me, you fool," he said, to avoid saying anything else.

And Ian did. Slowly now, gently, little nips of his teeth followed by quick licks to soothe the sting. Ian's weight pressed Chris into the bed. Their legs found the perfect scissor, thigh against thigh, trapped erections straining together. Ian released Chris's hands to dig rough callused fingers into his hair and hold him for a deeper kiss. Chris wound his arms around that hard back, tracing the definition of fine muscles under clean cotton.

Ian moved into the curve of Chris's neck, face hidden against his skin. "I want you so bad. I keep thinking about you, remembering your taste and your feel. I've been walking around half hard for a week."

Chris smiled. He slid his hands lower, fingers brushing under the waistband of Ian's jeans. He arched to bring the side of his neck under Ian's teeth and shuddered as the nip fell on just the right sensitive spot below his ear. "And now we're both here."

Ian nodded. His hair brushed against Chris's cheek. Then he raised himself up on his elbows to look at Chris. "What do you want? You tell me this time."

Chris gasped as the motion rubbed them together. "You. Inside me. Now."

"Really?" Ian kissed him lightly, mouth closed. "If you want to...change things up, I don't mind."

There was a big difference between _don't mind_ and _want to_. Anyway, Chris was dying for this man's weight on him, this man's heat inside him. "Fuck me, you bastard," he ground out, humping up against Ian's thigh.

"Oh, God." Ian stopped asking. Chris's clothes came off, a lot faster than they had gone on. His ass thumped down on the bed as his jeans were yanked free. He laughed breathlessly, struggling to kick off his last sock, as Ian rolled him face down on the bed. Then he was pinned again.

Chris spread his legs to take Ian's weight between them. The rasp of denim scoured his thighs, spread his ass. He moaned and heard Ian do the same. Damn, that sounded hot. He bucked up under the weight. "You're wearing too many clothes."

"Condom?" Ian ground out.

"What?" Chris teased, squirming. He was getting harder by the second as his dick tangled in the sheets. "You drove all that way and you didn't plan for this?"

Ian bit him hard on the back of the neck, pinning him still, and then let go. "Didn't want to jinx it."

That was...sweet? Self-deprecating? Didn't Ian realize that Chris caught fire every time he came near?

"In the bathroom," he said. "Black case. Lube and condoms." Because when he bought that new toothbrush and deodorant, he'd ridden a wave of optimism, and laid in supplies.

"Don't move." Ian lifted his weight and pressed Chris down with a shove to his shoulders and a firm smack to his ass. Chris buried his face in the pillow, and waited, listening to the sounds. Ian climbed off the bed, making it creak. His steps to the bathroom were almost silent over the carpet. A slide of zipper, a moment of silence, and then the slight shift of air that was Ian coming back.

A single rough fingertip traced down Chris's spine to the cleft of his ass. "So pretty." Ian's breath was a whisper. "Just stay like that."

"Right. Take your bloody time," Chris growled, trying to press up into that touch. The finger lifted.

"Just hold still." Fabric rustled. Ian must be undressing. Chris reached out, snagged a spare pillow, and slid it under his hips. The soft cushion brushed against his rock-hard shaft and he groaned, even as he was arranging himself over it, legs spread. The bed dipped as Ian climbed back on between Chris's calves.

"So hot." Two big rough hands cupped Chris's ass and lifted him more, spreading him. Then Ian's mouth found him. Ian's tongue circled, stroked him, up under his balls and then around his waiting ass. Long fingers stroked underneath Chris and cupped his sac, as the man worked magic with his mouth. Chris keened and arched upward, seeking more.

"Oh, yeah. Gorgeous ass." He heard the click of the lube, and then cool gel slid over him where that hot tongue had been. He shuddered. Then a finger pressed in, working him with just the barest tip. The finger swirled and withdrew, stroked, pressed in a fraction, and withdrew.

He arched up. "God, you're slow."

"I like slow." A second finger joined the first, and now Chris felt the burn. The fingers slid deeper, curving. "I had you fast last time, and now I'm going to have you slow."

Chris shoved back, forcing that touch deeper. "We did both," he ground out. "I think we're up to fast again. Christ, Ian, more." The burn was fading into the good heat, full and electric, spreading through him. He wanted more, more stretch, more fullness, just more.

The fingers pulled out, and the lube clicked again. Another slither of cool across his heated hole.

"Ian. Jesus Christ."

The man was laughing, damn him. Chris slid a hand underneath himself, but Ian grabbed his wrist and hauled it back out. "Keep your hands there. No jumping the gun."

"Then get out the fucking gun."

More laughter, but Chris could hear a breathless thread running through it. Then finally, finally, a broad, latex-covered pressure against him. He took a breath and pushed back, making room. He had forgotten, he thought, as Ian slowly breached him. He had forgotten just how big this man was, and just how right he fit inside Chris. Chris was filled to the brim, stretched to the edge of pain, but not beyond. He stopped begging for speed, as Ian slowly pressed home.

"God, God, God." Chris was babbling, and he didn't care. "Oh God, oh God, oh, yeah."

Ian sank into him, slowly driving him down into the bed. It was so much, so hot, so hard, almost too much. And then deep inside, that big cock brushed Chris just right. He bucked, almost screaming, as the silver shock went through him. Ian felt his reaction, damn him. He pulled out a little, waited, waited, and then drove home over that same spot. That time, Chris did shout.

Ian's hands lifted his hips a little, changed the angle. And then the man nailed him just there, short deep strokes that dragged over Chris's prostate. Chris cried out, wordless and high. One of Ian's hands wrapped under him, catching Chris's prick in a tight fist. The rhythm got faster, rougher.

Chris felt light and disconnected. Blackness haloed him, closing in. He was nothing but ass and groin and the stroking hands, that thrusting cock. His body narrowed down to pure sensation. His fingers cramped in the sheets and then fell away, hands irrelevant to that pure heat that was Ian inside him. Only Ian's hands and Ian's body held him up.

And suddenly, his climax crashed thought him. He shook, helplessly, emptying himself under that driving weight. He heard Ian groan, above his own wordless gasping. He hoped Ian was coming, couldn't tell, couldn't care, as his own body worked to turn itself inside out. All he knew was that when it was over he lay crushed to the bed, both of them shaking. Ian was collapsed on him. Ian's breath rasped painfully in Chris's ear.

Eventually, Ian said, "Jesus Christ." It almost sounded reverent.

Chris couldn't resist saying, "You called?"

Ian's body shook with a laugh, and they both groaned at the sensation of motion. "Oh, man." Ian reached down and pulled free, kissing Chris's neck as he arched and whimpered. "Trash can?"

Chris dropped his face back in the pillow. "Don't know. Don't care."

"Right." Ian rustled around and then eased over, pulling Chris's limp body in against the curve of his own. Chris went unresisting. For a while they drifted, easing down.

"You know, Becca will be back eventually," Chris murmured.

"Right. We should get dressed." If Ian was moving, Chris couldn't feel it.

"We really should."

For a few minutes, there was no motion but the ruffle of Chris's hair under Ian's breath. Then with a groan, the bigger man rolled away.

Chris was wincingly sensitive, cock and ass. Not too sore, just...sensitive. He shifted carefully to a seated position, and then stood.

Ian caught his intake of breath and glanced over. "You okay?"

Chris smiled. "I don't think they have a word for what I am. Remind me again why you're still single?"

Ian flushed with pleasure. "You haven't had much competition. And honestly, it's never been like that with anyone before."

_Not even Jack?_ Chris managed to catch himself before saying anything that stupid. Talk about a way to kill the mood. He might be deathly curious, but he wasn't going to be jealous of a dead man. He swore he wasn't. "So you don't date much?" he said instead.

"No." Ian bent to straighten the covers, and snagged the abused pillow. "This thing is a mess. Should I do something with it?"

"Get the cover off and dump it in the tub. I always figure the maid would rather deal with a wet pillowcase that a, um, sticky one."

***

"Always," Ian repeated, a slightly sour feeling in his stomach. He headed into the bathroom. He stripped the cover off the pillow, ran some water over it and left it in bottom of the tub. He kept forgetting. He would be with Chris, and that part of him that was looking for forever would start soaring. And then he'd be reminded that this was just sex for Chris.

He wondered how many men had done what he was doing now, rinsing away the traces of Chris in some motel bathroom. While he was at it, he dampened a washcloth and wiped himself off, staring at the fool in the mirror. _Great sex doesn't mean anything except great sex._

Still, there was no need to be a pig. He dampened another towel and brought it out for the other man.

"Thanks." Chris took it with a wry grin, and began wiping his stomach and ass unselfconsciously. How long, how many men did it take to be that at ease?

Ian picked up his boxers, jeans and shirt and pulled them on. He tucked himself carefully behind his zipper. His body shook, remembering, but he thought he hid it well. Chris was dressing slowly. The man looked good in those tight slacks and the soft blue shirt. _Although he looked even better naked._

"So now what?" Chris asked. "I mean, you're helping out your brother at his place, right?"

"Yes. His wife Tracy's doing great but she had major surgery. She's not supposed to lift anything for six weeks. And Devon's a handful, and the baby's still in the NICU." He eyed Chris sideways. "What about you? Going home?"

Chris gave a shrug that had a hint of unease in it. "I was scheduled to stay two more days. But I'm sure as hell not _flying_ home. And if I'm going to drive, then I can leave any time. It kind of kills the mood to have my stalker wandering around Eureka. I think I'm going to head home tonight."

"You shouldn't be alone," Ian said. "Especially not out on some highway."

"Becca will be with me. And hell, the airline promised to get me back home by ground transport. Maybe they'll provide the limo and driver again and we can do it up in style."

"Limo?" Ian asked.

"Yeah." Chris looked smug. "They want to throw money at me so I don't sue their asses off." He glanced up at Ian. "They'd have cut you some bucks too, if you'd stuck around to find out."

"Didn't want the hassle. Unlike some of us, I don't like the publicity. I've got no patience for standing around on the steps smiling and making nice with reporters." _Which made it clear he'd watched Chris's interviews. Damn._

"Hey, I live off those book sales," Chris said. "And the FAA wasn't too happy that you'd skipped out, either."

"Not like there's anything I can tell them." Ian sighed. "I'll call and make sure they know where to find me, so they don't get in a twist."

Chris nodded. He bent to retrieve a sock and raised an eyebrow at Ian. "Condom missed the trash."

"You're closer to it."

"Yeah, but it's your spunk."

Ian went over and retrieved the sticky latex. "You didn't mind my spunk before." But he didn't look at Chris as he dropped the thing in the trash. Because here was the perfect opportunity to say the other thing he'd come for. If he was ever going to. He could just let it slide. "About that," he made himself say. "I should tell you. The first time we fucked. Well, the second time, the first night, the condom might have leaked."

Chris turned to stare at him.

"I'm not sure," he said weakly. "I mean, I think it happened afterward, but..." He trailed off at Chris's glare.

"And you waited until now to say something?"

"I didn't notice 'till I was in the bathroom that night. And when I came out, you were gone."

"Okay. And the full twenty hours we just spent together. You just couldn't find a second to fit that in?"

Ian flushed. "Yeah. When was the right moment to say, 'By the way, when I fucked you up the ass I might have spilled a bit'?"

Chris snapped, "Before you fucked me up the ass again?"

"I'm sorry." Ian looked down.

"This is academic right? I mean, you're not positive. You've tested."

"Not recently," Ian admitted. _I should have._ "But Jack and I were fine, and there have only been two guys since then. I should be okay. I never barebacked with them."

"Never let them come in your mouth or on your dick?" Chris asked acidly, and then nodded at his silence. "Great. Ian, you do know that in some major cities, one in five guys is positive? One in five! So you did two guys, that's a forty percent chance you were exposed."

"Only thirty-six percent," Ian corrected. Lots of people didn't understand probabilities correctly. "Point-eight times point-eight is point-six-four and..."

"I don't need a freaking math lesson," Chris snapped. "The point is, you could have been exposed and you didn't care enough to even warn me when you screwed up."

"But it doesn't transmit easily," Ian protested. "There's really no risk I'm positive. Anyway, tell me you've never sucked another guy off without a condom in the last ten years."

"Maybe." Chris seemed angrier than he should be. "But I test regularly, and I know what risks I'm taking. What I object to is taking risks I don't get told about."

"Why are you making such a big deal out of this?" Ian asked. His lingering guilt made him say it more harshly than he meant to. "I'm telling you, there's pretty much no chance I gave you anything."

"That's not the point." Chris turned away, dismissing him. "Have a safe drive back to Baker."

"Just like that?"

Chris's voice was weary. "You got what you came for, right? A nice fuck, get that tidbit of information off your chest, and go back to your regularly scheduled life?"

"You're the one going home to a fiancée."

"Yeah, I am." Chris turned back to him. "I don't have to ask you not to tell anyone about this, do I?"

"I'm not going to out you. Or her." He didn't know how this had gone bad so fast. The Chris with the burning grey eyes and pliant gold body had become this cold stiff stranger again. And suddenly, all Ian wanted was to get away. "I should go," he said. "Be careful though. There's still some creep out there."

"I guess that's my problem."

"Make sure you lock the safety bolt behind me." Ian hesitated.

"Got it." Chris was holding the door open.

Ian had to brush past him to get out. For just a moment, as they touched, something like electricity crossed the space between them. Ian's nose filled with the scent of Chris's hair, his skin tingled with remembered touch. And then Chris took one step back.

And Ian kept on going. The door clicked shut behind him. For a second he waited, until he heard the click of the safety bolt flipping shut. Then he headed for the lobby.

In the business center, the petite Asian woman was bent over a computer. She glanced up as he headed past, and looked like she wanted to talk, but Ian didn't pause. Out through the front doors, and then the cool of the approaching evening was soothing on his skin.

Joe's Tundra was an easy drive. Ian put it in gear and turned on the lights. It wasn't sunset yet, but the mountains cast shadows across the road. It was a fair distance home, through Ely and on to Baker. He glanced at his watch. He wouldn't get to Ely until after six. But Eureka wasn't too small to have what he needed. His phone had Internet access, and there would be a business directory.

***

Chris glanced up from the TV as the hotel-room door opened and then snagged on the bolt. Becca's voice through the gap called, "Chris?"

"Hang on." He rolled off the bed and went to let her in.

Becca glanced at him as she closed the door. "You're okay then. I saw that Ian guy go out and he looked pretty angry. I suddenly got worried he'd done something to you."

"I'm fine." He wasn't actually sure. He'd pushed Ian out the door almost without thought. It wasn't like the man actually deserved it. Something in Chris had just jumped on the excuse to back away fast. He didn't need complications, didn't want to get close to a man who knew him this well. Because it wasn't like he'd been honest with Ian about everything. Sooner or later if the man stayed, Chris would slip up on something. Ian would find out Chris had...stretched the truth.

Chris could imagine how that would go. Ian was a straight shooter. He wouldn't understand how sometimes Chris said things, reinvented his history, just to make life a little easier. And then he had to keep the fictional story going, and it escalated and, well, he could picture the crash. Picture Ian's eyes when this latest ill-constructed house of cards was exposed. Easier to never let it go that far.

He was tired, and stressed, and he didn't want to be in some anonymous hotel room. He wanted to go home. "Becca, if I can line up a free ride, would you mind if we headed home tonight? I'd really like to sleep in my own bed."

"Sure," she said slowly. "As long as I don't have to drive through the mountains in the dark, and I can sleep in the car. I wouldn't mind getting home either. And I know Jenny will be glad to see you."

"Great." Chris dug through the papers he'd accumulated and found the contact number for the airline ombudsman. They must have really wanted to keep him happy, because he got the offer of a car and a driver without much argument. Not a limo, but hey, he wasn't that much of a prima donna. He just wanted to get back to his own life.

Becca was in the bathroom, having a private conversation with Jenny to let her know about the change of plans, when Chris's cell rang. For a moment his stomach did a roller-coaster of _Oh my God, Ian called_ , and _Oh shit, Ian's calling_. But when he checked it was his parents' number. He flipped it open reluctantly.

"Hello?"

"Christopher." It was his mother's voice. "I expected a call from you. Your Aunt Margaret tells me you were on the evening news yesterday. It's very inconsiderate of you not to have filled me in, before I had to hear about it secondhand."

"I called last night, Mother," Chris said weakly. "You were asleep. Father said not to wake you."

"And I'm sure he suggested you call me today."

Chris sighed. "Yes, Mother."

"I hope you are done behaving like some kind of actor in front of the cameras," she continued. "I told you that writing that kind of thriller book with all that violence was a bad idea. And now look what happened. A plane crash!"

"My writing had nothing to do with the crash," Chris protested, stung.

"You don't know that. Maybe that's God's way of telling you to stop playing with those sorts of books and get serious about saving human lives like a doctor should. And anyway, you wouldn't have been on that plane if you weren't showing off about the book. If you had gone into medical school right out of college, instead of wasting time first trying to get a writing job, you would have graduated by now and you wouldn't have been there. Nothing good comes from denying God's plans for us."

_Nothing but Ian, smooth voice, dark hair, warm skin._ Except he wasn't keeping Ian. "Yes, Mother. So how are you? Father said you went to bed early. I hope you're not having an episode."

His mother never tired of talking about herself. He could just sit there with the phone to his ear and nod while she detailed the indignities of her latest MS exacerbation. She called them her episodes. To give her her due, they ranged from the mild to the really frightening. Sometimes she would suddenly be struck with blinding headaches, or lose her eyesight, or go weak in one leg. Living with MS was like teetering on the edge of a cliff. Chris just wished he could stop feeling like it was his job to keep her from sliding over the edge.

Fortunately, this sounded like a minor episode. "As long as the stress of your little escapade doesn't make me worse," his mother concluded. "Call me when you get back home, Christopher. And your father wants to know when you'll be applying for internships. He's worked in several hospitals, you know. He'll give you good advice."

_I'm sure he will._ Chris closed the phone and dropped his head in his hands. Maybe he should have just died in the crash. Maybe he should have _pretended_ to die in the crash and gone off and made a fresh start. He could write anywhere, contact a new publisher, change his name. Except then he'd have to give up on Ben and Grant, with their story unfinished.

He pulled his laptop over, and flipped it open. It would take a couple of hours for the car to arrive from Ely. In the meantime, he could lose himself in his fictional world. How was Ben going to break it to ghost-Grant that he was never going to be serious about Miranda, or any girl? How was he going to break it to Miranda? Chris set his fingertips on the keyboard and let his creative side take over.

Chapter 7

Ian had thought he was in great physical shape. But halfway through a morning of chasing after a two-year-old, he was revising his opinion. Although it wasn't the physical exertion, it was the mental strain. You couldn't divert your attention for a nanosecond.

After Joe left for the hospital that morning, Devon had started tearing around the house, wanting to show his uncle "ever'thing". This apparently meant pulling out every one of his toys, and anything of his parents' that caught his fancy and he could reach. Ian tried to comment and admire, as he chased after the kid. He really wanted to cut the word "No!" to less than half of his own working vocabulary.

Ian had re-rolled toilet paper, caught a dish that would have been out of reach for any kid except his big brother's, and yanked the boy away from prying safety covers off outlets. _Look, Unka Een, they keep me safe._ The family Golden Retriever had heaved a long-suffering sigh, and squeezed her big furry body into the space behind the couch.

And then, almost as abruptly, Devon curled himself up on the couch and crashed. His small body lay limp in sleep, chocolate-smeared hands clutching a cushion - _oops_ -, eyelids drooping over flushed little cheeks. Ian breathed in relief, and draped a blanket over the boy with infinitesimal care. No sudden motions. There was no telling, Joe had said, how long naps would last. So cherish them.

He had just made himself a cup of coffee and was standing gazing out the kitchen window when a car pulled up. He watched idly as two men got out. Both wore suits, but one moved like law enforcement while the other seemed more like a businessman. They looked around and then started up the walk towards him.

They were halfway to the door before he realized that they would undoubtedly _ring the doorbell._ He'd seldom moved that fast before. _Except taking Chris safely to the floor when that first shot rang out_. He had a sudden flash of heated skin and compact muscle under him. He shook his head to clear it, as he yanked the front door open.

The men on the porch stared at him, the first man's hand arrested inches from the doorbell.

"Napping toddler," Ian said in explanation. "Can I help you?"

"We're looking for a Mr. Ian McCallum," the first man replied.

"And you've found him." Ian didn't move out of the doorway, and kept his voice low.

The guy Ian had pegged as LEO pulled out a badge. "I'm Special Agent Kramer, from the FBI. This is Bradley Brown, from the FAA. Can we come in?" The man moved forward as he spoke, aggressive body language making it clear that he wouldn't take no for an answer.

Ian held his position just for a moment, and then stepped back. "Sure. Come on in. But keep your voices down unless you want to do this with a two-year-old in full cry."

The FBI guy was not amused, but Brown smiled in wry sympathy. "Not if he's like my little guy. Or is it she?"

"He." Ian closed the front door softly behind them and led the way to the kitchen. "My nephew. We can talk in here, if we keep it down. Can you tell me what this is about?"

Kramer lifted a sarcastic eyebrow. "You don't know?"

Ian shrugged. "I assume about the crash, sure. But I don't have any more information than I gave over the phone yesterday, and I certainly don't know why the FBI would be involved."

Kramer pulled out a notebook and pen. "You don't mind if I take notes?"

"Would you care if I did?" Ian sighed. This pissing contest he and Kramer had started was pointless. No need to be rude, even if the man's body language just rubbed him the wrong way. "Nah. Notes, recording, whatever. If you keep it quiet enough not to wake Devon, I'm good. What do you want to know?"

Kramer ran through basic identification; Ian's name, address, occupation, all the stuff he'd given the FAA over the phone yesterday. Then he asked, "Why did you sneak out of the hospital without checking with the authorities?"

"I didn't _sneak out_ ," Ian said, although that was a fair description. "I just left by a different door. My sister-in-law and her newborn were in hospital. My brother and I were eager to get back to them. And I could anticipate the media circus waiting at the front doors. I wanted to avoid that."

"Without telling anyone you were leaving."

"Like I said, the new baby was in Intensive Care. Still is. I was fine, the doctors were busy with other patients. It's not like you guys didn't know who I was. I bought my ticket with a credit card. You had my name and address."

"Your home address, not this one."

Ian frowned. "I didn't figure it mattered. I called you when I got the chance. I don't know anything about the crash. I don't plan to sue anyone, or write a tell-all book. I just want to get on with my life."

"Okay," Brown, the FAA guy, said soothingly. "But we do have some more questions. If you're willing to answer them."

Ian leaned against the counter where he could keep one eye on Devon, and picked up his coffee cup. "I said I would."

The FAA guy went first, while the FBI dude stood in the doorway, listening sardonically and taking notes. Ian went through everything in excruciating detail. When he had noticed that they hadn't climbed as much as they should have, how soon they hit after that, what the attendant had been doing, what the other passengers had been doing, _not that he had really been noticing anyone but Chris at the time_. He didn't put it that way.

They went on through what happened after they hit. Where was everyone? What did they do? What parts of the plane did he see? Were the emergency lights working inside the section? Did he find the first aid kit? Ian couldn't tell what they were fishing for.

Then Kramer took over. He was more interested in the people. Had Ian met any of the other passengers before that night?

Ian carefully said, "The guy in the next seat over, Chris Fletcher. We actually met at a bar a week earlier. It was a real coincidence to see him again."

"Which bar?" Kramer asked.

"Mac's, on Main," Ian replied. He wasn't going to out Chris, if he could help it. He might not like the closet the guy was locked in, but it wasn't like his fiancée had a choice. Every queer out there could sympathize with her predicament.

"In San Diego?"

"Yes."

"What about the man with the broken leg?"

"No, I'd never seen him before."

"What did he tell you his name was again?"

"Arnold Cornwall."

"You're sure?" Kramer insisted.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"And all he said about himself was that he was a CPA? You spent almost a day with the man, and he never said anything else about himself?"

"Nothing," Ian said shortly. "Why?"

"He never mentioned who he worked for, where he was going?"

"No."

"Did he have a bag or a briefcase with him?"

"If he did, it was lost in the wreck."

"He didn't give you anything to keep for him? No letter, key, anything?"

"Nothing."

"Did you happen to check his pockets, or see any of his possessions when you were taking care of him?"

Ian was about to say no, and then recalled, "He had a cell phone. He tried to call 911 right after the crash, when he was very disoriented. But then he stopped and I put it away for him. I didn't see anything else in his pockets, but I didn't look."

"Did you recognize the carrier logo on the phone, or the brand, part of the number, anything?"

"No."

"Did he make any other calls?"

"There was no reception." On the top of a fucking mountain.

"Did he mention where he was headed from Ely, or who he was meeting?"

Ian frowned. "How many times do I have to say no? He said his name and 'I'm a CPA', and that was all the conversation we had, unless you count 'I need to pee' and 'It fucking hurts'."

"The media reported that you all kept each other alive and awake by sharing the stories of your lives."

"The media are deluded. We managed names and occupations, and then read a book. I can't tell you anything about the guy."

"Did any of the other passengers talk to him? This Fletcher guy, or the woman with the broken arm?"

"I don't know," Ian said firmly. "I was outside the plane for extended periods, trying to get a fire going. Why don't you ask them? Better yet, if you're so interested, why don't you ask him?"

"Because he's gone," the FBI agent said.

"He died?"

"No. Gone as in left the hospital without telling anyone the morning after the crash. Sort of like you did, except he had surgery first. No one saw him go. No one knows if he left on his own, or had help, or was even kidnapped."

Ian nodded slowly. "And you have some official interest in him. Is he wanted for a crime?"

"Mainly as a witness," Kramer said. "His name isn't Cornwall, it's Wilson, although he is a CPA. He worked for a major crime figure in L.A.. Two days ago, he blew the whistle on his boss, dumped a lot of evidence in our laps, and then gave us the slip. From what I gather, he used the confusion of us trying to arrest his boss to make off with some money, and maybe some gemstones. I guess he figured his boss would be too busy to track him down. One of the agents who was handling the case recognized his face from a media report about the plane crash online. By the time my partner and I got to the hospital, Wilson was gone."

"And you think he had the money with him on the plane. And he either took off, with or without it, or someone kidnapped him for it."

"Right. He might have stashed it somewhere, or even mailed it ahead of himself, but it's more likely he had it with him. No way he would go back to California for it. His boss is definitely after him. Wilson may have underestimated how much attention the guy would have left to give him. Word is he's a very wanted man."

Ian had a sudden thought. "You don't think the crash...?"

Kramer gave a small shrug. "We're not ruling it out. The timing would be tight. And I imagine his boss would prefer to get the money back, rather than scatter it across some mountaintop. On the other hand, if he's worried we might get Wilson to testify, well, the money is actually small potatoes to an operation that size. He might make an example of the guy."

"Who was Wilson working for?" Ian asked curiously.

"That's something you don't need to know. In fact you're better off not knowing."

"Uh-huh. Well, Wilson didn't have any bag with him that I saw. Definitely not when the PJ's airlifted him out."

"Gemstones are small, though," Kramer said. "He could have had them in his pocket. You didn't see an envelope or a pouch?"

"Did you check his stuff at the hospital?" Ian asked.

"Of course." Kramer gave him a scornful look. "First thing Wilson did waking up from surgery was to ask for his possessions. They gave them to him. No reason why they wouldn't. They're gone too."

"And you're sure you have the right guy? There could be innocent reasons why someone would leave the hospital early." _Like mine._

"We checked for prints in the hospital room. It was Wilson."

Brown put in, "There's no evidence the crash was anything but an accident. We still have a lot of work to do on the crash site, but no one heard a bomb go off and the pilots didn't report any problem before they hit. It could have just been coincidence that Wilson was on that flight."

Ian glanced toward the living room. Devon was starting to fidget on the couch, his small hands tugging at the blanket. "I'm sorry I can't be more help," Ian said, setting his cup in the sink. "Good luck with finding the man, and the money."

Kramer looked reluctant, but Brown began making his way toward the door.

"We might have more questions for you," Kramer said.

"I gave the FAA my cell phone number yesterday. Call that."

"Why don't you give it to me? For the record."

Ian repeated it again, and Kramer wrote it down slowly. Ian wasn't really curious; he wasn't going to ask. But as he showed them out the door, he found he couldn't help saying, "Did you talk to the other survivors? Anne Johnson and Chris Fletcher? Did they know anything?" _What did Chris tell you about us? Surely he wouldn't have mentioned the Gold Coast, or anything else that would have outed himself._

"We talked to Johnson," Kramer said. "She's still in hospital. She was pretty shaken, didn't remember anything. She kept confusing Wilson with the man who died for some reason. She was no help. We went to the hotel Fletcher gave as his contact for the next three days, but he'd already checked out, and he's not answering his cell phone. We don't know if that has any connection with Wilson's disappearance or not."

"Surely not," Ian said. "I mean, he was at a book signing in Eureka yesterday afternoon, long after you say Wilson was gone. Maybe he just wanted to head home early. He has a fiancée in San Diego. She's probably eager to have him home safe."

"Maybe," Kramer said skeptically. "We'll try his home address." He fished out a business card and passed it to Ian. "If anything occurs to you, no matter how minor, I'd appreciate a call."

"Sure. But I don't think there'll be anything."

When he headed back to the living room, Devon had rolled over and dropped back to sleep. Ian had a few more precious minutes of grown-up time. He pulled out Joe's computer, signed in and went online. Chris's address was easy to come by. Ian wrote it down and Google-mapped it. It was further from the Gold Coast bar then he'd expected. But he remembered that Chris said he kept his cruising away from his fiancée's home and workplace.

Finding a phone number was a different story. Chris's home number was evidently unlisted. Same for his cell. Ian didn't know the fiancée's last name, and couldn't remember Becca's either. He shut down the computer and fidgeted irresolutely. He wanted to warn Chris that the FBI might be taking an interest in him. He wanted to pass along the story he'd given them, so Chris would know Ian hadn't betrayed him.

The fiancée's career might be on the line. It was ten hours' drive back to San Diego, maybe more in the dark through the mountains. If Chris left yesterday after...after, then he could already be home. Or he might still be on the road, or stopped partway in a motel.

Ian could send a telegram. Did people still send telegrams? Anyway, it would look even more suspicious if the FBI intercepted it.

Probably he should just leave it alone. Chris was a big boy. He could handle his own cover stories. Ian wasn't the one in the closet. Surely he'd done his bit by not mentioning the Gold Coast, and subsequent encounters. _Subsequent hot sex and sweet willing mouth and...damn._

Devon was still sleeping. Ian pulled out his phone and moved back to the kitchen.

"Hey, dude," Trent said worriedly on the other end. "Are you okay?"

They'd already talked twice since Ian's rescue, but Trent apparently was still shaken. "I'm fine," Ian told him. "The crash was days ago, remember? Try to keep up. Um." He paused. _Approach it slowly._ "How's Justin?"

"He's good. Actually he's great." Trent's voice was suspicious. "Why are you asking?"

"No reason. Just interested."

"You called me up from Nevada to ask how Justin is?"

"Well actually, I need a favor."

"I knew it." Trent groaned. "Ian, you know I love you, man, but I am not getting on an airplane and coming out there. I may never get on an airplane again. Have you seen the pictures of that crash site? Even on a three-inch screen it's freaking terrifying."

"What are you talking about?" Ian said irritably. "I don't need you to get on an airplane. I need a favor there, in San Diego, because I'm stuck out here in Nevada."

"Oh, okay then," Trent said with relief. "Ask away."

Ian stuck again. "It's going to sound kind of weird. I just need you to do this thing without asking a lot of questions."

"You still haven't told me what thing."

"Yeah." Just say it. "You know the blond guy I went out with?"

"The twinkie?"

"He's _not_...Fuck. The blond guy. His name is Chris Fletcher. He's a writer. He was on the plane with me."

"That was the same guy?" Trent said. "I saw him on TV but I didn't recognize him. I mean, I noticed he was cute, but, wait, didn't they say he has a girlfriend or something?"

"Yeah, a fiancée. He's in the closet. There are good reasons for it. Anyway I need to get a message to him, but I don't have his phone number, just his address."

"What is this, high school? I don't have time to play cupid delivering love notes for you."

"Not love notes. Jesus. This is important, Trent. I wouldn't ask you for some stupid little thing."

"I know," Trent said. "But it's entertaining to listen to you sputter. Okay, so what's this vital message I need to give the cute twinkie?"

Ian ground his teeth together. This whole idea was stupid. Trying to explain it to Trent was showing him just how stupid. But he'd come this far. "He should be home now," Ian said. "Or maybe just getting home. He was driving back from Ely." At least Ian assumed he was. If Trent was afraid to fly after just looking at the crash footage, it was unlikely Chris would have gotten on another plane any time soon. Ian was sure as hell driving back himself when the time came. "It turns out there was a guy on our flight that the FBI is interested in. They interviewed me, and they're going to talk to Chris. I need you to let him know that I tried not to out him. Because of his fiancée. He'll understand. Anyway, I need you to talk to him when there's no one else around. Tell him I said we met at Mac's, and I didn't mention the Gold Coast, or...anything else. I just said we met one time in a bar, by coincidence. So he should be okay, as long as he says the same. It's not like the FBI will be very interested, unless they start thinking we're lying to them."

"Okay," Trent said. "I think I need a piece of paper. You want me to tell this guy to lie to the FBI. And not mention the hot monkey sex."

"I personally don't give a damn what he tells the FBI. But if he wants to keep his cover, then he shouldn't blow it because of me. Look, here's the address." He read it off. "Could you just do this thing for me?"

"Sure, sure, chill," Trent said. "I wrote it down. Mac's, not the Gold Coast." He paused. "You didn't really take him to Mac's, did you?"

"What if I did?"

"Does he have some kind of death wish? Or do you? No wonder he dumped you."

"He didn't dump me!"

Trent laughed. "I haven't heard you this worked up over someone in, well, ever. Do you want me to give him your love along with this message? I could kiss him for you by proxy. He has a cute mouth."

"Which is off limits to you," Ian growled. "I mean, the man has a fiancée. Don't ad-lib. Just give him the message, okay."

"When do you want me to do this?" Trent asked.

"Ah, well, now, actually. Or if he's not home, wait for him."

"You're kidding."

"The warning isn't going to be much help if he doesn't get it before the FBI shows up," Ian pointed out irritably. "I know I'm asking a lot but...could you just do it? It's important."

"Okay," Trent said slowly. "I'll try. Although you know, some of us have real jobs and shit to do."

"It's Sunday. I'll make it up to you. Please?"

"I said yes," Trent replied. "But I'm saving up this favor. You're going to owe me a big one. I'll give some thought to what I'm going to hit you up for."

"You do that," Ian returned. "And Trent?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"You know I love you, right? Just now, I'll do about anything for you, just 'cause you didn't die. Next week you can go back to carrying your own messages."

Ian flipped his phone shut, smiling a little. Trent had his faults, but he was a good friend. A better friend than Ian deserved, probably. And Chris would get his warning. It was the best Ian could do, and better than the bastard deserved.

He wondered how Chris would react to Trent showing up on his doorstep. Ian wasn't worried about the actual message getting delivered correctly. Trent liked to play the airhead, but the man actually had a sharp brain. It was his heart that was mush. Trent wouldn't say the wrong thing in front of the wrong person. Ian wondered if he should have told Trent to give Chris his cell number, just in case. He wished he'd asked the man to get Chris's number.

In the living room, the wail of a cranky awakening toddler split the air. Ian came back to earth with a jolt. As he stuffed his phone in his pocket, he reached for the cookies on the counter with his other hand. Maybe the kid was waking up hungry. Bribery had always worked on his sister when she was little. If Joe didn't want his kid to have cookies, he'd have to say so in writing. Ian made a bee-line for the couch, Chips Ahoy held out in front of him like a magic talisman.

***

Chris had never been so glad to see his own neighborhood in all his life. This had been one hell of a long trip. And although it'd had its highs, like signing his first autographs - _like Ian and a big motel bed_ \- it had started with a plane crash and ended with an interminable drive in a rental car. And to put the absolute cherry on top of his personal shit cake, Chris had had his first migraine in two years on the way home.

He'd started having the damned things in college, and suffered through three or four a year for a while. But the last two years he'd seemed to be over them. Maybe it was just the low-stress life he'd been living, because three hours into the trip home and boy, howdy, here it came.

In retrospect, the prodromal signs had all been there. But he'd attributed the irritability to dealing with Ian, the stiff neck to the remnants of taking a flying laptop to the back of the head, and the fatigue...well, that hadn't been hard to explain. So he'd been caught by surprise when his vision started to go wavy and wonky. He'd thought it was his punishment for trying to work on a computer screen in a moving car. He'd hoped that was what it was. But putting his work away hadn't helped. And then the pain and nausea hit.

Becca had insisted on stopping, and he hadn't argued with her. Migraines made him exquisitely sensitive to light and noise, and driving made the nausea worse. A dark, quiet, motionless hotel room sounded like heaven. They managed dark, motionless, and somewhat less noisy. The kids running up and down the hotel hallways like small elephants probably didn't deserve to be shot. A good beating would have been sufficient.

Becca had been worried that his symptoms were related to his head injury. Chris had tried to reassure her that the throbbing in the left side of his head, with all its attendant side effects, was a familiar enemy. And it was on the opposite side from the cut on his scalp. Nonetheless, she had insisted on doing a consciousness check every hour, for the five hours it took to get past the worst of it.

It was meant with love. It was because she cared. And he'd managed to remember that, and not bite her head off when she insisted he open his wincingly sensitive eyes to count fingers. And she'd brought him some Excedrine. For that alone, he would have forgiven almost anything.

They'd ended up spending the night at the hotel. The driver hadn't cared. The airline was paying him by the hour. Chris had managed a couple of hours of sleep toward the end of the night. He hadn't been able to work again, but when morning came, he could get in the car without wincing. He'd dozed against the back window, logy and weak and a little nauseous, as mile after mile of scenery went by.

Now as the familiar landmarks of his neighborhood approached, Chris felt a little better. There was the Arby's on the corner, there was his street, and there was the house. And there was some strange guy sitting on his front steps.

The driver pulled the car up in front of the garage and stopped.

"Are you getting out here or going back to your place?" Chris asked Becca.

"I'll come in," Becca said. "I want to see Jenny. I'm surprised she hasn't come running out to kiss you yet."

"Running out to kick my butt for making her worry," Chris muttered. That would be much more like his Jenny.

"Right. Well it would mean the same thing." Becca got out and went round to the trunk for her bag.

Chris hauled the backpack with his meager new possessions up off the floor and made his way slowly toward the man on his steps. Was this his stalker? The guy looked pretty ordinary sitting there, blond, attractive, average height. He did look slightly familiar, but Chris was morally certain he hadn't had sex with this guy. Not in the last few years, anyway. Maybe a blow-job somewhere in college when he thought he was breaking loose from the strictures of living at home? He squinted at the guy's mouth, trying to decide.

As he approached the man stood up and held out his hand. "Chris Fletcher?"

Maybe the guy was a reporter. Chris kept a couple of feet between them, and hefted the backpack as an excuse for not shaking hands. He heard Becca come up behind him, but kept his eyes on the man. "Yes. You are?"

"Trent Borden. I'm a friend of Ian's."

"Ah." Not what Chris was expecting. "Did he send you or..." A sudden horrible thought occurred. "He's okay, isn't he? He's not hurt or...?" The good things in Chris's life never lasted.

But the man was shaking his head. "No, he's fine. He wanted to get a message to you and he couldn't find your phone number."

"Right." Because they hadn't actually exchanged numbers. Because he wasn't going to get to keep Ian. "What's the message?"

Trent squinted at Becca over Chris's shoulder. "Could we do this inside? Ian said it was sort of private."

"Sure," Chris said. "Come on in."

Becca gave him a sharp, _are you sure you want this guy in your house_ , kind of glance, but went ahead of them and opened the door without a comment.

The house had an empty feeling. Jenny must have gone out somewhere. On the hall table, the most recent newspapers lay in disarray. The top one had a bold headline: _Small Plane With Fourteen Aboard Missing, Feared Crashed_. Partially buried underneath it, a more recent vintage said, _Crashed Airliner Found, Four Survivors_. Chris saw that an alternate rag took the pessimistic view: _Ten Confirmed Dead in Airline Tragedy_. Front page each time. Of course these were the San Diego papers, and the flight took off from here. Probably many of the dead were native to the city. He wondered about the flight attendant, wondered macabrely if her head had been found yet...

Becca took his arm and hauled him into the living room. She pulled the backpack out of his hand. "I'll take this up to your room, and call Jen on her cell, see where she is. You can have your private chat." She gave Trent a glare. "Yell if you need me." Her brisk steps disappeared up the stairs.

Trent gave him a quizzical look. "Is that your fiancée? Why does she think you need protecting from me?"

"It's complicated." Chris was suddenly very tired. And he had thought of another reason Ian might be sending a friend to talk to him urgently. Not a good one. Nevada had medical clinics, and an HIV test takes only a few minutes these days. _Surely he would come in person._ Unless he was stuck five hundred miles away, and the news wouldn't wait. Chris sat heavily on the armchair. "So what does Ian need to tell me?"

Trent dropped gracefully onto the couch. "Nothing as heavy as you look like you're thinking. He said to tell you that he had a visit from the FBI. They're looking for one of the other passengers on that plane you were on."

"The FBI?" Chris was startled again. "Surely all us passengers were pretty well accounted for."

"What do I know?" Trent said breezily. "The man doesn't give me details. Just orders. 'Trent, go find this guy and tell him I didn't out him to the FBI.' Ian wanted to tell you that he claimed you guys met at Mac's, and he didn't mention the Gold Coast or any extracurricular screwing. He seemed to think it was important."

"Ah." Chris said again. This whole conversation had him off balance. Or maybe it was the lingering aftereffects of the migraine which sometimes left him fuzzy-headed for days. "I guess. I mean, there's DADT involved. So yeah, it's kind of important."

"You're military?" Trent looked skeptical.

"No. My fiancée." And he hadn't meant to say that. "Fuck. Look, just thank Ian for me, all right."

"Thank him yourself. I'm done playing go-between." Trent picked a paper bookmark off the coffee table, flipped it over and wrote on it. "Here. Ian's home and his cell. What's your cell?"

Bemused, Chris told him. Trent wrote it on the bottom of the slip of paper, ripped the strip in half and held the top out.

"Listen," Trent said. "Call the guy. He's worried about you, or he wouldn't have dragged me away from my breakfast to give you the message."

"Breakfast?" Chris glanced at his watch. It _was_ two PM; he'd thought so.

Trent gave him a sunny smile. "It's Sunday. And I was up late last night."

"Okay. But I don't need to call him. He doesn't want to talk to me."

Trent leaned forward, a more serious look on his face. "I don't pretend to understand Ian, and I don't know what's gone on between the two of you. But he's talked more about you than any guy he's met in the last three years. Not that even that is much, but what he did say didn't sound just casual. And until now he's been awfully alone."

"Since Jack?" Chris said, just to show that he knew something about Ian too.

"He told you about Jack?" Trent nodded. "Yeah. There've been a couple of guys in the past, but nothing serious. And he likes you. I can tell. So call him, okay?"

Chris nodded. It wasn't a promise; you can't promise with a nod. But Trent seemed satisfied. He got up off the couch and headed for the door. "So now I can go back to my waffle-maker. And Ian owes me big-time. Which is good, because the man will always return a favor. I'll have to think about what I want."

_He gives great sex._ But that was what Chris would want. He wondered if Ian and Trent had ever been fuck-buddies. The way Trent talked about Ian didn't have that feel somehow. More like brothers.

Becca came back down as Chris was closing the door. "So. What was the big secret? By the way, Jenny's at the store. She'll be back soon."

Chris shrugged. "No secret. I guess the FBI is after someone who was on the plane. Ian just wanted to warn me that..." The doorbell interrupted him. He pulled the door back open.

Two men in suits stood on the doorstep. The older one pulled out a badge. "Mr. Christopher Fletcher?" he asked. "Could we talk to you for a moment?"

Chris was really ready for a nap by the time the agents left. Sure enough, they were only interested in Cornwall/Wilson. Although Chris had made an added effort to convince them that Ian's stealthy departure from the hospital hadn't been suspicious. In fact Chris claimed he'd known Ian was leaving right away to go see Tracy, and just hadn't thought it was a problem or anyone's business.

Jenny arrived while the agents were still there. Chris kissed her thoroughly, under their watchful eyes. It was probably unnecessary, but the hug that went with it was genuine and sweet. _Someone_ still loved him.

Jenny tried to pump the FBI guys for details about what Wilson had done, and who the mysterious crime lord he worked for was, but they weren't saying. Eventually they all decided no one was getting more information from anyone else. Chris sighed and leaned back in the couch as Jenny escorted the men out.

"You look like shit, Christopher," she said as she came back in the room.

He didn't open his eyes. "Thanks. You're so sweet."

She dropped onto the couch beside him and slid an arm around his shoulders. "Is it just the migraine, or do you want to talk about anything?"

"What anything?"

"Oh, I don't know. Being in a crash. Almost dying. Your parents not showing up to make sure you were alive. Seeing other people die. Your stalker. This guy you fucked, who may or may not be your stalker."

Chris opened one eye to say. "He's not." He closed it again. "Sounds like I could keep a shrink busy for a month, doesn't it. Too bad I can't afford one."

Jenny hugged him tighter. "Seriously, Chris, if you need to..."

"Nah," he said. "I'm fine. It's the migraine that has me wiped. You know how I get the day after. I just need to sleep."

"Come on." Jenny tugged him upright. "You don't want to sleep on the couch. You'll be all stiff. I'll help you get to bed and you can sleep as much as you like."

_I wish Ian was taking me to bed,_ Chris thought. But it was just wistful dreaming, not real need. He was so tired he could barely feel his feet. The last thing he noticed, as he fell across his own soft bed, was Jenny tugging off his shoes.

***

Ian's brother Joe looked at Ian across his son's bed. Between them, Devon's small body lay sprawled in the abandoned sleep of childhood, arms and legs spread laxly across the sheets. Ian bent to pull the covers over the sleeping boy, and ran a light hand over the fine curly hair. _He looks so innocent and helpless._ A tug of protective longing caught at Ian. He would do anything to keep this little boy safe, to keep everyone he loved safe. But things could go wrong in the blink of an eye.

Joe was still eyeing him when Ian straightened. Ian gave him a WTF look back. Joe shook his head, finger to his lips, and led the way out. They ended up in Joe's study.

Ian's big brother took down a bottle of scotch from a high shelf and located two shot glasses. He poured a slug into one of them and tilted the bottle at Ian in enquiry.

"Sure," Ian said. "Hit me."

Joe handed him a generous measure. The liquor burned going down. In a good way, a sharp rasp to the throat, a near-painful heat as it went deep and then a spreading warmth. Sort of like... _not going there._ He took a second smaller sip. When he looked up, Joe's eyes were still on him.

"What?"

Joe shook his head. "I don't know. I'm really glad you're here. Having you take care of Devon so I can spend time with Tracy and Nina has been a lifesaver."

"And you know I'm glad to be here. That hellion of yours is the closest I'll have to kids of my own. Well, other than your new angel. So why are you looking at me like I've grown another head?"

Joe shrugged. "You just seem...different. Sadder somehow, and restless, like you're not quite all here. If you have somewhere else you need to be, Tracy and I will be fine. The doctor's discharging her tomorrow and I have my paternity leave. We can trade off between the two kids. And Nina's getting stronger every hour. She's eating and she even pooped. Never thought I'd be cheering a dirty diaper, but I was."

"That's great, man." Ian had seen his tiny niece only once so far. Her head was smaller than his closed fist. Her fingers barely reached around his pinky, as she had grabbed him in a surprisingly tight grip. Grabbed onto his heart in that same moment. Another innocent he would protect with his life.

Joe was right. Ian was in a crappy mood. "Nowhere I'd rather be," he insisted. "But tomorrow I get first turn to visit those beautiful girls of yours, while you cope with the breakfast monster."

"Sure," Joe said. They drank for a while in companionable silence.

Casey, the golden retriever, heaved herself up off the rug with an odd grunt and came to lean against Ian's leg. He rubbed her silky ears with one hand. Ian wondered how Trent's talk with Chris had gone that morning. If he'd even talked to Chris. Trent was reliable; if he said he'd do something he did it. But maybe Chris hadn't come home yet. Or maybe the FBI had arrived before Trent. Not like they would arrest Chris or Ian for being gay and lying about it. But he didn't want to think Chris might be blaming him. Or dealing with an even more screwed-up life. Ian wanted to protect him, not...shit. He held out his glass for a refill.

Joe upended the dregs of the bottle into his glass. "Last of the good stuff." He set the empty bottle back up on the shelf. Without turning he said, "You'd tell me if there was something wrong?"

_Would he?_ Irrelevant, because the only thing wrong right now was that Ian couldn't get Chris out of his fucking head. _Chris and fucking._ Ian was a little obsessed, but surely it would pass. "Nothing's wrong," he said clearly. The golden retriever swiped his fingers with her moist tongue, and he scratched under her jaw. _At least somebody loved him._

Chapter 8

Ian was woken next morning by a pounding on Joe's front door.

"All right, I'm coming," Joe's voice rumbled.

Ian's pessimism had a chance to think _the baby_ and _FBI_ before he recognized his sister's voice. He rolled out of bed and yanked on a T-shirt, and then followed the sound into the kitchen.

His sister Anne stood at the sink, washing her hands. Her airline bag was at her feet. She was neatly dressed and her mop of dark curls was artfully disarranged.

"Hey, squirt," he said, reaching out to make the arrangement less artful. "I thought I told you to stay in London?"

Anne caught his hand with the ease of long practice, and diverted it into a painful wrist-lock. "Hands off the hair, big bro. And since when do you give me orders?"

"Since always?" he suggested, pulling his abused arm back.

"Okay, so since when do I listen to you?" Then Anne jumped into his arms, and hugged him tight. "God, I'm so glad you're okay. I was so freaking scared."

"I'm fine." Ian hugged her back, and then sneaked a hand up and tugged one curl, just on principle. "I told you that. You didn't need to fly all this way."

Anne smacked his hand away. "Restrain your ego, Ian. I didn't. Okay, I would have if you'd needed me. But as it was, I'd already booked the ticket, and here was my new niece just waiting for her Auntie Anne to spoil her. So I figured I'd come anyway." She turned to Joe. "So when do we head over to the hospital?"

"I'm on Devon duty this morning," Joe said. "You can ride over with Ian though."

"Great. Just give me a second to stow my bag. And there might be a few things in there for Devon. Since I was coming anyway."

They left Devon playing with about six big-brothers-should-get-presents-too gifts, and took the Tundra. Anne chatted away about her trip, the people she'd met, how great London was. She'd made a dozen new friends. Anne always landed on her feet in any situation. She never said the wrong stupid thing at the wrong moment. Sometimes Ian hated her.

Baby Nina was even more adorable this morning, pinking up and filling out from the pale scrawny apple-doll she had been. She opened her eyes for a moment, and consented to grab each of their fingers in turn. While Anne cooed over her, Ian just stood for a while, watching her breathe.

Tracy looked better too. Her hair had been washed and the dark circles under her eyes were fading. She greeted her sister-in-law with cries of glee. She and Anne were soon immersed in breast-feeding and rompers with snaps on the back versus the front, and other things Ian hoped he would never need to know about.

"I'll wait for you down in the cafeteria," he told Anne.

The hospital cafeteria was no four-star restaurant, but even it couldn't fuck up a Danish, and the coffee was surprisingly drinkable. Ian treated himself to one of each, and found a seat. He tried people-watching for a while. But it seemed like at that hour most of the customers were either bleary-eyed medical types, topping up their caffeine levels for the drive home, or weary family members trying to drown a night's vigil in a bowl of gluey oatmeal.

Ian pulled out his cell phone and got online. At first he was diligent. He checked his e-mail. There were dozens of new messages from clients, friends, well-wishers, and strangers. He typed up a general I'm-fine-thanks-for-your-good-wishes message, and winged it to all but a few of them. He composed more personal responses to the friends he hadn't phoned yet. He reassured clients with jobs coming up that the team was on schedule and their work would be done.

Somehow, he found himself scanning the online news sources for word of Chris. There was quite a bit, actually. Chris was second only to some university vice-president who had died for number of media mentions. The biographies of Chris were skimpy and conflicting, beyond the details of his novel. One report had him as a UCSD medical student. Another called him an advertising executive. There was a brief interview with his Navy fiancée. Her responses were bland verging into no comment. But there was a photo of her.

Ian studied it. The woman was tall, and attractive. Not beautiful, but slim and strong with an alert air. Dark straight hair, dark blue eyes. He realized she looked a bit like him. More like Ian than his real sister did, with Anne's short curvy body and wild curls.

There were pictures of Chris too. There was no harm in browsing. The first two were posed graduation pictures of a younger Chris, presumably from college. Another one was the book jacket photo. Ian had seen that one already. It was boring, picking up Chris's regular features, but washing out his gold skin tone and completely missing the light in his hazel-grey eyes.

Then he found his favorite. A candid shot showed Chris on some sailboat, life jacket over his bare tanned chest. His hair blew around his eyes, damp and almost as curly as his Robin persona after the quick shampoo took out the blue. Most of the blue. Ian smiled a little, remembering Chris trying to look butch with his lime green hair. In this picture the sun turned his hair to pure gold, and the light off the water caught the sparkle in his eyes. He was grinning widely.

"Cute guy," his sister's voice said behind him. "Who is he?"

Ian snapped the phone shut in reflex and turned. Anne looked down at him, eyes crossed in the family's spill-or-be-made-to-talk look.

"A friend," Ian said. "We were on that plane together."

"And you've fallen for him."

"Hardly." Ian put all the disdain he could muster into the word. "The man is straight. He's engaged to be married."

"Which doesn't change the fact that you've fallen for him." Anne sat beside him and put her hand on his. "Ian, I've been following your love-life since ninth grade. Right now you're distracted and intense, you're emotional, sentimental, and you were staring at that guy's picture for ten minutes. You're in love. Or at least heading that way. Which has to suck, if the guy is straight. I'm sorry, bro."

Ian started to give her some more bullshit about just following the news, and then stopped. Because this was Anne, and not only would she call him on the lies, but if there was one person he could share this mess with, it would be Anne. The first person he told he was gay. His stalwart supporter when his dad was trying to reorient him, and his brothers were deciding if they could handle having a brother who was a big fairy.

"Okay, so I like him," Ian admitted. "And it's complicated, because he's not as straight as he looks. But he has reasons to be engaged and...it's complicated."

"Complicated like 'I enjoyed talking to him and I hope I see him again someday' or complicated like 'I fucked him and I can't stop thinking about him'?"

Ian didn't think his expression changed, but Anne blew out a breath. "Okay, yeah, that would make him somewhat less than straight. What does he say?"

"I don't know," Ian admitted. "We've only met a few times, and those were all...intense. And we didn't really talk about where we go from here."

"But you want to."

"Yeah," Ian admitted. "I do."

"Then talk to him."

"He's back in San Diego," Ian told her. "At least I think he is. And I don't have his cell number."

"So what are you doing here in Nevada?"

Anne could make it all sound so simple. "Looking after Devon. Helping Joe and Tracy. Trying not to admit that I'm too freaking scared to get back on another airplane. Trying not to chase after a guy who's probably not interested in someone like me."

"What do you mean, someone like you?" Anne demanded. "If I could find someone like you, only straight of course, I'd marry him in a second. This guy's lucky to have you. And not flying is what rental cars are for. Frankly, after the last two times, I'll kill you myself if you try and get back on an airplane in the next decade."

Ian just shook his head.

"I'm here for Tracy and Nina now," Anne told him. "I have a week planned. If they still need more help after that, you can offer to come back. You should take advantage of me." She laughed. "Believe me, there are very few men I say that to."

"Yuck," Ian said. "You're my baby sister. Don't put that image in my head."

"Seriously, Ian. You've been so quiet since Jack died. Not that you aren't supposed to mourn him but it's been three years. You don't mope around anymore, but you never seem to have real fun either. Even when you were dating those other guys, you didn't seem as...alive as you are now."

"Maybe it was my near-death experience on that mountainside."

"Maybe it was _his_ near-death experience on that mountainside."

Ian stared at her. "If you're going to start mind-reading I'm resigning from this family."

Anne laughed. "So, are you going to go after this guy?"

Ian sighed. "I don't know. You make it sound simple but...there really is a fiancée. And we didn't part well the last time. And...I don't know."

"Let me see that picture again."

Ian flipped the phone back open. While he was at it he saved the picture on his phone. And on his e-mail.

Anne looked closely at Chris's open, laughing face. "Go for it," she said eventually. "You need this guy. At least, you need to know you tried."

Ian flipped the phone shut. Maybe he did.

***

Chris hit his stride writing on the computer by mid-morning Tuesday. The last lingering echoes of the migraine had faded. The more physical pain in his scalp was easing off too, and simple over-the-counter meds took care of things. He'd gotten past the scene where Ben told Miranda he wanted to be just friends. The word "gay" hadn't yet been put out there. Grant's ghost was being deliberately oblivious. Chris thought he had the pace of Ben's coming-out moving about right, meshing in with the underlying mystery.

By lunchtime, his fingers were cramping and he felt an ache starting in the back of his neck. He didn't think it was the threat of another migraine. But with the last one fresh in his mind, he wasn't taking chances. He saved his work and showered. As the hot water soothed him, he contemplated lunch. Jenny was at work, of course. No time off because your fiancée almost died. But she had sneaked in a run by the bakery on her lunch break yesterday. He was pretty sure there was fresh French bread and some sandwich fixings.

He was toweling his hair, dressed only in his jeans, when the doorbell rang. Chris snagged a sweatshirt on his way to answer it, and pulled the shirt on as he opened the door. So he only spotted Ian on his doorstep when his head emerged from the folds of grey fleece.

Ian nodded, looking a little uncertain. "Hi. Can I, um, talk to you?"

Chris hesitated just a heartbeat, before pulling the door open wider. "Sure. Come on in."

Ian stepped past him and hovered in the entry, looking around. "Nice place."

"It's Jenny's, mainly. I helped with the down payment, and she's cutting me a break on rent while I wait for the next book to start selling."

"Um. Is she here?"

"Nope. At work." Chris gestured toward the kitchen. "Come on in. I was just thinking about some lunch. Do you want some?"

"I could take you out somewhere to eat," Ian said diffidently. "If you like."

"Like a date?"

"If you want it to be."

Chris shook his head. "I don't think so. I could make you a sandwich."

"All right." Ian leaned up against the counter, looking ill-at-ease.

Chris didn't want the man here. At the same time, God, he really did. "Sit down," he said. "Quit holding up the wall."

Ian pulled out a wooden chair, flipped it around, and sat astraddle with his arms on the back. It was a deliberately macho pose. It was very Ian. Chris hid a smile.

"Ham okay?" Chris asked. "Swiss or cheddar? Mustard or mayo?"

"Um, Swiss and mustard. But you don't have to fix me anything."

"I want to." Chris busied himself with bread and lettuce, slicing tomatoes, spreading his own mayo. Ian watched him silently.

Eventually Ian asked, "Did the FBI come by?"

"Oh, yeah. I wonder who our friend Wilson was working for."

"They're right. Safer for you not to know." Another pause. "Did Trent get here first?"

Chris felt his lips quirk again, with a sudden rush of affection. "Sitting on my doorstep when I pulled into town. We got our stories straight." He turned to look at Ian. "He must be a good friend."

"We've known each other since tenth grade. Yeah, he's a good guy."

Chris set plates on the table and turned to the fridge. Food was safer than conversation. "Beer or Coke?"

"Water if you have it," Ian said, rotating his chair and moving up to the table. "Tap is fine."

"Coming up." He filled a couple of glasses at the dispenser, splashing himself with the afterthought of ice, and set them down. There was room to sit beside Ian. The man's heat pulled at him, even in what looked like work clothes. Chris sat carefully across the table from the older man. "Dig in."

Ian took a couple of bites of his sandwich, looking fixedly down at his plate. "Good bread."

"There's a bakery down the road."

A couple more bites. "Fuck."

"Not much of that down the road."

Ian's eyes snapped up to meet his. Then his mouth twitched in a smile. "Yeah. I'm doing this so smoothly, aren't I."

"Not quite sure what we're doing," Chris admitted.

"I wanted to see you," Ian said. He laid the remnant of his food down carefully on the plate. "I wanted to see you, and talk to you, and...not just fall into bed with you. So lunch is a good start."

Chris nodded, trying to ignore the rush of heat through his body that went with fall-into-bed-with-you. He took a bite of his own sandwich, although it tasted like nothing at all. "So we're eating, and talking. What are we talking about?"

"You're not helping."

"Not really trying to." Chris licked mayonnaise off his fingers, deliberately slowly. Damned if he knew what game he was playing, but nothing in his life felt as alive as playing games with this man. "You're the one who showed up on my doorstep. Why did you come?"

"I had to," Ian said roughly. "I can't stop thinking about you. I tried to pretend I wasn't, and my own baby sister called me on it. I know you're not looking for a relationship, or even a fuck buddy, but...are you looking for anything that I can be?"

_Crap, that was honest._ Chris turned off the flirting. The man deserved a straight answer. "I don't know," he said. "I think about you too. I've never felt as close to anyone as I did to you a couple times on that mountain, and we weren't even fucking. Jenny has a lover. Surely it's only fair for me to have one too. But...I don't want to be the one who ruins her career. I owe her way too much. And..." There were so many things about Chris that wouldn't work long-term. So many flaws, so many lies to keep straight, so much energy that would have to be invested in playing yet another role. He was crazy to even think about it. But with Ian's blue eyes fixed on him, Chris wanted to be that kind of crazy. Instead of his usual kind. "You don't know me very well," he finished.

"There's a cure for that," Ian said, looking hopeful. "Let us try. Give us time together. You don't know me well either. I'm a terrible control freak. And I snore. You may get tired of me pretty quickly. But I want to try."

"You won't expect too much? I've never dated a guy for more than a week. And that was once." Roy had caught him lying, pretending to be a senior when he was a freshman. That derisive voice still stung after all these years. _Call me back when you really do grow up, little boy._ Maybe this was a big mistake. But Ian's eyes had lit up vibrant blue.

"I swear. No expectations. We'll take it one day at a time. See where it goes."

"Okay," Chris said slowly. He put his sandwich down. His stomach was rolling with a mix of terror and elation. No way this wasn't going bad eventually, but maybe, just maybe, he could have something good for himself, for a while anyway. And God, he wanted it.

"So," Ian said in that smooth sexy drawl. "Can I kiss you, or do I have to finish the damned sandwich first?"

"Shit." Chris's elbow ended up in Ian's plate as he practically fell into the man's lap. Ian kissed him hungrily. "This wasn't going to be just sex," Chris muttered as his lips got free for a moment to breathe.

Ian pulled back. "Am I moving too fast?"

The man looked like he actually would stop, if Chris said so. "Fuck, no." He grabbed Ian's hair with both fists and landed a kiss on the man's rough neck. The hint of stubble rasped his tongue. The smell of Ian's skin filled his nose. And somehow, things shifted. The next kiss was softer, slower. Tongues met, stroked. Ian nibbled along Chris's jaw with feather touches. Chris kissed his ear, rubbed his cheek on soft dark hair.

"Upstairs," Chris said eventually. The first frantic impulse might have mellowed but he was still painfully hard.

"We don't have to," Ian whispered, kissing his eyebrow.

"Yeah, we do." Chris slid off his lap and stood up. "Come on."

He led the way upstairs. He was electrically aware of Ian following him. And not just because his body was practically vibrating with wanting the man. He was aware of the firsts. First man in this house, in his own bed. First man who knew his real name, real age, real job, real life. Oh, there were still plenty of lies between them, all those things he'd told Ian on the plane, like landmines waiting to be stepped on and triggered. But for now, this was the closest he'd come to real. Maybe...

At the door of his room, he shut off all the worrying and let himself just look at Ian. All that heat and that smile and those eyes, just for him. Not for Robin, but for Chris, with his nothing hair and muddy grey eyes and non-paying job. Chris kissed Ian on the threshold of his room, slowly and deep. Ian let him control the kiss, opening for his tongue, and then chasing it back into his mouth. The man's breathing came fast and shallow.

Chris pulled him toward the bed, and kicked the door shut behind them. The blinds were drawn, but bright sun still bathed the room in filtered light. His little single bed, his cheap furniture and threadbare quilt, didn't measure up to the comfort of Ian's place. But the need was the same.

By silent agreement, they undressed themselves swiftly, eager to get to skin. Ian pushed Chris onto the bed, and knelt over him to take Chris's hard cock deep in his mouth. Chris caught his breath at the sight of that mouth on him. Ian's hands found just the right pressure around Chris's balls and down behind them, over sensitive skin. Chris didn't want to just lie back and be pleasured. But damned if he wanted Ian's tongue to ever stop what it was doing to him.

"Here, babe," he said, tugging at Ian's thigh. "Scoot around. I want to taste you too."

It took a little maneuvering in the tight space, but they managed to end up on their sides for a classic 69. Ian's taste filled Chris's mouth. The man was big, stretching Chris's jaw wide as he went deep. Chris brought his free hand into play, cupping furry balls, gently pressing up and in, until Ian groaned around Chris's own shaft.

God, that vibration. Chris clenched his ass. Not yet. He was not coming yet. He tried to concentrate on what he was doing, playing his tongue up the underside of the big dick in his mouth, humming a little, curving his tongue so each stroke hit a different spot. He was rewarded by a steady leak of salty pre-cum. He moved his hand to the base of Ian's cock, jacking him on a slick of saliva and fluids. Ian jerked forward deeper into his mouth. _Oh, yeah._

But Ian was just as skillful, and Chris lost track of his rhythm as Ian's hand reached around to brush against Chris's ass. One rough finger pressed inward. It was followed by a hard stroke of Ian's wide wet tongue on the head of his cock, swirling around him. And then Ian took him back in deep. Chris lost it. All that heat inside him rushed downward and outward, escaping in a gasping, shuddering climax. Ian drank him down, swallowing Chris to the back of his throat, pulling every drop out of him until Chris had to tap out, gently shoving Ian's mouth off him.

"Holy hell." Chris reminded himself to keep stroking Ian with his hands, as he lay gasping, blinking through vision gone dim. "Wow." _Okay, my turn._ He yanked his attention back from the land of pure sensation and pulled that fat cut head to his lips. Chris might have come first, but he bet he knew how to _destroy_ this man.

***

Ian gasped and groaned. The taste of Chris was still thick on his tongue, but Ian wasn't sure he could remember his own name. Every fiber of his being was sucked down into soft warm lips and agile tongue, and hot tight vibrating cavern of mouth. Chris's hands seemed to find every secret pressure point Ian had.

Chris let Ian's dick slip out, with a wet pop, and moved his mouth lower. He sucked Ian's balls into his mouth, tonguing on them, even as his fist slicked over Ian's cock with firm even pressure. Then that skilled mouth moved down further. Chris rimmed him lingeringly, licking, sucking a little. The tip of his tongue dipped in, withdrew. Then just the edge of Chris's teeth dragged over sensitized tissue.

"Fuck!" Ian bucked hard into Chris's hand. Chris's laugh was a buzz against Ian's skin. And then his mouth was back where it belonged. Chris took up a quick bob, fast plunge and slower tight suck upward. Ian groaned. "Fuck, fuck, coming baby, now!"

Chris moved deep instead of backing off. Ian watched through the rush of sensation as the muscles in that long gold column of throat worked convulsively around him, swallowing. God, what a sight. Ian fought to keep his eyes open as the world crashed around him.

When he could move more than the tips of his fingers again, Ian reached down and pulled Chris up into his arms. The man was wearing a smug smile that just begged to be kissed off his lips. Ian could do that.

Their tastes mingled in his mouth. Then Chris eased down against Ian's chest, and tucked his head into the curve of Ian's neck. Ian ran his fingers over the soft blond curls. Then he parted them a little to look closer. "Hey," he murmured. "Your roots are showing."

He was unprepared for the violent jolt that went through the man. Chris stiffened and pulled away. Ian reached for him, hauling the man's stiff shoulders back against him. "Hey, hey," he soothed. "Not complaining. Don't care. You can be blond, or brown, or go blue again for all I care." He felt Chris relax a little at the reminder of that first night. "It's not your hair I'm fucking," Ian added. "although...I could get off on that too." He wound his fingers through the soft strands. "Slide into this stuff, rasping on me."

Chris's taut muscles were easing. "You're not coming in my hair," he said.

"Not right now. Too wiped."

Chris's head came back against Ian's shoulder. "I dye my hair," he said, in the tone of someone confessing a sin. "I haven't had a chance to touch it up the last few weeks. Some people like it better blond. I mean, I like it better blond too."

"I like it," Ian agreed. "It's good with your skin color, very surfer-boy. But dark would be cute too. What color is it naturally?"

Chris was silent for a while. "Don't know," he said in a small voice. "I've been dying it so long."

Ian shrugged so Chris could feel it. "No big." It really wasn't. Except obviously to Chris, who clearly had issues Ian hadn't heard about yet. _Some people like it better._ Ian listened carefully to conversations, and he had noted that phrasing. He wondered who the _some people_ were that had his Chris dying his hair until he couldn't remember the original color. His arm tightened around the man.

For a while they drifted in the after-sex haze. Chris's breath blew across Ian's skin. His golden arm lay lax and heavy across Ian's chest. Ian teased his own lips against strands of Chris's hair. He didn't want to move. But...

"I hate to say it, babe," he told Chris. "But I'm on my lunch hour. And while I am the boss, we're working a big job and it doesn't look good if I'm the one holding things up."

"I guess." Chris rolled off him into the tight space against the wall and raised up on one elbow. "Tree trimming, right?"

"Yes. This guy has a couple of big oaks that died of oak-wilt. We have to take them down in pieces, carefully, because there's not much free space. His neighbor's multi-million dollar house is right there, and the neighbor won't be happy if we put a branch through his picture window."

"So how do you do it?" Chris asked.

"Climbing, setting ropes, pulling at the right moment." Ian smiled up at him. "You could come along, watch us at work. You never know, it might be useful in a book someday."

Chris climbed over him out of bed, avoiding his reach. Chris grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped himself, and then began pulling on his briefs. "I don't think so." He wasn't looking at Ian. "Do you want a shower before you go back?"

"Nope." Ian smiled at his compact backside. "You did a good job with your tongue. You could patent that thing."

"How do you know I haven't?" Chris purred.

Ian blinked and controlled his reaction. _The guy has been with other men. Suck it up._

Chris hesitated for a moment, maybe feeling Ian's slight withdrawal. Ian started to say something but Chris's voice cut him off. "Sorry. That was a Robin joke. See, Robin wants people to think he's easy and experienced. Only looking for a one-night stand. Because that's all I wanted as Robin. And I have been with lots of guys, but not as many as Robin likes to pretend. No one but you in the last four months."

Ian nodded. "Why do you talk about yourself in the third person like that? Like Robin isn't you?"

Chris resumed dressing, but he was still looking at the wall. "Because he isn't. Not really. When I go out as Robin I play a part. The clothes, the contact lenses, the walk. Robin is like the sex part of me. Sometimes I...I pretend that I'm an actor, or a screenwriter or something. Something fun and glamorous. It makes it easier. Robin's not shy or a loner but Chris...I am."

Ian sat on the edge of the bed to put on his boxers. "Okay. I think I get it. Although you make love the same way as Chris and as Robin." Chris made a little sound, so Ian elaborated. "You're amazing in bed. Full out, no stops. And that hasn't changed when your eyes are that pretty grey instead of artificial turquoise."

Chris buttoned his jeans, and then said, "Thank-you. Even though I know what color my eyes are and no-one has ever referred to mud-hazel as pretty."

"I did." Ian got up, chest still bare and went to Chris. He turned the man to face him, and tilted Chris's chin up. Chris met his eyes. "Really pretty. The first time I saw you without your contacts, you were standing on my doorstep yelling at me and the first thing I thought was that your eyes were even more gorgeous without the lenses. Storm grey with these little gold and brown lights in them. I fell for your eyes right there."

Chris pulled his chin free with a jerk and picked up his sweatshirt.

"What?" Ian said.

"Don't do that," Chris told him in a low voice. "Don't be too nice to me. Don't fall for me like that. You don't know. I don't deserve it."

Ian caught an echo of his own self-deprecation, his voice saying to his sister _he's probably not interested in someone like me_. He hadn't realized it sounded...so fucking annoying.

"Okay, let's have an agreement right now," he told Chris. "We both quit putting ourselves down. You deserve me, and I damned well deserve you. Compliments are to be accepted with a thank-you, not a slam."

Chris froze for a moment, but when he turned to Ian he was smiling slightly. "So I should say 'thanks, I know they're lovely'?" He batted his eyelashes at Ian.

Ian popped him one with the hem of his denim shirt. "If you want to sound like a prancing queen, sure." He slid his arms into the sleeves and reached for his buttons. Chris's eyes tracked his fingers as he fastened the bottom one and moved upward. When their eyes met, Chris dragged his tongue slowly across his lower lip. Ian's nipples hardened in response, and his jeans got tight. "And cut that out," he added. "Maybe we need a 'no flirting when I'm on my way to work' rule."

Chris's smile was warm. "If you want to take all the fun out of it."

"Heaven forbid." Ian returned the smile. "So now I have to go be all macho and cut down trees with power tools. When can I see you again? Can I take you out to dinner?"

"Um. We can't go out in public too often."

"I get that. But one dinner isn't often. I think we should celebrate being together. Or being alive, or whatever you're willing to celebrate."

The gold lights in Chris's - _yes, damned pretty_ \- eyes brightened. "Sure. Why the hell not, just this once. Somewhere well away from here, and we behave ourselves in public. What time?"

"Seven? Gives me time to finish up and get clean," Ian proposed.

"Sounds good." Chris led the way downstairs.

At the door, Ian paused to kiss him again, and then recalled one of the reasons he'd come here, back before he got distracted. He let go of Chris and got out his phone.

"Do you need my number?" Chris asked.

"No, I got it from Trent," Ian told him. "He said he gave you both of mine too. Or did you pitch them?"

Ian liked the blush of color that passed across Chris's face. "No, I, um, put them in my cell."

"Good." Ian kissed him again, hard, just because. "That's what I wanted you to do. No, there's something I wanted you to look at. I know it's not romantic, but you need to know." He pulled up his e-mail on the phone and passed it over. "I went to a clinic In Eureka, the minute I walked out of your hotel, and got tested for everything. It was all negative. That's the lab report."

Chris handed the phone back. "I'm glad. I mean, I know the odds were low. I think I made a big deal out of it because...I don't know why. But I'm glad you're okay." He hesitated. "I have a negative lab from after the last time I went cruising. It's in my file drawer, if you want me to pull it out."

"I trust you, babe," Ian said.

Chris stared at him intently, and then hauled him in for a long wet kiss. And if at some point he heard Chris mumbling "Don't. You shouldn't." against his mouth, Ian had long since forgotten what he was referring to.

Chapter 9

A week later, Chris realized he was beginning to divide life into before-Ian and with-Ian. His stalker hadn't sent another note since Ian hit the scene. Maybe the guy realized he just couldn't compete. Even Becca was starting to like the guy, despite her early suspicions. Ian had made a point of insisting they all go out on a double date last night. They had looked like two nice normal couples from the outside, except that the wrong people were playing footsie under the table.

Jenny had admitted that the guy cleaned up well, and seemed reliable. "Not harmless," she'd said when they got home. Chris watched her sit on the bed to wriggle her feet out of her high heels and sigh with relief. "That guy watches everything. He was always aware of who was around us, and whenever someone started coming our way he noticed before I did. In fact, he moves and reacts like an operator. But you say he's explained that. And I didn't get any vibes that he was lying to us or playing games. I think what you see is what you get. But you know, Chris, he's giving you a pretty long leash right now, and I think he may not always sit by while you flirt with the waiter."

"I didn't!" Chris protested.

"Not a lot," Jenny agreed. "A straight guy might not have noticed. But I saw it, and you can bet your ass Ian did. What were you playing at? Are you testing to see how far you can push him? Because I'm betting there is a limit. And Chris, this is the only guy I've seen you care about in years. I don't want you to fuck it up."

"I know." Chris dropped into her desk chair and clenched his hands in his hair. "I don't know what I was doing. I mean, I think it was Robin."

Jenny glanced at him. "Don't go getting a split personality on me, Chris."

"No, not like that. It's just...it's been years and years since I dated as anyone but Robin. I get out in public with a hot man and I start doing Robin, even when I don't want to. And Robin plays and flirts and keeps guys at a distance. Which I don't want to do with Ian. But sometimes it just happens."

Jenny nodded slowly. "I'm sorry."

Chris blinked. "For what?"

"I think this is partly my fault. When I panicked about that bastard Klausen, and we got engaged, it just seemed so easy. A simple solution. I didn't think about what it was doing to you."

"What are you talking about?" Chris asked. "It's worked fine."

"Yeah. Except it gave you another reason not to be yourself out there. To be Robin."

"I didn't invent Robin for our engagement," Chris said huffily. "I just like the role. I'd already been doing Robin for years."

"I know, but before that you sometimes dated regular guys, as yourself. Now, it's been so long. Sometimes I wonder if you even know who you are any more."

Sometimes Chris wondered too. He was trying to be Chris for Ian, just Chris, but it was hard. "So you do think I'm psychotic."

"No...not really." Jenny's trailing tones weren't giving Chris great confidence.

"Oh, that's nice."

"Look. All I'm saying is, don't fuck this up, okay. You need to be straight with this guy. He won't understand you the way I do."

"I'm doing the best I can," Chris snapped. "Sometimes I screw up. If Ian can't handle that, then he can look elsewhere."

"Don't." Jenny got up off the bed in her underwear, and came over to put an arm around his shoulders. "Chris, you deserve to be happy. But you've got to work at it. Okay?"

Chris wasn't sure why the fuck there were tears in his eyes. They'd had a great evening, all four of them. He'd flirted a little. Ian hadn't been too pissed. It was all good. It wasn't falling apart. Not yet. He rubbed his sleeve across his face. "Get your beauty sleep," he told Jenny. "You're the one who has to get up in the morning."

Ian called the next day, and invited Chris to come with him to a party for his friend Trent. His voice was a little hesitant. Chris figured this was some kind of test. Would the closeted guy accept a role in Ian's life, or would he make Ian go out on his own? Could Chris go to a party full of gay men and not flirt with them in front of Ian?

Well hell, he thought, accepting the invitation. He'd show Ian. He'd go and be so Chris that if another guy tried to give him a blow-job in the middle of the room he'd thank the guy politely and walk away. He'd lock _Robin_ in the freaking closet and hang with Ian all night and treat him right. He could do this.

Ian said dress casual and gay for the party. Chris picked out his favorite black skinny jeans, and grey silk long-sleeve shirt that hugged his chest and did make his muddy eyes almost the same grey. Ian's look when he picked Chris up said he'd nailed it.

"Or we could just go to my place," Ian murmured, leaning into Chris in the entryway as he stepped into his shoes.

"No way," Chris told him happily. "I haven't been to a party where I could be out, without being on the hunt for a pick-up, since college. I'm looking forward to it." He gave Ian a wicked smile. "Maybe afterward." He raised his voice to Jenny on the computer in the den. "Don't wait up, sweetiecakes."

"Have a nice time, _Chris_ ," she called back.

Chris wrinkled his nose at the emphasis on his name. So he'd used Robin's nickname for her. He was also Robin, he was allowed to blend. It was healthy to blend things, less split personality-ish. He hadn't forgotten his plan to be very Chris tonight.

Ian's friend Trent had a nice trendy downtown apartment. The inside wasn't modern like the outside, though. Trent ran to knick-knacks and country fabrics, lots of extra pillows and watercolor prints. It was comfortable, not put together by some designer in one excruciatingly tasteful afternoon. Chris put aside the memory of the one time Robin had been down here, in the building next door. No reason he would see that man again. These were high-rises. Odds were no one in this building knew the people in that one.

Trent's new lover Justin was throwing the party. Ian and Trent introduced their boyfriends to each other as soon as they walked in the door. Chris felt a little like it was a contest. His ass was better, but otherwise Justin was taller, more muscled, older, more Caucasian. He hated being the short end of Ian's stick. But he caught himself before any of Robin's flirting escaped in an attempt to even the score. _That wouldn't help._

Ian didn't seem to notice the disparity. He moved quietly through the party, keeping Chris nearby. Not in an overly controlling way. But every time Chris clutched at meeting someone new without Robin's fund of easy bullshit lines to fall back on, Ian would somehow appear. Ian performed introductions, made a comment or two, and eased Chris into the situation. Ian's hand on Chris's back or his arm was just a little possessive, like Ian wanted to claim him in front of all these new guys. Like he was worth claiming. It was nice.

The party was well supplied with both food and booze. Chris tried to be careful. Robin liked to drink. When he got buzzed, there was a good chance Robin would emerge. He nursed a beer and found a quiet corner. Robin never stood in quiet corners.

Another younger reserved guy came to hold up the wall close to Chris. They had a few moments of stilted conversation, before the guy happened to mention that he was in the process of applying to medical school.

"Oh, yeah," Chris said. "Been there, done that." Finally something he knew a lot about. They compared stupidest-essay-topic stories, and what-did-you-blank-on on the MCAT, and interviews with frowning old white guys whose goal seemed to be to get you to make a total fool of yourself.

"So where did you get in?" the guy asked Chris.

"Actually, several places," Chris told him. "But I picked UCSD. I had a close friend here that I could room with."

"And did you graduate already? Should I be calling you Doctor?"

_I dropped out, only my parents don't know it yet._ Chris hedged, "Not yet. Fourth year."

"Is that your roommate?" the younger guy asked, nodding behind Chris.

Chris jolted a little to find Ian at his elbow. _What did he hear?_ Chris hadn't told many actual flat-out lies, but he'd maybe stretched things, putting the guy at ease. "Um, no," Chris said. "I room with a girl. Ian is my boyfriend."

"Your boyfriend who's ready to head out," Ian said. "How about you, babe?"

Was Ian's tone of voice a little cool? Chris couldn't tell. "Sure," he said. "Lead the way."

It took a few minutes to locate Trent and wish him a happy birthday. Then they made their way down to the car. The cool air and the quiet were welcome after the heated atmosphere of the party. Chris climbed up in the truck and leaned his head back against the headrest. Ian got in his side and glanced over. "Tired? Were you bored back there?"

"No," Chris said. "It was fine. Good food. And I appreciated the way you kept popping up to save me when I got cornered by the guys with big egos and small brains."

"Any time." After a moment Ian added tentatively, "Did I hear you tell Greg that you were in medical school?"

_Shit._ "No, sweetie. You heard me tell him I was accepted into medical school. I dropped out after one semester."

"Really?" Ian stared at him. "Why?"

Chris shrugged. "It was my father's dream, not mine. I wanted to be a writer. And at first I thought maybe I could do both. Go through medical school and write in my free time. But there _is_ no free time in med school. I had to choose. Four years of school, and then internship, residency, probably eight years before I'd have time to draw breath and put a pen to paper again. I couldn't do it. So I dropped out and took a stupid nothing job to pay the rent, so I could write."

"I guess I can see that," Ian said slowly. "You're obviously meant to be a writer. It's a pity your dad didn't live long enough to see you get successful, doing your own thing. Did he live long enough to see you get accepted to med school or not?"

Chris tried. He really tried. All he needed to do was say it. _My Dad's still alive. I was spinning a story for you on the plane when I told you my folks were dead_. But he couldn't do it. He remembered the cool, hesitant way Ian had asked about his med school story. Like he knew Chris wasn't being truthful with that young guy. So how could Chris admit he'd been lying to Ian too? Maybe later, when he and Ian got to know each other better. When Ian had more reason to trust Chris. He imagined them laughing over it, in some misty future, sipping drinks beside a pool. _You know, Ian, my parents are just such a pain, I sort of killed them off for you. Just while we were getting to know each other. But now I guess I can tell you about them for real._ Maybe then.

He went with Robin's story. "They died while I was in college. Sophomore year. Car crash. I don't like to talk about it." _Boy, do I not want to talk about it._

Ian put a strong arm around him. "I get that. My mom died while I was in middle school, and it still hurts. My dad was great, he kept the family together. But he really needed my mom for balance, and not just because of how much he missed her. Things were rough for a while. It must have been so hard for you."

Chris felt like shit for taking the sympathy. "It's easier when you're older," he mumbled.

"Probably not much," Ian said warmly. "Especially losing them both together like that. And when you've been close, like you and your folks were. And then being on your own off at school, with no family around. I don't know what I'd have done without my sister. Do you see your sister often?"

_As little as possible._ "Now and then. We've kind of grown apart. She still lives in Chicago." He leaned away from Ian, pressing his forehead to the cool glass of the window. _Shit. Shit, shit, shit._ He could swear he wasn't going to do it, and then the stuff just came out of his mouth. Forget the cozy little scene at poolside. If Ian ever found out about the lies, he would dump Chris like a load of rotten manure.

"Headache?" Ian asked.

"Yeah." It felt more like a heart-ache. Like the feeling you get when you see something beautiful, and you know it's about to die. _Shit._ "Would you mind if I just went home? I'll make it up to you some other time, I swear."

"No," Ian said. "Of course not. Whatever you need, babe. Is it a migraine? Do you need to stop and get meds or anything?"

"No." _Stop being so fucking nice to me._ "I'll be fine. I'll take some Tylenol and sleep it off."

When they parked in the driveway he leaned into Ian to kiss him. To hell with DADT and the neighbors. But Ian saved him, leaning away and gripping his shoulder firmly in proxy. "Careful. You don't want to blow it. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Robin would have said he wanted to blow something. Chris sighed and said, "Thanks, sweetie. I'll call you."

"Feel better." Ian waited until Chris reached the steps, and then backed the truck out of the drive, and headed off down the dark street. Chris stared after those retreating tail lights for a long time, even after they had been swallowed up by the darkness.

***

A week later, Ian pulled up in front of Chris's house and got out slowly. He had a loaf of bread in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other. The plan was to have a nice dinner with Jenny. Then Jenny was going to meet up with Becca for a play downtown, and he and Chris would have the house to themselves.

Last week, he would have been halfway up the walk by now, he thought, as he locked the truck and cradled the bottle in his arm. But something had changed. He couldn't put his finger on what. Chris was still great. He was fun, affectionate, and amazing in bed. Almost too amazing.

It almost felt like Chris was working too hard, trying to prove what a great boyfriend he was. Whenever they were alone, Chris would drop to his knees at the drop of a hat to suck Ian off. And while Ian had never thought he would complain about getting stellar blow-jobs, it had started to feel one-sided. Some nights he got off two or three times, before Chris came once. Chris claimed he liked it that way, got more pleasure out of doing Ian than being done. But it just didn't feel right.

Ian traced the change back to the night of Trent's party. And he had to wonder. Had someone said something to Chris, told him he wasn't good enough for Ian perhaps? Or had Chris seen an ex-lover, someone who made him feel bad? Chris sometimes got apologetic about his cruising days as Robin, even though Ian was beginning to think those days had been tamer and more infrequent than the fuck-party a lot of the guys indulged in when they were young.

He didn't know what was wrong, and it was starting to bug him. Chris was no help. He'd just say everything was fine, and then intensify his efforts to become Stepford Chris. Ian had just about decided to pull Jenny aside and sic her on her roommate. He had a feeling she knew a lot more about Chris and what made him tick than Ian did.

Jenny opened the door when he arrived. The kettle was whistling loudly on the stove and she pulled him into the kitchen to put down the bread and wine. Reaching over, she took the kettle off the heat and poured water through a cone for coffee.

Without the kettle, Chris's voice could be heard from the other room, presumably on the telephone. Whatever conversation he was having, he sounded stressed.

"No," Chris's voice said. "I understand that but...No, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings...Yes, I will let you know." His voice rose a little. Ian glanced uncomfortably at Jenny, but short of retreating back out to the truck there was no way to avoid eavesdropping.

In the other room, Chris said, "When I get around to wanting advice on internships, I promise I'll let you know."

Ian blinked and stared at Jenny. _What the hell?_ Maybe writers did some kind of internships. Jenny was staring back, shaking her head a little.

But then Chris went on clearly, "Yes, Father, I know I can't put it off too long...No, I don't want Mother to worry. Yes, I'll call her during the day tomorrow. I promise...Thank-you, Father."

Ian just stood there, with the stupid loaf of bread in his hands. Chris came striding into the kitchen, saying, "Jen. You're not going to believe what my parents..." He caught sight of Ian and stopped, flushing red, and then dead white.

"I didn't hear you come in, babe," he said hoarsely.

Ian nodded slowly. "Because you were on the phone with your dead parents? The ones who died so tragically when you were in college?" He waited for Chris to explain, to say, _no these were my foster parents, my uncle and aunt who were like parents to me,_ something to explain what was going on. But Chris just stood there like a statue with his eyes dilated and scared.

Jenny looked back and forth between them, and frowned at Chris. "Fuck. Chris, what did you tell him?"

"Nothing," Chris whispered. "It's nothing."

"Nothing?" Ian repeated. "You told me a whole lovely story about your adoring parents, taken from you so soon. The tragedy of their car accident. Was any of it the truth?"

Chris shook his head minutely.

"Your parents are still alive?"

Tiny nod.

"Jesus." Ian rubbed his eyes. "I told you stuff I've never told anyone in my life before. And I thought you were doing the same with me." He gritted his teeth. "So when I was sharing the way I felt about losing my mother you were what, empathizing in a fictional way? Getting into character? What?"

"I'm sorry," Chris said slowly. "It wasn't...I didn't lie to you on purpose. I just...I said that about my parents way back, before I thought I would ever see you again."

"So you figured it didn't matter if you told a big whopping lie, as long as it was to a stranger? And then you just accidentally kept telling me the same lie? Without meaning to?"

"It sounds stupid when you say it like that."

"It sounds stupid any way I say it," Ian ground out. "What were you thinking?"

"Maybe I was thinking you'd be angry if I tried to tell you the truth," Chris said more warmly. "And maybe I was right."

"Yeah, the truth." Ian dropped the bread in the sink and folded his arms across his chest. Because he wanted to reach out and shake Chris, and he wasn't going to risk touching him. "What else are you lying about? Like that shit with your parents right now. The internship thing. Let me guess. Like that kid you were talking to at the party. You forgot to tell them you dropped out of medical school."

"He didn't..." Jenny began, but then the heated look of shame on Chris's face sank in. "Chris. You did."

Chris's chin jerked up defiantly. "So what if I did? I'm not taking their money. I told them I had a scholarship. Father kept saying Mother's health wasn't up to worrying about me. So I kept her from worrying."

"Oh, Chris," Jenny said softly. "And now what? What if they want to come to your graduation? Were you going to pretend to get your MD? When were you going to stop?"

"I figured I'd tell them I flunked out. Eventually. When the time was right."

Ian looked at Chris's flushed face. "Except it never was, huh? Is it ever the right time to tell the truth with you?" He paced to the door, and whirled back to face Chris. "What else have you been lying about? How can I believe anything you say? That happy childhood, that golden retriever, all those stories, was any of it true?" Chris was shaking his head mutely. _Protest? Denial?_ Ian cursed softly. "Maybe you've hated going out with me. Maybe you think I'm really boring in bed. How can I tell?"

"Damn it, Ian," Chris said. "I've tried to be honest with you. You have no idea how hard I've tried."

"Because you've obviously failed, right? Now what? Do we go back over everything you've said for the last few weeks and sort out the truth from the lies? If there was any truth."

"Well at least with a guy, you know he's not faking orgasm," Chris said.

"No? How about lying when he says he'd rather get me off for the third time, rather than come himself?"

"I'm just..." Chris's voice was thick. "I was just trying to do my best, to be everything you wanted, so you wouldn't leave."

"And what if what I wanted was to be able to trust you?" Ian asked. "What if I don't care if you can suck the orange off a carrot, as long as I can believe what you say?"

Chris just looked at him silently, biting his lip.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Ian snarled. "Well, guess what? You flunked that test too." He yanked open the door. Because if he had to stand there one more minute, looking at Chris's grey eyes swimming with tears, he would take the guy in his arms. And he'd be damned if he'd get caught up in this mess of lies and half-truths. He should have known it was too good to be true. Chris was too good to be real. "Enjoy the wine," he said harshly. "Have a nice imaginary life."

His righteous anger carried him out to his truck, and down the street, and halfway to the freeway. And then it dumped him, empty and shaking, sitting alone in his parked truck in some half-full lot. He held the steering wheel firmly in both hands and stared out the windshield at nothing.

***

Flat out on his bed in his room, Chris winced and buried his head deeper in the pillows. Jenny's tap on the door became a bang.

"Damn it, Chris," She called from the other side. "Open the fucking door. Don't make me get out my lock-picks."

Chris ignored her. Maybe he would just stay in bed forever. Maybe he would never come out of his room. If he never saw another human being, then he would never lie to anyone. He'd never have to say anything, never have to choose. He could stay in his room, and send his manuscripts off by e-mail, and just avoid any human contact whatsoever.

Or he could if he wasn't rooming with a female Harry Houdini. His door clicked open. He heard Jenny's footsteps and then the bed sank under her weight.

"Feeling sorry for ourselves, are we?" she said to the back of his head.

"Fuck you," Chris muttered into the pillow.

"I'm sorry," she said more softly. "That was uncalled for. It's just...I get so tired of watching you screw up your life, pretending one damned thing after another. Ian was so good for you. How could you go and throw that away?"

"I didn't mean to," Chris whispered. His throat hurt and his chest was tight. "I tried not to. But the thing with my parents. That started on the plane. When it shouldn't have mattered. He was telling me about his dad, how he wasn't happy with Ian being gay, but he accepts it and they talk and all. And I couldn't tell him about my folks. So I gave him Robin's story. I've always made Robin's parents seem nice, you know, because who wants a twinkie to have emotional issues. And then I make them dead, so they never have to actually show up and _be_ nice. So that's what I told him."

Jenny was quiet for a moment. "But then why didn't you tell him all about it later? Set the story straight, when you started dating?"

"I was going to. But I still didn't want to talk about my real parents. And the time never seemed right. And then every time I mentioned my idyllic childhood and my dead parents, I knew it would look worse if I went and changed my story. So I was stuck."

"And what about telling your parents you're still in med school?"

"That doesn't matter. I'm almost thirty. I'm living on my own, paying my own way. They don't matter. It was easier just to not rock the boat, but I don't care anymore. I hope they do disown me, because then it would be over. But Ian matters. Except now he hates me. And he'll never trust me again."

"Can you blame him?"

"No, of course not." _That was the point. Didn't Jenny get it? He wasn't trustworthy. He'd always known that. It had just been an illusion, a waiting game, where he got to play the good boyfriend until Ian figured it out_. "I always knew he would leave," Chris said. "I couldn't make it worth his while to stay. I just didn't know it would hurt this much."

He'd thought he would cry when Ian left. He'd imagined the whole scene over and over, himself sobbing wildly, the tears running down his cheeks. But he wasn't crying. What was the point? He lay still with his eyes closed, and carefully, blankly, thought of nothing at all. He had nothing to do. Nothing to say. He didn't have to cry. It wouldn't change anything.

Softly, Jenny's hand stroked his hair. The rasp of her palm across his head melded with the rhythm of his own breaths. Chris listened for a while. The rest of the room was silent. Too silent. Quietly, under his breath, Chris began humming tunelessly. Something that went on and on, up and down, without ending. He kept the sound going, even when Jenny finally got up and left the room. Because he had a feeling that if he stopped making noise, then somewhere, way down inside, he would hear someone screaming.

***

Ian paced across Trent's living room and pivoted on his heel. Trent ran a hand over his head and tried to bite back a yawn. "I'm sorry, man," he said. "It's two AM. It's not that I don't want to listen. And God knows I probably owe you a bazillion breaking-up-with-my boyfriend rants. Just tell me again slowly, because I'm not tracking well."

From Trent's bedroom, Justin heaved a pointed sigh and rolled over in the bed.

"Come on," Trent said more softly. "Let's go sit in the kitchen. I'll make you some tea and you can tell me all about it."

"I don't want any fucking tea," Ian snapped. Then he lowered his voice. "Sorry."

Trent headed for the stove anyway. "Well I want some. So, what happened? You were happier than I've ever seen you these last two weeks."

"Yeah, I was," Ian agreed. He dropped into a chair. It hurt like hell, remembering how it felt to have Chris, when it was all based on lies. "But if I can't trust the guy, what's the point?"

"So he told you his parents were dead," Trent said, pouring water over a tea bag. "What else?"

Ian blinked. "Isn't that enough?"

"Hell, no. Not compared to some of the trolls I've been with. Did he steal your stuff? Forge your name on checks? Use your credit cards? Tell his tricks he owned your apartment?"

"No, of course not," Ian said. "He's a liar. He's not a thief. Although actually, I don't even know that. He could be a thief."

"If he came to you right now and said he needed to borrow money for something important. Would you lend it to him?"

_Would he?_ Ian thought about it. He might not take Chris's word for the color of the sky right now, but yeah, if he said he needed money Ian would give it to him. Greed had never been part of Chris. He'd always paid his own way to everything. "That doesn't mean much," Ian said. "So I trust him not to steal from me. It still doesn't mean I can believe anything he says. How could I stay with a guy when I can't believe him? When every time he says he's running to the grocery store, I have to wonder if that's really true or not. I can't live with that. Hell, he told his own parents he was still in medical school. His dad is trying to line up internships for him."

"I'm guessing he has some major problems with his parents," Trent said. He sipped his tea slowly, as he set a second cup in front of Ian.

Hot minty steam curled up in Ian's face. Without intending to, he picked up the mug and drank. The tightness in his jaw unclenched just a little.

Which was maybe a bad thing, because without that edge of anger Ian just felt...bereft. "So what do I do now?" he asked Trent. There was this big Chris-shaped hole in the middle of everything. Almost like losing Jack, except that Chris was still out there, somewhere.

Trent shrugged a little. "You decide if you want to go back and talk to the guy, or just move on."

"Why bother?" Ian said bitterly. "You don't think I could live with something like that?"

"I guess not. That's not you. You have a pretty rigid sense of right and wrong, truth and lies. Like telling your dad you were gay as soon as you figured it out. Even when you knew he would blow a gasket. Most gay guys would have some sympathy with being in the closet and telling lies to get by. But I guess you've never done that."

"Are you saying it's my fault we broke up?" Ian demanded.

"No, of course not," Trent said placatingly. "But it's not like I've never told a trick something that wasn't true. Hell, I once claimed to be Trevor Donovan. So I guess I can sympathize a little."

"But I'm not just a freaking trick. Don't you think I deserve better?"

"Sure, yes. But everyone works their way into relationships. The bad shit comes out gradually. Most people aren't as upfront as you are. Even you must have sometimes taken the easy route and fibbed about something."

"Never," Ian snapped. Of course, with Jack knowing his dad, it would have been futile and...

"No lies about lost homework? Or being late because the truck wouldn't start. Or I can't make your party because I have to work." He tilted his head at Ian and singsonged, "What, never?"

Ian gritted his teeth, and remembered using just that excuse on Trent, back when he'd been mourning Jack and not in the mood. "Well, hardly ever. And fuck you for making me quote Gilbert and Sullivan."

Trent smiled. "There's the Ian I know and love, even in the middle of the night." He swallowed a mouthful of tea. "I'm just saying there are guys for whom it wouldn't be such a huge problem. Every man has his faults. Chris seemed like a pretty nice guy the few times I met him. Sweet, you know, and smart, and easy to talk to. For some men, that might outweigh the lying. There's no such thing as a perfect man. Well, except maybe you."

"I don't think I'm perfect."

"Good thing, too," Trent said. "A perfect man would never wake up his best friend at two AM. Listen, Ian, I have to work in the morning. You're welcome to crash here for the night. _Mi_ couch _es su_ couch. Maybe things will look better in the morning." He got up, set his cup in the sink, and gave Ian's shoulder a firm squeeze on his way past. "For what it's worth, I'm really sorry you broke up with Chris. I was rooting for you guys. And I know it hurts. But I'm sure there's the right guy out there for you somewhere. And for Chris too. Someone will take that man on, flaws and all. I guarantee it."

Ian nodded. If that was supposed to be comforting, Trent was failing on the counsel-your-best-friend meter. Because now all Ian could think about was some other man taking Chris on. Some other man watching his changeable grey eyes spark with interest, listening to his warm voice, pulling his golden body into bed. And when that man found out Chris was lying to him, would the new man walk away? Or not care? Or maybe get angry and hurt Chris? Chris wasn't very big, and he couldn't fight for beans.

Ian shook his head. It wasn't his problem anymore. "I think I'll go home," he told Trent. "I've got work in the morning too."

"Right." Trent stood irresolutely for a moment, eying Ian. "And you will be all right? You're not going to let yourself get distracted and have an accident with a chain saw, are you?"

"I hope to God not," Ian said. This hollow feeling was familiar. "If I could work straight through after Jack died, I think I can handle breaking up with Chris."

Chapter 10

It was a good thing his work was nice and physical, Ian reflected, as he hauled a big branch over to the chipper. For three days, he had grabbed the sweatiest, dirtiest jobs for himself. He worked until his muscles screamed, and then went home and soaked in the shower. If he got tired enough, he was able to catch a little sleep here and there.

Trent had brought over a canister of some herbal brew he claimed would lift Ian's mood. Ian had thanked him nicely, and then found a place for the cat-piss smelling stuff in a client's compost pile. Trent meant well. Ian knew it would just take time.

It was even familiar, the way the hole in his life felt like it kept getting bigger. He remembered that from Jack. How at first he'd thought, _I can do this. It's not that bad_. And then for a long time, for what seemed like forever, it kept getting harder instead of easier. What he didn't get was how someone he'd dated for a few weeks could make him feel almost as bad as the guy he'd loved for twelve years. It didn't seem fair. How could a guy dare to go out and date, if it was going to hurt this much each time it ended?

His foreman Brad shouldered Ian out of the way and added his log to the chute. He pulled off his cap, ran an arm across his sweaty forehead, and squinted at Ian. "I think we're done here, boss. Except for the sweeping up. You should take off. You look beat."

"I'm fine," Ian said. "In fact, I don't mind sweeping. You tell the guys to call it a day. I'll see you all bright and early at the Hendersons' tomorrow."

"Um. Okay, thanks." Brad hesitated. "Are you sick, Ian? Because you haven't been looking too good lately."

Ian was startled. He thought he'd hid it better than that. "No, just not sleeping well. Personal stuff."

"Okay." Brad hauled his cap back on and nodded. "See you."

Ian grabbed a broom out of his truck and began sweeping the clients' driveway, as the crew prepared to move out. He accumulated a pile of twigs and brush and scooped it neatly into the chipper. After a moment's loud grinding, the blades hummed empty. Ian hit the kill switch, and waved to Marco, standing by the truck. Then he headed for the front door of the house, as Marco put the chipper to bed and drove away.

The lady of the house was more than happy with their work. She patted Ian's arm as she told him what a good job they'd done and how much she liked to watch him work and what a satisfying job it must be. He was in enough of a fog that it took a while to realize she was flirting with him. _Forget it, lady. I want a sweaty hunky lumberjack for myself, not to star in your fantasy._ He stepped back a little, and took her check as soon as it was written.

In the cab of his truck, he recorded the payment, the time, and took a picture of the work-site clean-up in case of disagreements. With digital pictures, it didn't cost anything to document their jobs. Ian had started doing that routinely. Sometimes he used the photos as a sales tool too. _Here's this two-hundred-foot dead tree right next to this greenhouse, and here's the site after we took it down without cracking a single pane._

He saved this last site picture to his phone. It was accidental that he hit the button that brought up his saved photos. And there was the thumbnail of Chris. He didn't have to click on it. He wasn't going to. But then he did. Maybe he should delete it. Because surely it wasn't helping his recovery to have this picture on his phone, with Chris's sparkling eyes and that wide smile and the bare golden chest. Ian saved it back to memory and closed the phone.

He was pulling into his own driveway when the cell rang. He put the truck in park and checked the display. Caller unknown. _Not Chris._ Maybe it was a new client. He flipped the phone open.

"Timberland Tree Service."

"Ian?" He recognized Jenny's voice. "Can we talk?"

Ian sighed. He didn't want to do this. "I don't know what there is to talk about."

"There's Chris." Jenny's voice was a little tart. "Remember him? Short guy, kind of cute, heart of gold, big problem with keeping a story straight?"

"I haven't forgotten," Ian said flatly. "I just don't think there's anything to say."

"I'd like to tell you about Chris, help you understand where he's coming from."

"I just want to move on." And didn't that sound a little more plaintive than he'd intended.

"And maybe that's the right thing," Jenny said. "But...you left it pretty harsh with Chris. I thought...maybe you could talk to him, just once. I'm kind of worried."

Ian sighed again. He _really_ didn't want to do this. Jenny was a lesbian. She'd probably talk him to death about feelings and closure and shit like that. And he definitely didn't want to talk to Chris again. But... "Worried how?" _Surely Chris wouldn't...or maybe the stalker was back, now that Ian had gone._

"Can I just talk to you?" Jenny asked. "Somewhere private? I could meet you."

"Damn. Okay. But I just got home from work and I'm filthy and beat. You can come to my place. Then I can have a shower while you're driving." He reeled off the address. A sudden thought occurred to him. "You're not going to bring Chris, are you?" He couldn't handle the idea of that man in his kitchen right now.

"God, no. Just you and me. Half an hour okay?"

"Fine."

Ian climbed wearily out of the truck. He'd have time for a shower. And then instead of beer and football, he'd have tea and lesbian couples-counseling. Actually, no, he decided. If he was going to sit through the counseling, he was damned well going to have that beer. Maybe two of them.

It was close to forty-five minutes before Jenny arrived. She parked the Corvette in his drive and climbed out, still dressed in her uniform. He held the door for her. Jenny gave his place a quick look, as he led the way into the kitchen. "This is nice," she said. "Nicer than my place."

"Thanks." Ian twisted the cap off a tall cold bottle and tossed it in the trash. "Brew?"

"Sure, thanks."

He handed her a beer, and leaned against the counter. He didn't invite her to sit. She wouldn't be staying long. "So. Is this where you tell me little Chris was raised by Fagin the con man, until his young mind couldn't tell right from wrong anymore?"

"No," Jenny said coolly. "Not that simple. And Chris knows right from wrong, probably better than most people."

"So explain it to me."

Jenny pulled out a chair and sat deliberately, looking up at him. "I'm not making excuses for Chris but...you should know where all his shit is coming from."

"Like he's not just taking the easy way out of everything?"

She shook her head. "It has nothing to do with easy, even when he says it does." She sipped her beer, thinking. "Did you know he dyes his hair blond?"

"Yeah, I know."

"Mm. But did you know his mother started doing that for him when he was four?"

"She what? Why?" _He'd said he didn't remember his real hair color. No wonder..._

"I need to tell you about Chris. Stuff he might have told you eventually. Or stuff he might never have told you. Because it makes him who he is."

Ian turned to look away out the window. "Jenny, I love the guy but we're not together anymore." That sentence echoed around in his brain for a moment. _What had he said?_ He tried it differently. "I have no right to hear stuff he didn't tell me himself."

Jenny shrugged, looking tired. "Maybe not. But I've got to try to do something to fix this. Because it's partly my fault."

"How can it be your fault?"

"Enabler, instigator, co-conspirator." She dropped her eyes. "I've known Chris since we were kids, and I've tried to be there for him. We've tried to be there for each other. And somehow it ended up in this mess, and I'm scared. I've never seen Chris like this."

"Like what?"

"Like quiet, empty, like there's nothing there. Chris is a drama queen. I expected him to rage and cry and...but he hasn't. He goes to bed and he gets up and he does dishes and takes out the trash. But he's not writing, and he's not eating, and I don't think he's sleeping either."

"You don't think he would...do something stupid?" Ian bit back a rush of fear. Surely that was over-dramatic, even for Chris.

"I wouldn't have thought so," Jenny said. "Chris is a survivor. That's where all the lying shit comes from, I think, just trying to survive. But now...I don't think he would commit suicide on purpose, but I'm not sure he would do anything to keep it from happening by accident. I'm one freaking inch from taking away his car keys."

"Shit." Ian sat down opposite her. It was pretty unfair. Chris blew their relationship up, and now Ian was feeling like the bad guy. "Okay, so talk to me."

Jenny nodded and sat quietly for a moment, as if planning her words. "Chris's biological mother was sixteen when he was born," she said. "She named the kid Christopher Robin, which says something. Chris doesn't know much about her, because her record is sealed, but her age was on his intake papers at age one. Along with a statement about how the little boy showed evidence of mild physical abuse and moderate neglect."

"Shit." People who hurt kids made Ian sick. He thought of Devon, with his overflowing toy boxes and a fistful of cookies. "Go on."

"Chris was adopted pretty quickly by the Fletchers. He was a pretty baby with a head of blond curls. I've seen pictures."

"Blond? But..."

"Some kids' hair gets darker as they get older. Chris's did. And the Fletchers realized that this little tanned grey-eyed blond that they thought they were getting was becoming a little hazel-eyed brunet and the tan was permanent because he wasn't the perfect little white baby they'd been looking for. So Mrs. Fletcher began dying his hair to keep it blond. Because he looked more like his father that way. More acceptable."

Jenny wet her throat with a sip of beer. "Chris has an older sister, his parents' biological child. Angela. Fair skin, blond hair, tall, pretty. But she wasn't enough for the Fletchers, because she was a girl. She would give them grandchildren, but she would never go to medical school and carry on the family name and all. That was what Chris was for. Angela's now a cardiologist, actually. And it's still not enough. You can imagine how she feels about Chris. Although he idolized her when they were small. I've sometimes wondered if not going to med school was Chris trying not to compete with the one thing Angela had done for their father."

"I'm starting not to like his parents," Ian said mildly.

"Oh, yeah," Jenny agreed. "Ford and Grace Fletcher. The great doctor and his helpmeet. The first time I met Chris was in third grade. He was hiding in the bushes outside school crying, because he got an A-minus on his science report and he was scared to bring it home to his parents."

Ian sat forward abruptly. "If they were abusing him..."

"Not physically. At least, not that he ever told me. But getting acceptance in that house was completely dependent on meeting Ford's standards. His parents' affection was completely conditional. On top of that, Grace has MS. She would get more or less sick from day to day. And it was made clear to Chris that anything that caused his mother stress or worry would make her ill. Maybe paralyze her or strike her blind temporarily. Because MS can do that. And it was always God's judgment on her children, mostly Chris, that made his mother ill."

"Fuck." He said it quietly.

"So that first time, I happened to have a set of colored pens on me, and the red one happened to match the teacher's correcting pen. And somehow, by the time we were done talking, that A-minus had become an A-plus. Chris's father was pleased. Chris's mother had a few really good days. And Chris worked his little ass off to get a hundred percent in all his other science work. So that by conference time, his overall grade was an A-plus, and that doctored assignment fell through the cracks. The teacher told Ford how much Chris loved science."

"Fuck," Ian repeated. "But you were little kids."

"Yeah, we were. And we quickly learned that while being _caught_ lying in that household was severely punished, telling the truth was punished too, if it was the wrong truth. So all through school, I helped Chris survive. He was really smart, and he got mostly good grades on his own. But when he won the essay contest and came in second in the math contest in middle school, his dad set him extra math homework, so he would do better next time."

Ian would have said fuck again, but he'd about worn it out. He just nodded.

"Chris is really sweet, and he craves approval and affection, I think because he got so little at home. It was worse in high school, because he was small and pretty, when his dad wanted a scholar-athlete. Chris went out for swimming, and he worked damned hard. He had enough success to mollify his dad, but it was never as good as being on a real team."

"And then we both began figuring out that we were gay. My folks are paragons compared to his, but we're a military family. My dad was posted around the world, while my mom stayed put to raise us kids. I have four sisters, all younger. We were raised in the tradition of service. Maybe if I'd had a brother, I don't know, but from the time I was ten I was headed for the Navy. I couldn't afford to be gay. And Chris didn't dare. So we started covering for each other, pretending to date. I didn't touch a girl until I left home. Chris went out a couple of times in senior year, but one time he came back with a bunch of bruises he gave me some bullshit story about. After that we just stuck together."

"But Chris is what, twenty-nine now?" Ian protested. He could see where this was going and okay, yes, he was understanding Chris better. But still, adults make choices.

Jenny sighed. "Yeah, he is. I'm not saying he wasn't wrong to make up stories for you. But for all his life, Chris has only had approval and affection as long as he was perfect, or could fool people into thinking he was. When he failed, he was rejected. He decided to get jobs that involved writing after college graduation, even though he'd had straight A's and aced the MCAT test. As soon as his parents found out he wasn't going to medical school they started in on him, cold and constant, about how ungrateful and worthless he was. About what he was doing to his poor mother. How he was cut off, no son of theirs, unless he was doing something they called worthwhile. Until he finally gave in and reapplied. Actually, he lasted longer than I expected."

"I don't get it." Ian got up and paced. "Why does he still listen to them? Why can't he just move on?"

Jenny shrugged. "He says he loves them. Maybe he does. Chris has a lot of love in him, and not many people to give it to. Or maybe he's still just a little boy who wants his parents' approval. I don't know. I'm just an investigator, not a shrink. But family can make you do crazy things. I know the hoops I jump through to please my own father. Haven't you done stuff you otherwise never would, because it was family?"

_Like babysitting a two-year-old?_ "Yeah, I have."

"And Chris has always been kind of shy, a loner. He hasn't had anyone else."

"Except you."

Jenny looked up at him and her eyes were a little bright. "Oh yeah, me. I was a big help. I got freaked that someone might notice me and my lover so I made Chris pretend to get engaged to me, give up normal dating, and act like a straight guy. To protect me. That was so helpful in keeping him from having to tell lies."

"He loves you. You didn't make him do it."

"No. But I'm part of the problem more than I'm part of the solution right now."

Ian nodded. "Okay. I get your point. Chris is more than just lying scum. He's a complicated guy. But what do you want me to do about it?"

Jenny stared at him. _Had she expected this sad story would make him run out and forgive Chris for everything? Because the guy had some excuses?_

"I want you to at least talk to him. Don't be the latest person to completely reject him the moment he's not perfect."

_Ouch._ What was _with_ his friends? He didn't need Chris to be perfect. He just wanted to be able to trust the guy he was sleeping with. The guy he was handing his heart to. And that couldn't happen with Chris.

"I'll call him," Ian said. "Or maybe write him a letter. I'm sorry he feels dumped but...I need to protect myself. I can't be with someone I don't trust."

Jenny stood and set her empty bottle on the counter. "Okay. I can't ask for more than that. But you might think about whether you believe Chris would ever lie to deliberately hurt you. I've known him a long time. I don't trust him to tell me the truth about where he went for dinner last night, especially if it was something I might not approve of. But I trust him to always be there for me and to step up when he has to, when it counts. I trust him to keep his promises when he makes them. I'd trust him with my life."

_But not with my heart_. Ian just nodded, and showed her the way out.

***

Chris decided he had to get out of the house. Because it had been a week now, and it was pretty pathetic for a grown man to be still hiding in his room. Life went on. Even if he couldn't write right now, he needed to get out and do something, run, swim, something. So one part of his life had fallen apart. That just meant he had to build something new.

He decided on swimming. The ocean was nearby, but he wanted laps. Good hard, don't stop, don't think, lap swimming. And that meant the pool.

His trunks were surprisingly loose on him. He turned in front of the mirror, frowning. It might be fashionable to have your waistband down around your hips, but he bet it wasn't half as cool to pants yourself bare-assed when you got out of the water. It wouldn't take much to pull these suckers off.

He tossed them back in the drawer and pulled on his Speedo. After all, he wanted to do serious swimming. He wasn't just cruising guys at the beach. He covered up with loose shorts and a baggy T-shirt. He didn't care if a man ever looked at him again.

It was sunny outside. It seemed like there should be rain. Chris gave his inner drama queen a swift smack upside the head. Because this was San Diego. Of course it was sunny. It was sunny probably three-hundred and fifty days a year. Even Chris couldn't expect his own moods to have an effect on the weather.

The pool was good. In the middle of the day, there was only one class of fat ladies prancing in the water at the shallow end. Chris had a lap lane to himself. He dove in and began working. Freestyle, breast, back, butterfly, in steady rotation. He wasn't sharp, hadn't done this in too long. His breathing got wonky, and he clipped the end of the pool with his head in the backstroke.

A strong arm caught him as he went under, choking. Chris was hauled up to the surface and pinned against the tile wall.

"Hey," the guy said. "I always figured swimming was the one sport I couldn't kill myself in. Don't prove me wrong."

"Sorry," Chris sputtered, trying to cough up half a lung and the contents of his stomach. "Fuck. Sorry. Thanks for the assist. Not paying attention."

The bigger guy smiled at him. "Now I've been paying attention to you. You've got a nice stroke. College team?"

"Just high school," Chris said.

The man let go of Chris gradually, and Chris hooked his arm over the side gutter.

"I'm Garrett," the guy said.

He had a nice smile, and decent biceps, and curly dark hair. And Chris just didn't care. He coughed again, tasting chlorine in his throat. "I'm...Robin," he said. Because Chris was dead. Chris was a failure or he was a failure at being Chris. And it didn't matter, because he'd never see this guy again. _And wasn't that exactly what you said about Ian?_ "Christopher Robin," he corrected. "No jokes. And I think I'm done for today."

Chris hauled himself up out of the water and headed for the locker room. He could almost feel the other man's appreciative stare on his ass as he walked away. He figured the guy was thinking, _what an airhead, total twinkie, but the back view is nice_. Chris thought that was a pretty fair assessment right now. His head throbbed dully.

He wasn't ready to go back home. He paid twelve dollars for good coffee and an inedible sandwich at a place with a patio, and then lingered into the afternoon as the shade crept across the stone tiles, watching people. A writer needs to watch people, to listen to snatches of conversation. He builds characters from the fragments of life going by. From wondering why that girl ran almost a block after her friend as she was leaving the restaurant, and gave her a plastic fork. Or how that guy ended up at a table with two severe-looking women the age of his mother both glaring at him.

Today, Chris's mind was not eager to do the work. He drifted off on tangents, circling round the topics of truth and Ian and consequences. The question of when a white lie like _'those pants do not make your ass look fat'_ becomes a sin big enough to break people apart. The fruitless wonder about when he could have changed the path of this train wreck. Would he have had to tell the truth the first time? Nothing but the truth? Or could he have just avoided the topic with that old standard, _I don't like to talk about it?_ But then what would Robin... _he_ have talked about? Ian would never have opened up without Robin's flood of personal anecdotes to nudge him along.

Maybe that was why Ian was so angry. He felt tricked. So could Chris have confessed even later? Would Ian have forgiven him if that little imagined scene by the poolside had taken place in the truck and not just in his head? Wouldn't that just have broken them up a week sooner? But when would have been still okay?

Resolutely, he yanked his attention back to the present. There were no answers, except that _Now_ was clearly too late, and there was no going back. He set himself the puzzle of why a plastic fork could be vital enough to chase somebody down so they didn't forget it. He could do this. If he couldn't put words on paper, and just now he'd found that he couldn't, then he would write them in his head. This was what he did, what he was. Every other part of his life might be fucked to hell, but he was a published working writer, and nothing was going to take that away.

It was edging toward evening when he let himself get up. He glanced at his watch. Jenny wouldn't be home for another couple of hours. He could start something for dinner. He'd been drifting, letting her do more than her share this past week, catering to him and his moods. That had to stop. _Enough feeling sorry for yourself._ He could make her something nice, in place of the apology that was never going to quite cross his lips.

Except, now that he thought about it, maybe she was going out with Becca tonight. She'd mentioned something yesterday, but Chris hadn't been paying proper attention. And he'd avoided her this morning, for fear that she was getting peeved enough to pin him down and force a waffle down his throat. He smiled just a little at the image. His friend Jenny. And she could do it too. She was tough. Always on his side since day one. Crouching there in the bushes, conspiracy with a red pen. And twenty years later she was still here for him. Really, he was lucky.

He decided to chop up some veggies for stir fry and wait until she came in. If she wanted to eat, stir-fried beef with pea pods took less than ten minutes. If she was going out, the veggies would keep until tomorrow. He was pleased with his can-do attitude, until he walked in the front door.

Something was off. At first it was just a subliminal feeling, like a faint scent in the air. Something was different. He called, "Jenny? Becca?" and then in sudden unquenchable hope, "Ian?" But there was no answer.

It was the crunch of glass underfoot that caught his attention for real. He glanced down. He'd stepped on thin shards of clear glass, like a window. Or a picture frame. He glanced around the entry, and then walked cautiously forward, placing his feet to avoid the sharp glitter.

In the living room, every photograph in the house had been piled in a heap, frames broken and twisted. _No way that was Jenny's doing, or even Becca's_. Ears straining for the slightest sound, he crept forward and around to the stairs. There was more glass on the treads. He checked the bedrooms, the bathrooms, and back down through the kitchen, finding the place deserted, before his brain caught up with his feet.

_What the fuck are you doing?_ Somehow the voice in his brain had Ian's tones _. If you think someone has been in the house, get out and call the cops._ Was that something Ian had told him, or did he just have those command tones down pat? Did it matter?

He turned toward the phone, and then caught sight of a piece of paper fluttering on top of the pile of glass. He crept closer to look. On close inspection, all the photos in the pile had Jenny's face in them. Jenny alone, with him, with Becca, with her parents and sisters. In each case, the face part of Jenny had been obliterated by sharp slashing cuts. In one photo, Jenny's sister's graduation picture, the eyes of every woman in the photo had been blackened and gouged with a pen into black staring holes. Jenny's paper cheeks hung in ribbons.

The fluttering paper was pinned to one of the framed pictures with a spear of broken glass. The block letters were easy to read, even from a distance. "YOU'VE HAD ENOUGH TIME. MEET ME, NOW, ALONE, AND MAYBE YOUR LYING GIRLFRIEND WILL GET TO KEEP HER PRETTY FACE INTACT." Below that, an unfamiliar address was printed in smaller letters.

For a moment Chris froze, unbelieving. All that time, he'd though his stalker had gone away. And now... He read the note again. If you were a pessimist, if your life had a tendency to go to shit like Chris's did, you could read that as a kidnap demand.

Chris fumbled open his phone. Jenny's line went straight to voicemail. Which meant nothing. She turned it off in meetings, and when she was driving. He left a quick "Call me now" message, took a breath and dialed her office. He never called her at work. He'd been careful to stay on the good side of everyone she worked with. So when he said it was an emergency, the ensign who answered the phone agreed to go check Jenny's office.

"It's all closed up," he reported when he got back to the phone. "I opened the door. Her stuff is all put away and her bag is gone. Looks like she was done for the day. Do you want to leave a message?"

"No," Chris said slowly. "Thank you."

He dialed Becca. Voicemail. "It's important," he said. "Call me."

He closed the phone and held it, staring at the heap of ruined paper. He could call the cops. There was no clichéd _'call the cops and she dies'_ kind of threat. Except maybe it was implied. "MEET ME NOW." What did NOW mean? If this mess was done when he first left the house, this maniac might have been holding Jenny for hours. Chris decided he couldn't take the chance.

But he also was a writer. He hated books where the characters just headed off into danger without telling anyone or leaving any clues, to get themselves murdered in gruesome ways it took the cops chapters to figure out. The note photographed well. The address was clear enough.

He texted the photo to Jenny's phone with a quick note. "Our living room. Headed to addy to save yr ass. Call me if yr safe." After a moment's thought, he sent the same information to Becca. She was a big girl; she would handle it. After another long moment's thought he _didn't_ send it to Ian. Ian would be ideal to have at his side. But he wasn't Ian's responsibility any more. And if the man didn't just flush Chris's texts unread, then he would come and try to help.

Becca, or Jenny if she was safe - _and please God let her be safe_ \- would take the information to the cops, and see it was handled right. But Ian would jump right into the mess himself. Chris was certain of that. And Chris wasn't taking a chance on Ian's safety, even for Jenny. So he couldn't call the man. However much he wanted to.

He left the original note in place, for whatever clues it might yield. He'd call the police himself later. When he knew it wouldn't endanger Jenny.

He pulled jeans on over his Speedo quickly. Jenny had a gun, but she took it to work with her. Just in case, he checked, but the gun safe was empty. He pocketed a Swiss army knife, a pen and pad, a flashlight. _What do you take to go get murdered?_ Although his secret admirer seemed to reserve most of his hatred for Jenny. Chris's own face in the pictures had been unmarked.

Chris dithered a moment longer. Then he grabbed a roll of duct tape out of the drawer and stuffed it in a jacket pocket. No more prep time. If the stalker had watched him come home, then Chris didn't want to risk looking like he wasn't following directions. He got into his car, and pulled up Google maps on his phone. The address was south and east of the city. The more he waited, the worse traffic was going to get. At least he was already on the south side. He took a deep breath and pulled out onto the road.

***

Ian stared blankly at the white fake-wood panels of the door that had just slammed in his face. _Thanks, lady._ He was used to being turned down. They didn't refer to them as cold calls for the warm reception. But usually people waited until he stepped back before trying to take off his nose with their door.

He shrugged it off, and headed back to his truck. Another hour and he would call it quits. He didn't really need to line up more jobs right now. He'd been hitting the sales trail heavily, and for some reason his success rate was high lately. They had three weeks' worth of work lined up.

Before getting in his truck, he shrugged out of his jacket. There was enough of a breeze to make the evening cool, but his truck cab had caught the late sun and was still warm. He slid into his seat, and noticed his phone still connected to the car-charger. _Oops._ He unplugged the thing, and checked it out of habit. To his surprise there was a missed call. A number he had just captured recently. _Jenny._

Ian considered for a moment, his hand on the ignition key. He was in no mood to be preached to again. Since he hadn't actually picked up the call, he could pretend he hadn't seen it. Drive home, open up a brew, and then listen to his voice mail. But there was that slippery slope thing that had kept creeping into his mind, ever since he broke up with Chris. If he was going to keep the moral high ground, he had to deserve it.

He flipped open the phone and dialed call-back. Skip the voice mail. Go straight to the source.

"Ian." Jenny's voice was very tense. "Did you get my message? Where are you?"

"Eastlake," Ian replied. "And no, I just called you back."

"Shit," Jenny said. "Look, I'm going to forward Chris's text to your phone. Look at it and then call me back."

_Say what?_ Ian felt a wash of ice in his belly. Chris's text? An accident? A suicide note? His phone was taking forever to chime. Jenny was a cool-headed lady; she wouldn't sound like that over nothing.

His phone signaled the incoming message. Ian read the text and then clicked on the picture. _What the hell!_ His phone didn't zoom. He squinted to make out the details in the photo. The message was clear, the address below a blur. Chris's text made a lot more sense with the illustration. In the _Aha, I get it_ sense, although not in the _what the fuck does the guy think he's doing_ kind of sense.

Ian redialed Jenny. "Have you called him?"

"Of course," she snapped. "Voicemail. His phone is off. I've left enough messages, you don't need to bother. From the time on this text, he could already be there. I was driving, and not looking at my phone, when he sent it. Becca and I were heading to San Bernadino for a wedding. We've turned around, but we're way more than an hour behind him. You're closer."

"I can't make out the address," Ian said, flipping a job order form over and clicking his pen. "Can you read it?"

Jenny read off the information.

Ian knew that area fairly well. He occasionally got jobs out that far. "That's pretty rural. Nothing out that way but ranches and farms. Did you look up the owner of record on the property?" He put the truck in gear and pulled out, phone still pressed to his ear.

"Got someone working on it," Jenny told him. "Ownership is corporate, something called Pan Products. I've got a guy who owes me a favor tracking down the company officers and what the company does, since that name is no help."

"I'm pulling onto the highway now, " Ian told her. "Heading south. What the hell was Chris thinking to just drive down there with no cops and no back-up. He could have at least called me."

"From his text, I gather he thought I might be a hostage," Jenny said in his ear. "And I think you know why he didn't call you."

_Because I basically kicked him away and told him he was on his own_. Ian frowned. Surely Chris would know that Ian would help him in an emergency, no matter what was going on between them. But maybe he didn't. When his parents disapproved of him, they'd cut him off cold. Sink or swim. Maybe Chris thought Ian didn't care what happened to him. _Damned fool._ Ian pulled out around a slow-moving SUV, and kicked it up a notch. He could set Chris straight as soon as he found the guy.

"Where do we stand with the cops?" he asked Jenny.

"I called in a burglary at my place to the police," she said. "They'll check out the house, eventually. But if Chris locked up after himself, there's no one there to let them in. I tried to explain that this might be a dangerous situation, but they sounded reluctant to kick in the door to inspect some minor vandalism."

"What about back-up for Chris?" Ian flicked his eye down to the speedometer. He was doing seventy, which was all the traffic would allow, and maybe a little more. Shit! He slammed the truck over onto the shoulder as the cars ahead began stacking up. The next exit loomed ahead, and he cut up alongside on the shoulder and pulled off the locked-down freeway. He knew some of these back roads, and forty was better than gridlock.

"I tried," Jenny said. "I called the local sheriff's department for that address and gave them the full story first, which was a mistake. The guy heard stalker and threatening notes, and began trying to soothe the hysterical lady. Then I called back with a report of screaming at that address, and I got the same fucking guy. He threatened to arrest me for filing a false report. I told him I was a Navy investigator, and he laughed. I'm going to have his head on a platter. I put a call in to Markham, to back up my authority down there. But the bastard didn't answer his pager yet. He's probably out brushing up on his golf game."

"Give me the sheriff's number," Ian said, fumbling for a pen without looking at it. Driving this fast on the back roads was taking almost all his concentration, but he could still multitask. Jenny rattled off a series of numbers and he wrote blindly. "I'll call it in as something different," he said. "Do you think Chris has a weapon with him?"

"I doubt it," Jenny told him. "Maybe a knife. Certainly not a gun; I've got mine with me. But Chris would be better off without either. He knows basic gun safety, but that's about it. He's no fighter."

"No kidding." Which made back-up essential. "Let me call that sheriff." Ian hung up on Jenny, and propped the paper with his scrawled numbers up on the dash. He tried to drive, read and dial. Would have worked better if he could have dialed by touch, but he wasn't that in tune with his phone. It took a couple of tries, and one near collision, before he had it right.

"County Sheriff. Can I help you?" The man's voice was a lazy drawl.

"I saw something weird at this place I was driving past," Ian said. "Maybe somebody who was hurt, and I thought one guy had a gun. Are you cops already on your way there?"

"Where?"

At least he sounded a little more awake. Ian told him the address.

"That one?" The man's voice became suspicious. "Not yet. Who are you?"

Ian gave his full name, and claimed to have just driven past the address. "There's something going on there, man. You need to send somebody."

"We'll look into it, sir," the dispatcher said calmingly. "You just leave it to us."

Ian shut the phone and cursed. Not reassuring. He dropped the phone on the seat to tend to some two-handed driving. He was getting close.

The road wound tightly through stands of thin trees whose dry leaves screened the view. Ian slowed down, and then rolled onto the verge. He checked the GPS on his phone. One more mile. He grabbed his cell.

Jenny answered her phone immediately. "Ian. Where are you?"

"I'm close," he said. "I called the sheriff, and they sort of listened, but I didn't get the impression they were sending a car with sirens blaring just on my say so, even when I said there might be a gun. I'm going to move in now. I want to leave my phone turned on in my pocket, so you can listen in."

"No, wait," Jenny said. "You're a civilian, and you're not armed, are you?"

"No."

"So if Chris isn't in trouble, you can afford to wait for the sheriff. And if he is in trouble, you should still wait for someone armed."

"To hell with that. This is Chris. I'm just going to wander down there, like I'm lost or something. See what's going on."

"There's a good chance this stalker knows who you are," Jenny argued. "He won't be fooled into thinking you just randomly appeared. He'll know Chris told us where to go. You might get both of you killed."

"I can't just stand around," Ian said. "I may be a civilian, but I know what I'm doing." He pulled back out onto the road. "I'm going to turn off the speaker on my phone and put it in my pocket. So I can't hear you, but you'll hear me. Going dark now." He clicked the controls. He thought he heard Jenny's voice say his name, before the sound shut off. He slid the open phone into his shirt pocket. Jenny was going to get an earful of his heartbeat. Couldn't be helped.

He stopped one house down from the target and pulled his truck over under the trees. He got out and left it standing with the hood propped up, like it had broken down. He loosened a spark plug wire. Quick to fix, but it would keep the truck where it was and give him an excuse for stopping.

He made his way through the trees toward his target. It was a big ramshackle ranch house. The siding was faded and the roof sagged. Chris's car was parked out front, empty. Ian crept up to it, keeping the car between himself and the house. He put a hand near the tailpipe. _Still hot._

He couldn't be much behind Chris. Although if this had gone bad, a second behind could be too long. He slid in close to the house below the height of the windows. No one noticed. There was no sound. He eased up to look in a window. The side room was empty. A second and a third room also proved deserted. When Ian slithered up onto the front porch and peered in the sidelight beside the door, he saw why.

On the drywall, facing the entry, in black marker, large, even letters said BARN with an arrow toward the back of the house. Mentally, Ian cursed the time wasted, even as he opened the door and did a quick run-through of the house. It was as deserted as it looked. Which was what he'd expected. Stalking wasn't a group activity. But he wanted to be sure he wasn't leaving any enemies at his back. His father had been fond of the _assume_ and _ass_ thing.

The barn was a hundred yards away, down the slope behind the house. It stood out in the open. Near one end, an old-fashioned windmill caught the breeze. Its sails spun lazily, working a pump with a grinding rasp of poorly lubed machinery. The noise would cover Ian's approach. At the same time, it unfortunately would keep him from hearing anything happening inside the barn. Couldn't be helped.

Ian debated a belly crawl versus a direct approach. The lack of cover decided him. He had no hope of staying out of sight, and a man crawling down a hillside is just plain suspicious. Whistling silently to himself, he started down the hill at an easy pace. No shots rang out. No one shouted at him to stop.

He angled his approach to come past the base of the windmill. The scrubby brush was much thicker there. As he passed around the nearest leg, he dropped down into the brambles. Still no reaction from the barn. He crawled now, using every inch of cover, until he reached the peeling wooden wall. The boards weren't weather-tight. He could only see darkness, but pressing his ear to the crack he could hear a voice. He caught only the pitch and rhythm, not the words. But he knew it was Chris.

Something inside Ian relaxed just a fraction. He reined it in. _Not out of the woods yet_. But the depth of his relief told him just how afraid he had been that he was too late.

Most barns had multiple doors, a loft door as well as the front large ones, and a couple of human-sized entrances. But if Ian was running this abduction or whatever it was, he'd have blocked or alarmed the extra doors. He decided to play it safe. A barn like this was hardly a fortress. Down the side of the building, a row of small grimy windows stood in various states of repair. Ian chose one, and rose up to look in carefully. Inside, a musty deserted stall gave no view out into the main floor. Just as well.

Ian pulled out his pocket knife. The crumbling caulk around the remnants of the glass gave easily under his blade. He lifted each one out silently and set it in the grass. It was the work of half a minute to clear the frame. Then Ian hoisted himself up and through the narrow opening. His shoulders were a tight fit. He felt the shirt rip across his back as it snagged on some splinter. The he was in and he lowered himself to the floor.

The noise of the windmill was almost as loud inside as out, but Ian could hear Chris's voice. He moved noiselessly to the open door of the stall and looked out. Sure enough, there was Chris standing in the center of the barn floor. _Alive, unhurt, damn him to hell._

The figure facing him was dressed in dark sweats and holding a gun. But Ian hesitated, in the surprised realization that the stalker was a woman. Which made her jealousy of Jenny even more reasonable. And shame on Ian for not allowing for the possibility, when he'd spent his life surrounded by competent women. Still, he wouldn't need a close-work weapon. He pocketed the knife and listened.

Chris was saying, "Just tell me where Jenny is. No one needs to get hurt, I promise. As long as Jenny is okay, I'll do anything you ask."

"No you won't." The woman's back was to Ian, but he could hear the scorn in her voice. "You're still with her. I told you that you belong with me. Even Grant told you. But you wouldn't listen."

"Grant is a fictional character," Chris said gently. Ian was impressed by the steadiness of the man's voice, with that gun barrel pointing at him. "I'm real, you're real, but Grant isn't."

"How can you say that?" the woman demanded. "I've seen him, ghosting out of your place, for weeks now. I've heard him. You described him so well, and me, you knew me. You wrote about me, you even used my name. Miranda, you called me Miranda. And then when you came to New York, you were so nice to me. I knew we belonged together. Grant says so. It's just her keeping us apart. Once I get rid of her, then everything will be perfect."

"Put down the gun," Chris said. "I can't be with you if you have a gun. Put down the gun and tell me where Jenny is, and we'll have all the time in the world to figure this out."

The woman looked at Chris. Ian kept his attention focused on her gun hand. He could get a jump on her and take her out. It would be easy. But not until her aim shifted. Not as long as the smallest twitch of her hand could put a bullet into Chris.

"This isn't how it's supposed to go," the woman said, almost plaintively. "Don't you recognize this place? This is where we first met. The barn, where the man was killed. I searched and searched for the windmill, until I found it. I knew you would meet me here again."

"Um, I've never been here before," Chris said. "I don't know what you want."

"You and me, Ben. Like it was before. Like it's supposed to be. Like you wrote it for me, my name, my hair, everything. Like you knew me before we ever met."

_Okay,_ Ian thought, _Looney Tunes time_. It didn't make him less worried. He edged forward a little more, counting on the windmill noise to cover his movements. He straightened up slowly, willing Chris to look over the woman's shoulder and see him. He wanted Chris to know he was there, and be ready for Ian to make a move. He trusted Chris not to give him away. The man was cool under stress. Ian knew that from the plane wreck. He wanted Chris to know he wasn't in this alone.

"I'm not Ben," Chris said, although Ian could hear the hesitation in his voice. Chris obviously realized he was walking in a minefield here. It might be safer to pretend to be Ben. "Your name may be Miranda, but I didn't know you when I wrote about the character. I'm just Christopher, a writer. I'm not who you're imagining."

"Yes, you are," she insisted. "I knew it the first time I read your book. I was supposed to correct the typos, but there weren't many. And I knew you had written it just for me, so we could be together."

"And we can talk about that," Chris offered. "I can tell you about the next book. Ben and Miranda go on a real date in chapter two. If you just tell me where Jenny is, I'll spend as much time as you like talking with you."

"You won't," the woman said. "I'm not crazy. I know you'll only listen as long as I have this thing in my hand. You'll only be mine as long as I have a gun."

Ian slid just a little closer again and finally Chris's gaze shifted from that gun barrel. He spotted Ian in the shadows. Ian was sure of it. But the only sign was a slight widening of those grey eyes, before he returned his attention to the woman.

"But Grant doesn't like guns," Chris said softly. "They make him crazy, you know. As long as you have a gun, Grant won't come here. Put the gun down, and Grant will come and I'll ask him what we should do. Will you do that for me?"

The pistol in the woman's hand moved slightly. _Come on. Another six inches_. As soon as she dropped her hand, Ian would have her. The clanking outside noise covered his footsteps as he moved another three feet closer, focused on her. He tensed, ready.

And was caught completely unprepared by the crack of the gunshot. A mist of blood sprayed though the air. The woman's head exploded in a bloody mess, and she dropped to the dusty floor.

Ian dove for Chris, sending them both rolling, before the echo had died. _Who? Where? That fucking deputy?_

But the men who appeared in the open barn doors didn't wear the uniform of any law enforcement. Ian kept the roll going, dragging Chris toward the shelter of the first stall. The other man was slow under his hands, uncomprehending. A shot grooved the old wood floor next to Ian's hand. "Don't try it."

Ian froze. His body was between Chris and these newcomers, but the heavy caliber weapons they carried would punch right through him.

"Get up and turn around."

Ian disentangled himself from Chris as they complied. He kept his shoulder in front of Chris's, managing half a shield for the other man. It wouldn't help, but it was all he could do.

"Jesus, you didn't have to kill her," Chris said angrily. Ian could tell from his open body language that he hadn't yet twigged that whoever this was, they were not the cavalry.

"Shut up." A wave of the man's SIG punctuated the order.

Chris froze, his body tightening on an intake of breath. Ian bumped back with his hip a little, in warning and reassurance.

The two men in the doorway separated to admit a third. This guy was older, perhaps in his fifties, with carefully groomed grey hair, and a slight paunch. He wore glasses, and carried no weapon of his own, but the other two seemed deferential.

"So," he said. "Two for the price of one. We've been looking for you two."

"Who are you?" Chris blurted out. Ian bumped back again, harder, willing Chris to keep his mouth shut.

The man shrugged. "The boss has been searching for something valuable and he's not having much luck. So he's decided he wants to talk to you two about it."

"What boss?"

But the older man just smiled. "You don't need to know that."

Ian flashed on the FBI agent. _'You're safer not knowing.' Shit._ His mind raced in sudden speculation.

Before any of them could speak, a fourth young man in tight jeans skidded into the doorway. "Sorry, boss," he said breathlessly, "But I heard on the scanner. Sheriff is sending a car down this way. Doesn't sound like they know anything, but he'll be here soon."

"Damn," the older man said mildly. "All right. We'll bring these two along. Get the car down here."

The jeans-clad man disappeared. One of the two muscle-types holstered his pistol and walked toward Ian and Chris. "Hands on your heads," he said. The other man shifted around a little to keep his own gun trained on Chris. Ian thought wildly. If he were alone, he might tackle the guy when he got close. His pal would hesitate to shoot when he might hit the wrong man. But Chris was frozen, wide-eyed and unready. He couldn't be counted on to get himself clear. Slowly Ian raised his hands. Behind him, he felt more than saw Chris do the same.

The closer man reached Ian and gave him a thorough pat-down. He found the knife first, and then the open phone. He tossed the phone on the ground and trashed it with his heel. "That was on, boss," he said. "We may have company soon."

"Then let's move."

The man with the gun gestured toward the body on the floor. "What about her?"

"Leave her. We'll ditch the gun later."

The closer man knelt and finished a quick run down Ian's legs. He slid a finger in the tops of Ian's boots, but didn't make him remove them. Ian didn't let his face change as the man straightened. "No gun," he told his boss.

The grey-haired man nodded and headed out the door. Ian's wrists were grabbed, yanked down and cuffed behind his back. He allowed himself a moment's satisfaction for the aborted search. His father would have had his head if he hadn't had a few back-up items, better hidden. If he got time to use them.

The man shoved Ian one step toward the door, and then moved to yank Chris's jacket off. Without it, Chris looked small and really thin, in jeans and a scruffy T-shirt. Had he lost weight? The man gave Chris a fast rough search, running hands up his legs and into his crotch. He did something, and Chris grunted in pain. Ian was practically vibrating with the desire to yank Chris away and shove the guy's nose up into his brain. One kick. He could have done it. But the other man with the gun was still watching alertly. The casual but steady way he held the weapon suggested competence. So did that bulls-eye on the dead woman's forehead. Ian breathed deeply and stood still.

Chris's search was completed and then the closer man grabbed them each by the arm, hustling them toward the door. Ian jerked back, resisting. The time to abort a snatch is at the beginning. His captors would hesitate to shoot him, certain that they had him controlled and unwilling to lose their prize. If he could slow them down enough, help would arrive. The sound of the shots over the phone had to have lit a fire under Jenny.

He pulled hard enough to break free and get the other man off balance. But instead of coming after him, the man turned on Chris and struck sharply. Chris crumpled toward the ground, and the man hauled him up easily over one shoulder. He looked at Ian. "We don't really need both of you. That's just gravy. I can take him and my friend will shoot you. Or you can come along quietly now. Your choice."

Ian dropped his eyes in surrender. Clearly these men had recognized his competence just as he had recognized theirs. And they'd found his weak spot. He followed the man with Chris on his shoulder docilely out the door. The guy with the gun trailed behind.

The car that stood running in the barnyard was a big BMW. The youngest man sat in the driver's seat, revving the motor a little. The boss stood holding the handle of the passenger side door. The first gunman approached, and then hesitated.

"Not enough seats, boss. Where do you want these guys?"

"Little guy in the back," he snapped. "Big guy in the trunk. Move."

Ian let them hustle him toward the trunk, twisting around to watch as Chris was tossed into the back seat and shoved toward the driver's side against the door. He thought Chris moved a little, maybe coming around. The first man was getting in after him, pushing him over. _Driver's side._ He fixed Chris's position in his mind.

The trunk was tight and dark as the lid slammed down. That was okay. Ian was better off here out of sight, than inside the car. Here he'd have options. He wasn't claustrophobic. At least not unless the tight space was sinking under water. For just a moment, the memory of being pinned in a small cabin as the water rushed in did make him gasp. He controlled himself immediately. This time was nothing like that time. He made himself breathe, and listen, and think.

Chapter 11

Ian waited as the car jostled its way up the rutted drive and turned onto a smoother surface. He stained his ears, but didn't hear any approaching sirens. The car rolled steady onward. This didn't feel like a pursuit. If help was coming, it was going to be too late.

Ian twisted around until he could get a hand to his boot heel. For the first time, he felt an appreciation for his father's practice of tying the kids up in a closet, with a twenty dollar bill outside the locked door if they made it out before he came back. At the time it had seemed like a sadistic way to make your kids earn their allowance. But now he would take every ounce of that hard-won competence. _Thanks, Dad._

His lock picks were in a cavity in the hard rubber heel of his boot. Ian slid one free, and worked it around to the lock on the cuffs. He hated this. His fingers didn't like to bend that way. Anne could pick her cuffs almost as fast as their dad could lock them, but Ian was better with ropes and...he let the thought trail off as he caught the wards just right and popped the fucking thing open. The other hand was easy in front of him, even in the dark. Lock-picking was almost easier in the dark anyway. It was all about feel.

He explored the area of the trunk release with his fingers. In a new car, there should have been a light, and a handle. If the lock had been carefully disconnected inside, he might have a problem. Luckily, these bastards had taken the easy route of breaking the handle off. He couldn't reach the mechanism with his fingers, but he probably had a probe that could.

Ian messed around with it longer than he liked, but finally found a way to push up and in, and feel the lock begin to give. _Okay, like that._ He eased off before the thing fully released, and felt the pressure as the latch slid back into place. Just for practice, he did it again a few times, until he could find the right spot in his sleep.

It was tempting to pop the thing and run as soon as he felt the car slow for a curve. He knew how to fall and roll. But Chris was inside the car. And as long as Chris was there these bastards didn't need cuffs or a steel trunk to hold Ian. He braced himself more comfortably and settled in to think and wait.

Trying to run was risky. Trying to grab Chris and _then_ run was even riskier. If this really had been some freak like that woman who was obsessed with Chris, or even a kidnapping for ransom...but it wasn't. Either of those would have started with Ian dead on the barn floor. He'd have just been in the way. So the fact that they'd brought him along came back to the same conclusion: these guys moved like pros because they worked for "one of the biggest crime figures in L.A." and they had a few questions.

Odds were they wouldn't ask them as nicely as the FBI had. And they probably wouldn't take "I don't know" for the truth until they had made very sure he and Chris weren't holding out on them. Ian had no illusions. Most men can be broken, usually quite quickly if you're willing to do damage. Hold a knife up to one of Chris's pretty grey eyes, and both of them would spill anything they knew.

Hell, Ian was no hero. Put a knife to his own eye and he'd probably sing. Or maybe not. Because while no names had been said, these men had made no effort to hide their faces. He and Chris were unlikely to survive beyond answering those questions. Which put the risk of running into perspective. Crappy chance or not, they had to try.

Ian put himself into the zone. Deep breathing, slow and steady. Changing position every few minutes so he didn't stiffen up. He held the metal probe lightly, ready, no cramping of his fingers. Whenever the car sped up he flexed and rotated his wrists, staying loose. And he waited for his moment.

Adrenaline surged and retreated, as the fucking car slowed, and sped up again. Ian was doing his best, but his zone had a pretty ragged edge. Because Chris's life was riding on this. Ian could wager himself on his skills without question. He'd done a few extreme sports in his day, riding the brink of disaster for the pure excitement of it. But this time if he failed, there would be a world with no Christopher Robin in it. And that was too hard to think about.

He might not trust Chris, might not believe him enough to want to stay with him. But the world needed to have that sunny smile, that golden skin, those expressive grey eyes in it somewhere. Without Chris, it would be a cold bleak place, stretching out infinitely. Chris's quick mind, his easy words, his skillful hands, kept the darkness at bay.

_Shit._ Ian's hands were cramping around the probe after all. His father would disown him. Ian moved the slim strip of metal to his left hand for a moment and made a fist. _Shit._ He opened his fingers, deliberately, and took back the probe. The zone. He could do this.

It had been more than an hour, but less than two, when Ian felt the car finally come to a stop. There was no clear sound outside the trunk to tell him where they were. _Stoplight? Gas station? Final destination?_ That last thought decided him. If he passed on this chance, there might not be another. Then he was galvanized by the slight shift of the car dropping into park. And the click of automatic locks opening in response. _Go, go, go._

Press, twist, and the trunk unlatched. He heaved it upward, scrambling. Too many people in the car, too many mirrors to risk a slow approach. He rolled out of the trunk on the driver's side, staying low. Three crouching steps to the back door, a yank, and he was dragging a startled Chris out onto the ground. He slammed the door in the glaring face of the middle thug, and shoved Chris ahead of him, glancing around as they ran. He'd hoped for a busy intersection, or a well-used gas station. Lots of witnesses.

What he got was a small country filling station. Two pumps, crumbling asphalt giving way to gravel, maybe one attendant looking out the window, and no other cars. Ian yanked Chris around the corner of the building instead of heading in the door. That place was a trap. These men had shot Chris's stalker without a second thought. One lone pump jockey wouldn't faze them for a minute.

The area behind the station was scrub brush, high enough to provide cover. He picked a route, toward taller trees and some small sharp hills, and shoved Chris that way. "Run," he growled.

Chris said, "But the station..." but at least he was running as he said it.

"No good," Ian snapped. "Later. Move it. Stay low."

There had been no shots so far. Maybe whoever was in the building as a witness had made the thugs hold back just enough. Or maybe they really wanted him and Chris alive. But the gunmen would certainly be pursuing them. Everything else aside, they were now witnesses to murder and kidnapping. The men couldn't let them get away.

"Stay in the deepest brush," he grunted to Chris. "Find rough ground they can't drive over. Stay low." He kept himself between Chris and the pursuit, his ears straining backward for clues.

Chris hurdled a gully and ducked around a spindly poplar, heading uphill. Ian kept pace easily, but Chris was moving at a good clip. A bonus of the gay exercise fetish. If you had to run for your life, your fag boyfriend might be able to keep up with you.

As Chris skidded over the crest of the little rise, Ian risked a glance back. He thought there was just one man coming behind them in the trees, although he and Chris were clearly faster. The car was already heading down the road, a settling cloud of dust in the parking area silent witness to how fast it had left.

Still no shots. Ian blessed every one of the scrawny bushes and trees that shielded them. As they plunged down the other side of the rise, they passed out of direct line of sight. And shot. Ian's shoulders crawled down from around his ears a little. He put on a burst of speed to come up beside Chris, scanning around them as he ran. "That way."

Ian wanted the deep cover, and a change of direction. They had a fair chance of outrunning the man behind them, but that car was still out there somewhere. And there might be reinforcements coming. He didn't want to head in a straight line.

They battled their way through a thicket. Ian forged ahead, forcing the whippy twigs to give way to his body. He grabbed Chris's wrist to haul the man close behind. Chris grunted as a branch snapped over Ian's shoulder and struck him, but he made no complaint. Ian ran on. He had heard the sound of their pursuit as the heavier man behind them crested the ridge. Now the sounds had faded.

After ten minutes he let himself slow to a brisk walk. Chris's breath was coming in hoarse gasps and he actually paused for a moment, leaning over with his hands on his knees. Ian went back to haul him upright.

"Don't bend over. Keep moving." He was gratified when Chris did as he was told. Still no sound from behind them.

"Do you think we lost them?" Chris asked when he could get the words out.

"Maybe. Temporarily. I wish I knew where the hell we are." Ian looked around. Scruffy woods, dry grass, twig-like bushes already losing some leaves. No clue. "Were you watching as they drove?"

"They had me shoved down out of sight," Chris said. "I can tell you how many underpasses we went through."

"Mm." Ian turned again, heading toward the setting sun. In California, west meant civilization. East meant mountains and deserts. At least on a macro scale. But he had nothing better to go on. "Could you see the sun out of the car?" he asked. "It's late enough to be a good indicator of west. Which way did we drive?"

Chris thought for a minute. "East and maybe north. I think."

Not a surprise. Not many other directions you can drive two hours from San Diego. "I don't suppose they left you your cell phone."

"It was in the jacket." Chris's voice became a little embarrassed. "Wouldn't have helped much. I'd forgotten to charge it and it went dead."

Ah. Ian nodded. "So you never got Jenny's messages."

Chris stopped short and whirled to grab Ian's shirt. "What fucking messages?"

"She's fine." Ian flashed back to the barn, and realized Chris didn't know that. All that time in the car, he must have been worrying about Jenny, kidnapped by a dead madwoman, maybe tied up somewhere they would now never be able to find. "She's with Becca," he said quickly, putting a hand over Chris's fist. "That woman never had her." He eased Chris's grip off his collar. "Come on, keep moving."

***

Chris staggered a couple of steps, following Ian's easy stride. _Jenny was safe._ It was an unbelievable relief, his prayers answered. He'd spent his time smooshed down in that back seat praying. You can kick the boy out of the church, but in extremity you can't take the church out of the boy.

Not that God had ever listened to him before. It mostly went the other way. _Behave and you go to Heaven, screw up and your mother gets zapped._ Still he'd offered to accept anything, everything, for himself if God would keep Jenny and Ian safe. Chris didn't matter. Just save Jenny and Ian. And now they all had a chance. And Jenny at least was truly safe.

He suddenly jogged two steps and slammed a fist on Ian's back. "Why the fuck did you wait fifteen minutes to tell me that, you bastard?"

Ian whirled, grabbing Chris's wrists in both hands. For a second their eyes met in electric connection. Then Ian let him go, and ran a finger over Chris's cheek where Chris could feel a bruise forming. "Forgot you didn't know," Ian said simply. "Ah, shit." He put his hand behind Chris's head and kissed him, fast and deep and over in a second. "Come on," he said. "Let's pick up the pace again."

Chris's legs were burning, his head throbbed, and he still felt like someone had poured hot acid down his lungs. But he took up a jog again without comment.

He wanted to stop. He wanted to ask how Ian had found him, why he had turned up at the critical moment, what the hell Ian thought was going on. Chris's head was still reeling, and somehow he wasn't making the connections. Another kiss might help. He sighed and tried to keep up.

Ahead of him, Ian came to a sudden halt and Chris ran into the man's hard shoulder. Ian's hand on his arm steadied him absently. "Damn." Ian said.

The patch of woods they had been moving through had crested out on a hilltop. Down the other side the land lay open and brown. Sparse bushes framed wide open spaces, dotted with sage. A wire fence ran along a deserted dirt road perhaps half a mile away.

"Should we try for the road?" Chris asked. "There have to be other people out here somewhere."

"Too risky. Too open. Those guys have at least one car."

Chris nodded. "Then where? Who the hell are those guys?"

Ian glanced at him. "I'm not certain but remember the FBI?"

It took a second to click for Chris. "Oh. Wilson. Okay, that makes some kind of sense."

"We saw four guys, but there may be more," Ian told him. "We need to keep out of sight until we find a car or a phone, something."

"Lead on, McDuff," Chris said. He had a flash of saying that to Ian before. Maybe many times before, a déja-vu of putting himself in this man's hands over and over. It felt right. It felt safe.

Ian turned to follow the ridgeline, staying hidden in the trees. At least he was just walking again. Chris followed, trying to copy the bigger man's easy movements. The ridge swung southwest, and then south. The trees were getting thinner here too, and the ground was getting steeper. Ian led the way down a gully, skidding a little on loose dry soil. He put out a hand to stop Chris's slide at the bottom.

There was a small trickle of a stream winding through the rocks at their feet. It looked brown and sandy, although Chris had seen far worse-looking California waterways. Ian probably had too, but he caught Chris's hand when he reached toward the water.

"I wouldn't," he said. "I thought I saw an old mine back there among the trees. Some of the mines in the old days used sulfuric acid and even cyanide. We'd need to be a lot thirstier before I'd risk using that."

Chris felt parched but he drew back obediently. "Now what?"

"I'm thinking," Ian said, with a hint of irritation. "I don't think we dare go back to the gas station. Even if they're not waiting for us there, they're certain to have cut the landline. The best we could hope for would be to set it on fire as a signal flare. And hope the good guys got there first. No. There has to be another road with more traffic. We find it, and flag down the first rusted-out piece of shit no gangster would be caught dead in."

Chris nodded. It was a plan. Just one hitch. "Which way?"

Ian pointed toward the sun. "West. We were going east in the car and we know there was civilization where we came from."

Chris nodded, and started off back up the other side of the gully. It was a little higher and steeper, but he managed not to slip. The west slope was uncomfortably open again and Chris hesitated. Just as well, because as he turned to ask if Ian really wanted them to leave the trees, a big dark SUV appeared on the dirt road below.

Ian yanked Chris down into the bushes almost before he registered what they were seeing. The SUV cruised by slowly. The windows were tinted, and the low sun glancing off them made it impossible to see in. But Chris had no inclination to go flag that car down.

"Shit," Ian muttered when it was dwindling in the distance. They waited for a few minutes, but no other traffic went by. A mile away in the distance, the SUV pulled over, made a U-turn and began cruising back.

Ian tugged Chris back over the crest of the ridge and they slid on their heels back down to the stream. "We want to get up out of here," Ian said. "They find us down here, it'll be like shooting fish in a barrel." They went up the far side, kicking the loose rocks, and turned back the way they'd come.

The low sun cast long shadows across the ground. A breeze had picked up, making the trees sway and jerk. Chris was close to coming apart. He kept jolting violently. Every motion, every flicker seen out of the corner of his eye, was a man with a gun closing in on them. He couldn't tell a branch from an arm. Resolutely, he stopped looking around and just followed Ian.

It was impossible to keep a straight route west and stay in the trees. They detoured again, backtracking down a ridge. Suddenly Ian grabbed Chris's arm and pulled him down. Up on the hillside ahead of them, the silhouette of a man was visible between the trees. As the man hesitated and then moved toward them, the shape of the gun in his hands answered the friend-or-foe question.

Ian tapped Chris's shoulder and led him back deeper into cover. _What now?_

Ian pushed Chris into a dark hollow beneath a boulder. "You stay here and don't move," he whispered. "I'm going after that guy's gun."

_You're what?_ Chris wanted to grab Ian back, but the man was already slipping away. Chris wrapped his arms around himself. He had to trust Ian to know what he was doing. He couldn't see much from his hiding place. He strained his ears.

From the opposite direction, above him on the ridge, he heard the snap of a branch and a man's curse. Chris bit his tongue and held his position. Ian reappeared as silently as he'd left. "Can't be done," he breathed. "There are too many of them."

"Hide?" Chris whispered.

"Not here." Ian pushed Chris to the left, between the boulders. "Go."

Chris tried to follow directions. He wished Ian would go first, but the man just crowded him from behind, tapping his arm and pointing further left. Chris ran as quietly as he could, keeping low. They had made a hundred yards, angling away from both pursuers, when a shot rang out. Chris didn't hear it hit, didn't know where it came from, but Ian almost took his arm out of its socket yanking him back.

Ian pointed. "Over there. The mine entrance. It's our only chance."

Chris ran. Somewhere inside he was yelling about how unfair this was. How the last place he wanted to go was down a hole into the dark. How at least Ian should go first. He considered it a major victory that he was keeping all that behind his teeth.

Another shot echoed across the hill. This time, Chris caught the whine and crack as it hit something off to their right. Ian was practically climbing up Chris's spine. Chris opened his mouth to yell at the guy to just lead the way. Then he realized that Ian behind him was screening every part of Chris's body from the guns of their pursuers. Chris dove for the black opening in the hillside. As he passed through, Ian was still a shadow at his back.

As the bigger man had been all along, Chris realized. In the barn, on the broken asphalt of the gas station, climbing that first ridge, Ian's body had been between Chris and bullets every time. Maybe he didn't do it just for Chris. Maybe it was something Ian would do for anyone smaller and weaker than he was.

It didn't matter. Knowing that Ian wouldn't pass him, would hold station between Chris and danger, made it possible for Chris to keep going. If Chris stopped, Ian would pay the price first. Chris still hated with every fiber of his being the idea of plunging down into unknown darkness. But he did it.

***

Ian cursed softly under his breath as he followed Chris deeper into the dim recesses of the old mine. The place was just another trap. With enough men and weapons, the gunmen could spray the place with bullets. Unless it was deeper than most, there would be no hiding in the end. But he saw no other choice.

From the moment he failed to turn back on their pursuers soon enough, they had been trapped. If he had angled back earlier, picked up a weapon, moved them back behind the encircling men...he forced himself to shut up. Move on, do the next thing. Buy time. Jenny was surely searching for them.

The mine had started out wide and dry, stone walls held by old but serviceable timbers. As Chris led the way, it was rapidly becoming narrower and darker. Small stones rolled underfoot. Here and there, a timber had shifted, and they stepped over the grey boards. Chris had slowed to a sensible walk. It was getting harder to see.

Two bends in the tunnel, and the light was really going. On the plus side, they were now out of reach of direct shots, and most ricochets. Chris slowed still more, dragging to a halt. "I can't see," he whispered.

Ian could still make out the faint shapes of the shoring wood, and the angle of the tunnel, heading inward and down. He moved past Chris. "Put your hand on my shoulder. I'll go slowly." They passed the first new opening, a smaller branch heading off to the left.

Chris must have seen something, because he asked, "What if we get lost down here?" His voice quavered a little, even at the barely whispered level he was using.

"Don't worry," Ian said softly. "I've got a good sense of direction."

The stone walls of the tunnel echoed, amplifying sounds toward them. They heard the cursing of more than one voice. The pursuit had obviously reached the tunnel. Ian heard a familiar click, and whirled automatically to pin Chris against the tunnel wall, plastering himself over Chris's back. The gunshots were deafeningly loud and impossible to count, as the echoes blended in. But no bullets seemed to make it close to them. Ian hoped viciously that the men would catch each other with their own ricochets, but there were no sounds behind them to suggest it.

He pulled Chris off the wall and started forward again. He kept his right hand over Chris's left, which was clutching tightly to his shoulder. They passed another opening, on the right this time. It was barely a dark patch, a change in the flow of air. Ian noted it.

He wondered if the men behind them had flashlights. If not, they surely had a cigarette lighter or two, and could get lights brought in. But there was no sound of anyone following them yet. Ian blessed the covering darkness.

Another opening, and this time the two tunnels were about equal in size. Ian hesitated, and then took the right-hand path. From behind them, the sounds of men's voices resumed, but they were thin and distant. A shot echoed, faint enough that Ian barely paused.

The floor was becoming more uneven. Ian stubbed his toes against a rock, and then guided Chris over a beam that had caught him in the shins. The voices behind them had faded. Ian smiled grimly. A lot of people would hesitate to head down into darkness with just the wavering light of a flame. If the flashlights were slow in arriving, it would give them a chance to vanish into this dark maze.

Chris stumbled and fell to his knees as the floor turned upward. Ian stopped and bent to haul Chris up. His arms were shaking under Ian's hands.

"What?" he whispered in Chris's ear, keeping his voice to a thread. They'd seen how sound carried. "Are you hurt?"

The shake of Chris's head brushed his soft hair across Ian's lips. "I hate dark places. Small dark places where I can't see anything."

Ian gave in to his own need and dropped a kiss on the smooth skin of Chris's temple. "Darkness is our friend. It's about all that's saving us right now. Come on, just stay right behind me. Slide your feet instead of picking them up." He bit off a warning about drop-offs. Chris might never move another step. Ian put the man's hand back on his shoulder and moved out.

Even for him, the darkness was now complete. He paused, and reached out to the sides. At the widest stretch of his arms he could almost touch both sides of the tunnel. He hesitated, but it was important that they not get lost.

"Chris," he said. "I need you to do something. Put your right hand on my shoulder and move over to your left a little. I want you to reach out with your left hand and touch the wall. Just barely touch it. Don't rip your fingers up. But I don't want any openings to go by without knowing about it. This place is bigger than I thought. Which is good."

Chris didn't say anything, but after a moment Ian felt him shift over. The death-grip on his shoulder was now reversed. Good enough. "Tell me if you lose touch with your wall," Ian directed. He held his own right hand out, and led off slowly.

Many minutes later they had passed one branch on the right. Ian's fingers were raw from brushing the stone, and Chris had begun whimpering under his breath. Since he was still moving forward without complaint, Ian figured the man probably wasn't even aware of the sound he was making. The tunnel was narrowing in still more. The walls became rougher and damper. Ian hit his head once on an outcropping in the ceiling. Now he walked with his left hand in front of his forehead and his right on the wall.

Time for a break. Ian halted. Behind him, Chris took one extra step and stopped, pressed close against Ian's back. "What?" he breathed.

"Time to stop for a bit. This place is fucking huge."

"That's good, right," Chris whispered back, without unclenching his fingers.

"Right." Ian pried the Chris's hand loose from his shoulder and began rubbing it, massaging fingers that had to be cramping. "Let's sit against the wall."

He eased Chris down beside him, keeping their bodies touching. Chris gave an exhausted sigh as his ass hit the floor.

Ian dropped the man's hand and reached for his own boot. He pried off the heel and fished into the cavity. Feeling carefully, he pulled out one match and struck it on the rough wall. The end sizzled, and then hissed into flame.

"You have matches!" Chris's eyes were huge.

"Just a few. Take a look around while we have the light. We'll talk after."

The tunnel they were in looked really rough. Ian couldn't see any sign of shoring timbers. Moisture ran down the wall across from them in a little rivulet. The tunnel floor was loose rock. Back the way they had come, the tunnel opened out a little, but up ahead the space dropped off quickly. Ian held the match out that way, frowning at the sight. The flame singed his fingertips, and he reversed the match, pinching the charred wood as the flame ate its way to the end and went out.

Chris gasped as the darkness fell again. He pressed in against Ian, and whispered, "Oh, God!" into the black space. Ian had to restrain himself from reaching for another match to give Chris light again. Instead, he wrapped his arm around the man and hugged him in close.

"I'm thinking," Ian said slowly, "that the mine was built onto a natural cave. Or expanded from a cave or something. I didn't see tool marks on these walls, and that place up ahead looks too narrow and winding to be man-made."

"Do we have to turn back?" Chris asked.

"Not yet." Ian rubbed his knuckles over the side of Chris's face, thinking. The barest hint of stubble snagged on his abused skin. "Natural is good. Because caves often have multiple exits in unmarked places. They can get a map of the mine, maybe, but I'm betting there's no quick map of the cave."

"So we might be able to get out?"

"Maybe. Worth a shot." Ian hesitated. "We'll try up ahead, but the air doesn't feel very fresh here."

"Oh God, don't say that," Chris muttered.

"What? I just mean, I don't think there's an opening ahead."

Chris turned his face in against Ian's neck. "I already feel like I'm suffocating. Don't say there's no air."

Ian laid his cheek on Chris's head. "There's plenty of air. But I think it felt fresher in that last opening on the right. If this doesn't pan out we should back-track and try that way. That's all I'm saying."

"Okay." Chris pulled back like he was going to get up.

Ian held him tighter. "Take five minutes. We'll be better for a little rest."

"Yeah." Chris's warm breath fanned Ian's skin for a few moments. Then he asked, "What else do you have in that magic boot? Shoe phone? Hand grenades?"

"I wish. Lock picks. That's how I got out of the cuffs. A few matches, small saw blade, fishing line, a fishhook. A tiny knife. My dad's don't-leave-home-without-it survival kit."

"Thank God for Dad."

"Amen," Ian agreed. He hoped he'd live to tell the old man his advice had been good. Over the years, Ian had felt stupid, transferring the stash to each new pair of work boots. But childhood indoctrination dies hard, and he'd kept doing it. If he lived, it would become his top priority. "No weapons though. I can do more with my hands than with a knife this size. No flashlight, no tracking devices."

"Maybe next time," Chris said, with barely a waver. Ian pulled him into a hug.

After a moment, Chris said in a tiny voice, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For lying. For not trusting you. For not being a person you can trust."

"Shut up," Ian hissed fiercely. He fumbled, found Chris's mouth and kissed him. "I'm sorry too, for being a sanctimonious prick. And I do trust you." Honesty forced him to add, "Mostly. When it counts. And can we please talk about this later, when your cute ass is safe?"

"Sure," Chris mumbled against his mouth. "Later."

Ian broke free and moved to get up, although he kept a grip on Chris's hand until it was locked onto his shoulder again. "Come on," he said. "Let's work down to that end of the passage, and I'll see what we can see."

"Very funny." Chris moved cautiously after him as Ian set out.

The tunnel tapered down rapidly. Ian moved very cautiously, outlining the space ahead of him with his hands. But it wasn't long before he couldn't feel a way to move forward. Ian stretched up, leaned, tilted his head around. There was no sign of daylight coming through. Of course, he had lost track of time down here underground. It could be night out there.

"Gonna get a match," he said to Chris. "Don't move." Ian sat on the floor and retrieved one precious match. Then he shut the rest of his stash securely away in his boot before standing and striking it.

Once again, he nursed every second of light out of it, examining the rocks ahead of them. The flame burned steadily, untouched by any breeze. If there was a way out ahead, he wasn't seeing it. And from the look of the rocks, there was no hope that any opening would be big enough to admit a person's body. Ian dropped the spent match to the invisible floor as the velvet darkness dropped back over them.

"Not getting out that way," he said. "Let's back-track."

"What about just staying put?" Chris asked. "Jenny, the cops, people must be looking for us by now."

"Yes," Ian agreed. "But not around here. And no matter how big this place is, those bastards can find us, given enough men and lights. If there's a way out, we need to take it."

"I haven't heard them in a while."

"No. Maybe they decided to just wait until we get hungry and thirsty and have to come out. Or maybe they're gearing up to do this right. Either way, we need to move while we have the chance."

"Okay." There was trust in Chris's voice. Ian could only hope it was justified.

They worked their way back down the tunnel. After a few minutes, Chris's hand on Ian's shoulder jerked him to a stop.

"What?"

"I have my hand in running water," Chris said. "You don't think...I'm pretty thirsty."

"Me too," Ian admitted. "But...I don't know. I've only heard a bit about water contamination by mines. I don't know if it's safe." He thought about it. Chris sounded at the end of his endurance. "Maybe wet your mouth with it, but don't swallow any."

Chris's sigh was weary. "I'm okay for now."

"We'll remember where it is. If we're stuck in here longer than I'd like, we may come back to it. Better a little cyanide than dehydration or getting shot in the head."

Chris growled, "I do love the way you look on the bright side. Move, big man."

Ian led again. The opening was on his left this time. He almost missed it. His fingertips were getting numb from the friction of the stone. But a breath of air across his face alerted him. "Here," he said. "Feel that?"

Chris leaned against him. "No."

"The air is definitely fresher that way." Ian turned toward the opening.

"Wait," Chris hissed in a panicked tone. "Don't you want to light a match and mark this or something? So we don't get lost."

"It's in my head," Ian reassured him. "If you're coming back out this new tunnel, you'll hit the old one in a dead end. Turn left for the mine entrance. Turn right for the water."

"You make it sound so simple," Chris muttered. "If you ever leave me to do this alone I will fucking kill you."

"I won't leave you," Ian said. The echo of that reverberated oddly in his head. _Not the time to discuss or amend that. If he even wanted to._

The new tunnel was definitely a natural cave. It twisted and wound around. The floor was irregular, and the space closed in on them. Chris had to drop his hand off Ian's shoulder, as they worked their way forward. Ian moved slowly, waiting for a brush of Chris's hand on his back before each new stride. The smell of dampness and plant matter was slowly rising above the dryness of stone. He felt a renewed optimism.

***

Chris hated this. _He fucking hated it._ It was all the things that bothered him. Cool and damp and dark and closed-in, which he had always loathed. And having spent a night in the dim confines of a crashed airliner, under the looming presence of a decapitated flight attendant, had _not_ helped, thank you very much. Chris still had nightmares. Extra, new nightmares.

And then there were the men back there trying to kill them. Which was something Chris could barely wrap his mind around. Over and over he caught himself thinking, _let's just go back. Surely they didn't mean to actually_...Only of course they did.

It was Ian's steady back under his fingertips that kept him going. Ian's calm breathing. Ian's unquestioning assumption that Chris could do this. That Chris would do whatever was necessary, just as certainly as Ian himself did. Chris slid his feet forward across the uneven floor and brushed soft cotton with his bruised fingers.

"Getting tight," Ian whispered in the dark. "But the air is moving more too. Do you smell that? No plants in the dark. There must be an opening."

_Hope to God,_ Chris thought. Although by now he figured God had probably washed His hands of the whole affair. A bunch of gangsters trying to kill two fags in the bowels of the earth? God was probably off elsewhere listening to a harp concert.

Ian stopped again. "Do you see that?"

Chris peered blindly into the dark. There were lights and flashes in the periphery of his vision. But there had been ever since the darkness had closed down. Like his eyes knew he hated the dark, so they were creating a virtual light show for him. He strained blindly but saw nothing new. "What?"

Ian leaned back against Chris, until his rough unshaven cheek pressed against Chris's. Ian's hand came up to cup Chris's face against his own and then he turned them both slowly, left and upward. "There."

After a moment, Chris spotted it - a patch of brighter grey in the endless dark, up near the roof. "Oh, God, yes," he said breathlessly.

Ian released him. "Come on."

Two steps, and the tunnel bent to the right. And suddenly the darkness retreated. Dim filtered light showed them a rubbled floor, dank walls, and the low outcroppings of the roof. They worked their way around another bend and the light became brighter. Ian was bending over now, as the roof lowered above them and the sides closed in. Chris scraped his arm, hissed wordlessly, and bent as well. It didn't matter, nothing mattered in the face of that miracle of light.

The passage dead-ended in a cramped space, lit by an open fissure. Through the gap where it extended above Ian's head, Chris could see green plants and then a hint of glowing sky. Nearly sunset. Huh. He'd thought they'd spent hours wandering around in the dark, but it couldn't have been more than thirty minutes.

Chris leaned his chin on Ian's shoulder to get a better look at their escape route. Which on closer inspection, looked more like a window than a door. A narrow, jagged, not-fit-for-a-two-year-old window. "Ian," he whispered. "We're never going to fit through that."

"We'll see," Ian muttered back. "It's wider at the bottom, and some of this is dirt." Ian knelt at the bottom of the crack and began digging with his hands. After a moment, Chris did the same. It was tight. Their shoulders wedged together as they scrabbled at the soil. But Ian was right. Some of the space was filled with packed earth, not rock, and it gradually gave way.

Chris broke a nail and bit back a yelp. Ian grabbed his wrist. "Wait. Let me get out the knife."

Chris pulled back a bit, and watched with interest as Ian fiddled with the heel of one boot. He reached in the cavity and came up with a short sturdy blade. _So that's where he_ _keeps his stuff_. Ian bent again to the gap, working the blade. There was no space for Chris without getting in Ian's way, so he let himself sit back against the wall to rest and watch.

Ian was totally focused, cutting and scraping. He levered a chunk of earth outward, and then shoved another block back past Chris. The gap was widening as he dug at the bottom. Then he cursed. "Hitting rock now." The blade made a quiet harsh sound, scraping on the rock. Ian put it down, scrabbling with his hands, then picked it up and tried again. "Fuck, no, that's all she wrote."

Chris scooted up and looked. Ian had cleared a narrow space at the bottom of the fissure down to bare rock. It was jagged and low and...possible? Chris eyed it. "What do you think?"

"I think there's no way I'm getting through that. But you just might."

"I'm not going without you." Chris's protest was as automatic as breathing.

Ian frowned at him. "Don't be an idiot. If you can get through, I'm counting on you to go get the cavalry."

"But..." Chris's protest was cut off by a sound from the cave behind them. Somewhere way behind them, someone had obviously mistaken some shadow for their fleeing bodies, because a ripple of gunfire echoed softly, prolonged and faint.

"Yeah," Ian said. "Time's running out. But I think I can avoid them for a while. Maybe even sneak past them, get them chasing each other. I have a better chance in here on my own, babe. You know that. Especially if I can count on you showing up with a rescue."

Chris couldn't argue with that. And he really, _really_ wanted to go out into that open lighted space. But...

Ian cupped his chin and kissed him, softly. "That's no picnic I'm sending you out to either," he said. "They think we're both in here, but their men will probably still be out there somewhere. You need to be careful, stay out of sight. Don't go up to anyone unless you're sure they are okay. Get free, run like hell, send help before they cap my ass. Can you do that?"

Chris nodded. "I can try."

Ian's smile was wry in the dim light. "There is no 'try'"

"And the Force be with you too," Chris muttered.

"You are a geek, aren't you," Ian teased.

"Takes one to know one." Chris sighed and looked at the gap closely. "How do you suggest I do this."

"Try headfirst lying on your side," Ian said, backing out of the way.

Chris lay down on the floor and slid his arms through the gap. His head followed and then he was breathing outside air, squinting painfully up at the gilded clouds in a deep amber sky. He scrabbled with his legs, pushing, and caught a handful of dry stems with one hand. But his shoulders wedged in the space like a cork.

Chris twisted, arching his back, trying to find the widest part. _No way, no how._ "Pull me back," he said softly. "Not happening."

Ian's hands closed on his ankles and hauled slowly. Chris took a last deep breath as his head slid under the stone lip. He sat up, rubbing his arms where the rock had abraded them. "Now what?"

Ian moved past to inspect the space. "I still think you can fit," he said. They both jumped at another echo of gunshots from behind them. Still distant. Ian shrugged and ran his hands up the opening, measuring.

Chris swallowed. "Um. Didn't feel like I was even close."

"We need to try a little differently. Put your arms down along your sides. That'll give your shoulders their most streamlined shape. I'll have to push you. Do you want to go out feet-first this time?"

Chris thought about it. If he got stuck, with his legs sticking out there, unable to see... "Nope. Head first. If you really think it will work."

"If not, I promise I'll haul you back. Take your shirt off."

Chris pulled the battered grubby T over his head. Good thing it wasn't his favorite.

Ian ran a light finger over his ribs. "Jesus, Chris. What have you been doing to yourself? You look like a refugee."

Chris just shrugged. _Mooning over you. Not eating._

Ian gave his shoulder a comforting rub. "Well, for right now, skinny is a good thing. But when we get out of here, you're going to eat three squares a day for a fucking month, you hear me?"

Chris nodded. _God, he hoped so._

Ian took the shirt and wadded it up. "I'm going to wedge this in the gap here, raise you up just a little." He looked at the result. "Not enough." Ian removed and wrapped up one of his boots and wedged the result back in place. "There, get you to the widest part. Okay. Lie down, arms down, and start sliding through. When you start to stick, I'll take over."

Chris eased his head out and forced his shoulders into the gap as far as they would go. The rough stone bit into his skin. "Stuck," he muttered.

Ian's hands came on him, lifting, pushing, pinching. "Arms at your sides now, as relaxed as you can. Don't bunch up your pecs and biceps. Breathe out and hold it."

Chris tried to follow directions. He slid a little, caught, slipped. The rock was compressing his chest. "Can't breathe," he groaned.

"Another breath out and hold it." Ian's voice was calm. _Easy for him_. Chris tried, tried to empty his lungs, empty his muscles, relax into those callused hands. Ian lifted him a little, pushing hard. Then with a tearing pain across his back, Chris slid forward six blessed inches. And now it was easy. The pressure was off his chest, and Ian's steady push propelled him forward. One foot, two, straining to arch his neck up and keep his face out of the dirt. And then his hands were free and he could reach forward and haul himself along. _He was out._

He crouched outside the gap, looking in at Ian. He desperately wanted to haul the man out after him. But he knew the width of Ian's shoulders, the muscle of his chest. There was no chance in hell.

"Turn around," Ian said. "Let me see your back."

Chris pivoted a little. Ian reached through the gap to touch him. "That'll need stitches, but it's not bleeding too bad."

Chris turned back and Ian passed out the tattered shirt.

"Put that back on. It'll help keep the blood from dripping. Go now, babe."

Chris pulled the shirt on painfully and hesitated. He reached back in the gap. "Ian."

Ian didn't touch him. "Go. I trust you to do everything humanly possible to keep yourself safe and send back help, all right? We'll talk after. Go quickly now, while you still have light."

_Shit, yes._ They were out in the country, where night really meant dark. Roaming the woods without a light wouldn't be much better than the mine. Chris looked at Ian. The other man was staring at him intensely. His face was smudged and abraded, his hair a mess, his shirt streaked with mud. His blue eyes glowed. He was the best thing Chris had ever seen.

Chris wanted to say something profound, something...his throat was too tight for words. He turned on his heel and scrambled down the hill.

It was dim under the trees, but not dark. Chris worked his way downhill, keeping the sunset on his right. For no particular reason, except that it was a way to go without circling. The sun appeared occasionally through a break in the trees, low and red. To his left, the sky was beginning to darken.

He saw no one, heard nothing, except the scrabble of his sneakers on the undergrowth. He crossed down into one little arroyo, threaded by a dry stream bed, and decided to follow it. Water led to civilization, right? There were enough plants growing along the failed watercourse to screen him.

The sun had dropped enough to rob the clouds of their gold edges when he found the road. The little stream bed ran through a big culvert underneath. The road was gravel but well-kept. The shoulders dropped off sharply to the ditches on either side, but the grasses didn't encroach on the road itself. Chris turned and started along it, keeping to the ditch. The evening was getting darker, and the bastards wouldn't expect him to be out here. He could drop and hide if he had to.

The first car to approach was a sedan. Its lights swept toward Chris, bright and blue-white. Chris could see neither driver nor color past their brightness. After a second's hesitation, he dropped down into the screening weeds and let it pass. After the sound of the wheels went by, he slid up to the verge to look after it. Clear red tail lights glowed in a ring of LED brightness. It had been a new sedan.

He felt nauseous and cold. What if he had let Ian's only chance pass on by? What if Ian was already dead, and the men were out looking for Chris now? He froze in indecision.

The sound of a motor approaching the other way shook him out of his stasis. He glanced left. A single headlight, round and yellow, matched the guttural roar of a motorbike. _Surely L.A. gangsters wouldn't use a bike._ If he didn't choose now, he never would. Chris stepped into the road, waving his arms.

The bike slowed to a stop in front of him. The rider eyed him cautiously from under a black helmet. Chris got the impression of young and male, but not much else.

"Problem, man?" the kid said.

Chris coughed, to unstick his voice. "Yeah. Yes. I'm in trouble. Do you have a cell phone?"

"Got a phone," the boy said, with a faint Hispanic twist to the words. "Got no reception out here."

Shit. Chris took a step forward, and saw the boy draw back a little. He realized what he must look like: tattered, dirty, bloody, probably a little crazy. He held his hands out harmlessly at his sides.

"Listen. Could you just...as soon as you get to reception, could you call 911? Tell them there's a guy who needs help badly at an old mine up there." He waved in the direction he'd come. The direction he thought he'd come. _Shit. Fuck!_ "I don't know exactly where it is. I've been walking."

"Come on," the kid interrupted him. "Get on the bike. I'll take you to where the signal cuts in and you can call them yourself. If you're okay to ride?"

Chris would have ridden a rodeo bull to avoid being left on his own out there. "Sure. Thanks!"

The kid slid forward a little to make room. "No spare helmet," he said.

Chris laughed, giddy with relief. "Great. I want to catch a cop's attention as fast as possible."

The kid hesitated, and then just said, "Okay. Hang on."

Jenny had had a bike in college. Chris's body remembered the balance of it, moving with the bike, not fighting the lean. As the kid gained confidence in Chris, he kicked up the speed. It was like flying, swooping down the gravel road in a rush of sound to safety. Chris thought he was still laughing. The wind swept cool across his damp cheeks.

After about five minutes, the bike crested a hill and the boy slowed. At the top, he pulled over on the shoulder. "Here," he said, letting the bike idle and passing back a phone. "It usually works here."

Chris swung off the bike and flipped the phone open. The screen showed one blessed bar. He punched in 911. One ring, two, and then a woman's voice. "911. What is your emergency?"

Chris breathed out hard, all the air he'd been holding so long. "I need help," he said. It was hard to explain. The boy listened to his story with widening eyes, but willingly took the phone to describe in local terms where they were. Chris described the mine, tried to send help after Ian, now! He thought they understood him, although apparently there were several old mines in these hills. "Only one with a bunch of guys with fucking automatic weapons shooting into it," Chris snarled.

"Yes sir, we hear you. We're checking it out." The dispatcher seemed remarkably calm. "Stay where you are and we'll send someone out to meet you."

"Okay," Chris agreed. He hung up on her. He'd done all he could. Maybe Jenny could get these law-enforcement types to believe him. He dialed her cell. Voicemail. "Hey Jen, it's Chris. I'm safe but Ian's not. Call the sheriff in Talano county and tell them I'm not a maniac and they need to go rescue Ian, just like I described, okay? Love ya."

He hung up, and handed the phone back to the boy.

"So," the kid said uneasily. "Do you think I really need to hang around? I don't...the cops and I don't get along so good."

Chris really didn't want to be ditched on the side of the road in the dark, even with the cops on their way. He glanced around. Down the hill in the distance, he thought he saw a bunch of lights. He pointed. "Can you drop me off there?"

"Sure." The boy put his helmet back on and revved the bike.

As they approached, Chris could make out not just building lights, but the flash of a cop car bar light ahead. He tapped the kid on the shoulder. The boy stopped at an intersection.

The road they were on swung to the left and climbed away. The little blacktop they had come to ran off to the right, a couple hundred yards over a small bridge toward the lights and safety. Chris swung off the bike. "I'm good," he said. "I can walk the rest of the way. Although you know they can probably get your name from the phone call."

"Yeah," the kid said. "I'll be okay once I ditch a few things, you know."

Chris wasn't about to throw stones. He held out his hand. "Thanks man. You saved my life. Pretty much literally."

The boy's grip was strong. "That's cool."

He let Chris step clear, and then roared off into the night. Chris smiled, imagining trying to convince his mother that angels looked like skinny Hispanic pot-heads in motorcycle gear. Ian would believe it though. Ian.

Chris hurried down the road toward the lights. At the little bridge he slowed. He was finally hitting the wall. Only a short walk to safety, but his feet felt like lead. The bridge rail was low, and he put his hand on it for support. The lights ahead wavered in his eyes. It was a small gas station, the faded sign lit by a barely-adequate flood-light. Two pumps and three repair bays made up the bulk of the place.

Chris hauled himself forward. He wasn't done yet. Until Ian was out safely, there still might be something Chris needed to do. Someone he needed to convince. He saw a man rise up from the dark next to the road without really registering. The gun in the man's hand seemed unreal. There was a small pop.

Chris was so tired. He slipped sideways, and the rail of the bridge caught him under his hip. He tipped out into space. Then he was falling, flying for real, just like the dream.

The landing was a shock, with muddy water up his nose, in his mouth. He flailed weakly. This was crazy. This was ridiculous. His head broke the surface and he coughed. The water was tugging at him, spinning him around. For a moment he let it have him, sinking into that cool embrace. But reflexes took over.

Damned if he would drown in some muddy stream in the middle of a fucking desert. To hell with that. He struck out slowly, swimming a sidestroke against the cramp in his ribs, not sure where the bank was. The stream bumped him against something hard and cool. He slipped past, and then his feet dragged on the bottom. There. He stood up, the water swirling around his hips. Freaking rivulet. Good thing he hadn't drowned in this measly excuse for a river. He'd have had to die again of embarrassment. He waded slowly to the bank, blinking at the trees rising against the fading light. The ground was sandy under his hands. The bank rose up steeply ahead of him. His knee hurt, as he put it down on a rock. Freaking sharp rocks. The skyline seemed impossibly far away, but he would get up there in a minute.

Chapter 12

Watching Chris climb away from the rock fissure down that embankment was perhaps the hardest thing Ian had ever done. It was getting darker out there. There were men and guns, and Chris had no survival skills that Ian could detect. The only saving grace was that the thugs wouldn't be looking for him out there. Especially if Ian kept them busy in here.

He didn't figure he could hide forever. All they had to do was sweep though with the guns and lights, and eventually they'd find him. But even a big crime boss had to have limited manpower out in rural California. So they would have to either pass one tunnel by to check another, or split up. Either choice opened possibilities.

Ian headed carefully down his tunnel away from the opening. If he was being truthful, he had to admit that no matter what he had told Chris about darkness being their friend, it was hard to leave the light. The air got heavier, and his vision faded. Soon he had to put his hand out again and follow the wall.

He taxed his memory, as the tunnel wound around. He'd worked to memorize its size and shape, and the turnings. He had a glimmer of a plan, and as he walked he tried to refine it. It depended on luck, of course. And on skill. He'd had skill drummed into him. Time to prove how well he'd learned.

As he approached the place where this tunnel intersected with the main shaft he paused, listening. The mine was no longer silent. Several men off to his right were muttering to each other unhappily. The voices carried in a wordless rumble of complaint. Hunting fugitives in tight dark spaces was clearly not on their top-ten list.

Ian grinned sharply in the dark. If they'd been smart, they'd have hunted in silence, listening as he was. They were too confident in their numbers, and their guns. He hoped.

He oriented himself around the intersection of the tunnels by feel, and then found the spot he wanted. Ian listened carefully, trying to gauge how far away the men were. Sound carried oddly, but he thought he had a few minutes. He quickly got out a match, fingering the scant two he had left. Hopefully he wouldn't need them. He lit his match, squinting at the sudden brightness, and checked his position.

The spot he'd chosen in the dark wasn't bad. But if he backed up about three feet, the climb would be harder but there was an overhang in the roof that would screen him. And it would be just that much faster to get back around a bend in the tunnel, out of direct line of fire. He repositioned himself. He wanted to watch the match burn down, look at something besides unbroken black. He made himself blow it out. Alerting the men with light or the smell of burning would be just plain stupid.

He settled in to wait, rubbing his numb fingers. The voices slowly drew nearer. Once Ian winced at another burst of gunfire. If they were just randomly shooting into every space they found, he might be in trouble. But surely they would be leery of ricochets, and of wasting ammunition. The voices kept coming. The shots were not repeated.

Ian began to be able to make out words. "...better be paying a bonus for this...hate the fucking place...so he shot at it and got himself in the foot..." Ian hoped the guy's foot fell off. Maybe it would make them more reluctant to fire their weapons. "...try smoke or some fucking tear gas..." Ian had thought of that, as the and Chris had wandered the dead-end corridors. He hadn't mentioned his fears to Chris. But now it would be okay. He had access to fresh air if he needed it, while smoke or gas in these tunnels would roll back and blind the user. Unless they came up with flamethrowers...he forced his mind away from images of the Marines on Tarawa, clearing the Japanese from the caves. No flamethrowers here.

As he began to pick up the susurrus of hard shoes on the stone floor, Ian melted back a half-step, and found his place. The narrow tunnel walls allowed him to climb upward, like a rock chimney ascent. At the roof he pressed himself into place and waited. He could do this for a while. He didn't know how long. This was where the luck came in. If no one came by before he had to come down...he waited in the dark.

It was only a few minutes before the beam of a powerful flashlight lit the main tunnel ahead of him. The light couldn't turn corners. His side branch held its covering darkness. The approaching men were sweeping the light back and forth in nervous arcs. Which would make it harder for them to spot motion. Still, Ian willed himself to complete stillness.

At the mouth of his tunnel the men stopped. To Ian's delight, there were only three of them. They swept the light down his side branch, and back to the main tunnel, but they kept it low, illuminating the floor at their feet and the distant reaches to the first bend. In the shadows under the roof, the light passed Ian by.

There was a brief heated discussion about who would go where. Eventually they decided on one man for the small tunnel, and two for the bigger one. Ian silently approved their choice. The single man turned his light into Ian's cave, and hesitated as his compatriots passed out of sight. Then he visibly squared his shoulders and moved gingerly into the narrow shaft, swinging his gun to cover his approach. Just before the first bend, he passed underneath Ian. Ian dropped silently down.

He'd hoped for a soundless takedown, but didn't quite manage it. As the man fell under him, the barrel of the gun hit the stone wall, sending a loud clang echoing. From the main shaft, a voice called, "Ron? You okay?"

Swiftly, Ian tugged the gun free from the downed man's hands. The man moved, groaning, and Ian chopped down hard. Not a killing blow, he thought, but the man went limp. The other footsteps were coming back at a run. Ian ducked around the bend in the tunnel, gun in hand. An AK-47. He could handle this in his sleep. The flashlight on the floor lit the scene from where it had fallen.

A man appeared in the tunnel entrance. "Ron! What?"

Ian popped round the rock, put one short burst at the man's feet and ducked back. From the loud scream, he'd hit something.

"You fucking bastard," the screamer yelled hoarsely. "Gonna kill you for that."

_Gonna kill me anyway._ Ian waited, saving his ammunition.

Suddenly, one of the men swung into the opening and fired on full automatic. The bullets screamed and bounced in the stone shaft. Ian ducked and covered, as well-protected as he could get. _Shit._ He'd hoped that the unconscious man on the floor would keep the others from shooting. Obviously loyalty didn't run deep here.

When the gunfire stopped, Ian looked around the bend, keeping low to the ground and exposing just one eye. The man on the floor hadn't moved. As Ian watched, a pool of dark liquid began spreading from underneath him, glistening black in the thin beam from the flashlight. Clearly, the man had caught at least one bullet.

Ian slid the muzzle of his weapon around the bend and waited silently, holding a bead on the tunnel entrance. He could hear someone cursing low and unimaginatively. Presumably the man he had wounded. After a minute the other man said, "Shut up," roughly. Silence reigned.

Ian was patient. Time was on his side. His ears echoed and rang, but gradually the effects cleared. After several minutes, one of the man yelled, "Hey."

Ian didn't reply. Let them come see if they'd hit him.

"Hey! You in there? Ron?"

A gun muzzle appeared in the opening. No human target Ian could see. He pulled back and covered as the bullets whined past. The guy was burning a full magazine on each burst. Which was good. Even their ammunition couldn't be unlimited.

He slid back into observation position. There was a flash of movement at the entrance. Ian didn't take the bait. They wanted to see if he was still able to shoot back. But he had less than a full clip left, and there was no need to take a bad shot. If they wanted to get him, they would have to come at him down that long hard tunnel. He would have better chances.

"Hey, guys," the man called. "Look, we don't want to kill either of you. Answer some questions and we'll go away and leave you here."

_Bullshit._ But it was good they seemed to think he and Chris were both in the tunnel.

"Listen." For a tough guy, the man's voice was almost wheedling. "We can get you out of there. You know we can. We also know you might hit one or two of us while we're doing it. Just answer our questions, and we can all live another day."

Ian waited. Once, his dad had set up a scenario. Dad liked to call them training missions. Ian was told to wait face down in a muddy field, until it was clear to move. His dad played the role of a hostile, looking for Ian. Ian had held frozen for hours, as his dad quartered the field, sometimes making no noise for twenty or thirty minutes in an effort to flush Ian prematurely. Ian had been soaked and chilled to the bone, but he'd controlled even his shivers, until his dad passed him on the mission and called to him to get up. One of his most satisfying moments of his childhood had been when he rose up from the mud, only a few feet from his father's feet. That momentarily startled look on his dad's face had been better praise than the formal nod. Waiting comfortably in a cool dry tunnel with a gun in his own hands was child's play.

The thugs spent ten minutes talking at him, and tried one more burst of gunfire. Between times, Ian heard the second man complaining about his leg and insisting he was going to bleed to death. Apparently cell phones didn't work down here, and the men's buddies weren't showing up for a rescue. Still, Ian's bullshit radar went off when he heard the men retreating, talking just a little loudly about getting help.

He listened intently. Sure enough, as one hesitant dragging set of footsteps continued to fade away, the second began softly sneaking back. Ian wasn't surprised when, a minute later, the man popped into the gap, flat on the ground, and swept the tunnel with another magazine.

As the burst ended, Ian slid out and snapped a few shots in return. The man screamed and rolled out of the opening. A moment later his footsteps staggered away, accompanied by harsh gasping breaths. Ian gave a hard nod. _To hell with him._

But reinforcements wouldn't be far behind. Ian slid out of his corner and over to the man on the ground. The body on the ground, he decided, as he failed to find a pulse. Multiple rounds had not done good things for the man's face either. Ian ignored the blood to search the body quickly. A cell phone, two extra magazines, a .38 in an ankle holster, and the flashlight were worth taking. He slid back to safety with them.

A quick check confirmed that the cell was useless, except as a source of light. Ian slipped it in his pocket. The extra clips fit in his belt, the holster slid like a handclasp around his ankle. He felt better with each addition. Not crazy enough to go trying to shoot his way out. But better.

He swept the light over the near section of his own tunnel, confirming the next bend. He thought briefly about moving up the main shaft, and finding another location. But here he knew he had fresh air and no enemies at his back. And since this seemed to be a natural cave, the men out there might not have any kind of map of it. For all they knew, it branched infinitely, or held perfect ambush locations. He could probably hold out a good long time. And each minute brought Chris one step closer to safety.

Ian took another long look at his location, and then went and dragged the dead body over, positioning it coldly to cover the angle he had most concern about for ricochets. Not that these rounds couldn't pass through a body, but every bit of cover might help. The next bend was ten feet down. He could retreat that way if someone thought of grenades or flash-bangs.

He turned the flashlight so it was mostly obscured, but ready to grab. Just enough light he wouldn't be completely dazzled if someone flashed him, not enough to completely kill his dark vision. And then he waited again.

Running feet echoed up the tunnel. Ian hugged the stock of the AK-47 comfortably and trained the muzzle on the cross-tunnel. He thought briefly about angles and rebounds, and put a short burst into the far rock wall as the footsteps arrived. A couple of rounds pinged down the correct corridor. He couldn't see the effect directly. But from the curses and scrambling, he figured it would make them cautious.

The next fifteen minutes were a replay of cajoling, threats and gunfire. The new guys had at least three men, but didn't seem to have brought any new weaponry into play. Ian used one more burst to discourage them, when repeated unreturned fire made them bold. As they scrambled clear, cursing him, he took the opportunity to swap for a full magazine. At some point he might have to switch to single shots, but for now he was good. His father had made sure they knew how to get short economical bursts on the auto setting, and not just run out the magazine. A lesson the guys out there didn't seem to have learned.

Suddenly, there was an echo of a shot from much further away. Ian picked up his head, straining his ringing ears. Firing weapons without ear protection in a stone cavern was really bad for the hearing. But the confusion of sounds from down the tunnel didn't sound like an organized assault on its way.

More noise, another shot. The men outside his position were talking loudly, clearly unsure what was happening. Good. _Confusion to the enemy._ After another minute, the men withdrew down the tunnel. Ian held his place. It might all be a ruse. Pretend a rescue, get him to come out.

Minutes passed. A burst of automatic weapon fire suggested that whatever was happening wasn't just a fake-up for Ian's sake. Letting loose with thirty bullets in these tunnels was asking for trouble, if there was no actual enemy to shoot at.

Footsteps approached again, tentatively, at least two men. As they neared the opening, Ian called out, "Don't come closer."

"Police!" a man yelled back. "Put down your weapon and come out with your hands up."

"Prove it," Ian yelled back.

"What? Put down your weapon, now!"

"I've had guys shooting at me for the last hour," Ian called. "I need some proof you're not with them, before I come out."

"State Police Officer Martinez, badge number 4459."

"Like that helps. Who sent you here?"

"911 call. I don't know the details," the man returned. "Who are you?"

_The bad guys had his name anyway._ "Ian McCallum. I'm a tree-trimmer in San Diego." He couldn't help snorting as he said it, with the automatic weapon snugged under his chin.

"Come on, Ian. We're here to get you out. Put down the gun."

So close, so close, but no. His father would kill him if he gave up the advantage without being certain. "Not enough."

There was a muffled conversation, and then the man called, "Okay. Look, just don't do anything stupid, okay. We'll get you some proof we're on your side. Just stay loose."

"I'm good," Ian returned. "You don't rush me, I won't shoot anything. If you trust me, you could come out into the open with your uniform on, hands up yourself, show me your ID."

There was a pause, then the man said, "Place is full of trigger-happy goons with big guns so sorry, no."

"Don't blame you," Ian said easily. He waited to see what they were going to do. It was not too far to throw him something. A cop's badge? _Or might they be fetching Chris?_ Now that was evidence he would come out for. He wanted to ask, but if it was a ruse, they needed to think Chris was still with him.

Then he heard another voice. "Ian," Jenny said clearly. "Put the gun down and get your ass out here with your hands up before I kill you myself."

Ian lowered the weapon to the floor, only aware of the tension in his arms as it drained away. He stood carefully, hands up and out. "I'm coming. Hold your fire."

As he walked carefully down the corridor, a uniformed officer popped around the corner, his gun trained on Ian's chest. Jenny stepped out after him, dressed in... _an evening gown and sneakers?_

"Is that what the Navy uniform looks like these days?" he asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep the grin off his face.

"I driving to a wedding," she said tartly. "Before I had to detour to save your ass."

"My ass thanks you," Ian said. A second cop came towards him, patted him down thoroughly, and removed the .38 from his leg and the contents of his pockets. Then Ian's hands were cuffed behind him.

"There's a dead guy back there," Ian said, pointing with a jerk of his shoulder. "His buddies shot him up, trying to get me. The guns were his."

"We'll check into it, sir," the State cop said.

"That cell phone was his too," Ian realized.

"Okay." The cop took Ian's arm firmly, looking around. "Is there anyone else down that passage, to your knowledge?"

"Nope," Ian said. "No people. Long twisty cave, small fucking opening. That's where Chris got out." He turned to Jenny in sudden apprehension. "Chris did get away, right? That's how you found this place?"

"Yep," she confirmed, and the last of Ian's fear fell away. He was suddenly bone-weary.

"Got a call on my cell from the boy," Jenny continued. "He'd called the cops, but he thought they were not taking his tale of gangsters and caves with the seriousness it deserved. He asked me to light a fire under them, for your sake. My friend and I were actually fairly close to here, heading south for that address on the note in our house. I thought I was an hour away from the action, and then suddenly here you were.

"So I convinced the cops that it was for real, and serious, and they listened to me. At least _someone_ believes that a woman who is a Navy Lieutenant didn't get her rank by sleeping around. The local sheriff wasn't prepared to handle multiple guys with guns, so he called in the State cops. Becca and I got here as they were moving in. I figured we'd just watch the show. Then they told me some crazy man was holed up with a gun, insisting on proof they were the good guys before he'd promise not to shoot them. I figured that had to be you."

Ian quirked a smile. "Macho man saved by the..." At the last second he censored the word dyke. "woman in sequins," he said. "So good for my ego."

"Hey," Jenny said. "I'm missing a fantastic wedding for you. Don't complain."

"Never."

Suddenly she stepped up to him, and wrapped her arms around him in a hug. The cop grunted at her but she ignored him. "I'm so glad you're okay," she said.

Ian leaned against her, since his hands were cuffed, and then realized, "Shit. You'll ruin that dress. I'm filthy."

"Don't care," Jenny said, but she stepped back.

The cops led them down the main passage toward the entrance. With the aid of flashlights, the distance seemed much shorter than Ian remembered, but it was still fifteen minutes before they stepped out into the open air.

The scene out there was dramatic. There were a dozen cops in various uniforms, and three guys in cuffs under guard. Lights had been set up, shining brightly off their battery bases, creating fantastical shadows as people moved around them. The sky was dark, with just a hint of lighter color in the west.

"What time is it?" Ian asked.

Jenny glanced at her watch. "Almost eight-thirty."

Ian shook his head. His time sense had gotten screwed, down in the dark. He'd thought it was much later.

Becca came running up to them, wearing her own more-sedate blue silk gown. She smiled at Jenny, and then gave Ian a warm look. That was more enthusiasm than he'd ever had from Becca before.

"You got him," she said. "Chris will be so glad."

Ian glanced around, resisting the pull of the cop's hand on his arm. The man was trying to head Ian toward a knot of officers up the hill. _Not yet._

"Where is Chris?" he asked. "Did he come here? Or go to a hospital?" _Ian hadn't thought that cut on Chris's back from the rock was serious, but maybe..._

Jenny blinked, and looked around too. "I haven't seen him yet," she admitted. "He called it in, said he was safe but you weren't. So we came after you."

Ian turned to the uniformed officer gripping his arm. "I want to see the guy in charge."

"That's what I was trying to do, sir," the man said. The 'sir' was pure sarcasm. "If you would just come this way."

Ian let the man tow him up the slope. Jenny and Becca followed them, slipping a little on the loose gravel. The knot of men broke apart as they approached.

"Captain Cross," the cop said. "This is the guy, Ian McCallum, that we were looking for. At least he says he is. He didn't have ID."

"I'll vouch for him," Jenny said. "What we want to know is, where is Chris Fletcher, the guy who called 911?"

Captain Cross turned to the man next to him. "Sheriff? Your office took the call."

The sheriff was a short, stocky man in a neat brown uniform. His sharp eyes glanced at Jenny, and then at Ian. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "We got the call, and once it was verified, I sent a car to pick him up while we coordinated this operation. Let me call in and I'll check."

He took the radio off his belt and walked a few feet away.

The State captain was saying something to Ian about statements and lawyers, but Ian ignored him to strain his hearing toward the sheriff's quiet conversation. Ian's ears still rang, but a louder, "He what?" didn't sound like the good news he wanted. He tried to move closer and was brought up by the cop's hard grip on his elbow. Jenny shifted in that direction herself, but the sheriff was already coming back, looking frustrated.

"We don't know where the guy is. He disappeared."

"He what!" Ian slipped out of the uniform's hand with practiced ease and got up in the Sheriff's face. "Explain that."

Ian felt a sharp tug on his arm. He let himself be pulled back, only because he recognized Jenny's touch. "Tell us what happened," she said, more quietly but no less insistently.

"We got the call on a cell phone," the sheriff told them. "The caller said he was Chris Fletcher, and he went through the whole long story. Then he hung up on the dispatcher."

"Where was he then?" Jenny asked.

"He said he was on County Road D, at the top of Turbo Hill. That's just a couple of miles from here. It makes sense, because cell reception is spotty around here. Turbo Hill is one place you can usually get a connection."

"But Chris wouldn't know that," Ian said. "And he didn't have a cell."

"So he was with a local," Jenny concluded. "Whose phone did he use?"

"We're checking into that now," the sheriff told her. "The dispatcher told your friend to stay put, that a car would come to pick him up. I sent Barney after him. Apparently when he got there, there was no sign of Fletcher on or around Turbo Hill. Barney called it in, but we were in the middle of this mess and stretched thin. So he just went back on patrol."

"Shit." Ian didn't have much adrenaline left, but he was getting the chills from whatever little there was. "Fuck. So you don't know where Chris is. And he hasn't called back."

"Not yet," the sheriff admitted.

Ian shifted, and felt the tug of the cuffs on his wrists. In one quick motion, he dropped, pulled his legs through to move his hands to the front, and stood. He thrust his wrists at the State guy. "Get these fucking cuffs off me," he growled.

The guy looked at his captain.

"We'll find Fletcher," the captain said. "Right now, you need to cooperate, give us your statement..."

"The hell I do," Ian said. "We find Chris, and then I'll give you anything you need for as long as you need." When the man hesitated, Ian snarled, "If you keep me from going after Chris, and anything has happened to him, this planet won't be big enough to hold you and me."

"Don't threaten me," the captain snapped back, but the sheriff looked closely at Ian and then nodded.

"Take the cuffs off him. I'll take responsibility."

The uniform waited for a grudging nod from his boss, before unlocking Ian's hands. Ian rubbed his wrists and turned to the sheriff. "What are you doing to find Chris?"

"I've got dispatch looking up the phone he used," the sheriff said evenly. "I'm going to head over to Turbo Hill myself, see what I can see."

"I'm going with you," Ian said flatly.

"Me, too," Jenny added.

The sheriff raised an eyebrow in the State captain's direction. The captain just shrugged . "Your call. Not like I don't have enough mess to take care of." As if to punctuate his words, a helicopter buzzed by low overhead, its landing lights on. It disappeared over the ridge.

"Med-evac?" Jenny asked.

"Yeah. When we got here, the two guys outside the mine tried to shoot it out. One of my guys and one of theirs got hit bad. And then there were other more minor injuries inside." He glanced up the ridge.

"I'll bring these people in to my office when we're done," the sheriff told him. "You see to your men."

The sheriff led the way up the hillside at an angle. Ian, Jenny and Becca followed. As they passed another deputy, the sheriff said, "Dale, with me." The man fell in behind them.

Ten minutes climb, tripping over brush in the uneven light of the flashlights, brought them to a road. The shoulder was lined with vehicles, sheriff cars, marked State units, unmarked sedans, and an SUV. At one end of the line, Ian saw Jenny's Corvette.

The sheriff pointed at a brown sheriff's car. "Dale, take your car. Drive Route D over Turbo Hill, go a couple of miles past it and swing back. Keep your eyes open for our 911 caller, Fletcher. What does he look like?"

Ian said, "Small guy, five-seven, skinny. Blond hair, jeans, baggy T-shirt, dark blue, currently looks like he's been mud-wrestling."

"Got that?" The officer Dale nodded and headed for a Sheriff's Department car.

The sheriff beckoned to Ian and Jenny. "You lot come in mine."

Jenny turned to Becca. "You take the 'Vette," she said. "Drive into town, rent us a couple of rooms, okay?"

Ian thought Becca might protest, but she dredged up a smile from somewhere. "This is what it takes to get to drive your car?"

"Yep." Jenny glanced at the sheriff and then added. "A room for me and Chris, one for you and Ian, unless you want a single."

Ian visibly saw Becca decide not to make an issue of it. "Sure. Be careful, Jennifer. Bring Chris back safe."

Jenny watched her lover head along the row of cars, slipping a little in her low-heeled pumps. Then she turned back. "Okay Sheriff. Where do you want us?"

The man opened the doors of a marked car. "I'll take the back," Ian offered. "I'm pretty dirty."

As they got in, the radio crackled. "You there, boss?"

The sheriff keyed it on. "Go ahead, Marge. Over."

"Phone belonged to the Gonzales kid. Jesus Gonzales. Over."

"Great. Give me the number. Over."

The dispatcher rattled off a string of numbers. Ian committed them to memory, just in case.

"Thanks. Out." The sheriff pulled out his own phone and cursed. "No bars." He pulled out onto the road. "Let's get some height."

"Tell me about Jesus Gonzales," Jenny commanded.

"Well, he's no saint, despite the name," the sheriff told her. "But he's not that bad. Sixteen or seventeen now. I've busted him a few times over the years for little stuff. Vandalism, underage drinking, stole a carton of cigarettes. The last time, he had some weed on him, and got six months in juvenile. He's not a big fan of the cops, but he's no master criminal."

"If he heard Chris call the cops, would he get scared enough to hurt Chris to get away?"

"Doubt it," the sheriff said. "Can't rule it out, if he was carrying drugs. Juvenile was not good to him and he's scared to go back. But there's never been any violence with Jesus, and he's a skinny kid."

"Chris is pretty small himself," Ian said.

The sheriff pulled over at the top of a hill. Above them arched a sky full of stars. Below them, the land fell away in dark ridges and folds, with only the occasional scattered lights. Ian looked out across that unrevealing blackness. _Chris, where the hell are you?_

"Here," the sheriff said. "Let's try again." He checked his phone, grunted and dialed. The call must have dropped to voice mail, because he stabbed a button and then dialed again. And then again. "Pick up, you little bastard."

On the fifth try, he got through. "Jesus," he snapped. "You hang up on me and I swear to God you'll wish you'd never been born...Good. Now listen..."

Ian tried to decipher what the kid was saying from the sheriff's replies, but they were mostly grunts, and _'then what'_. "And he was okay when you left him?" the sheriff asked finally. "Not hurt?...Okay. Jesus, get your little butt down to my office, give a statement to Marge, all the stuff you just told me, and then stay there until I tell you to go. You hear me? I'm not going to bust you for anything tonight if you stay where I tell you. If you don't, I'll come take your Mama's house apart and charge her for anything I find. You hear me?...Good."

The sheriff shut the phone and turned to Jenny. "Your friend..."

"Fiancé." Jenny corrected. Ian knew anything that gave them added rights to Chris was good, but he still winced.

"Fletcher flagged Jesus down on County D a mile from here. Jesus gave him a ride on the back of his bike to Turbo Hill, and let him use the phone. Jesus didn't want to hang around until my guy arrived. I'm betting he had something on him or was driving stoned. Anyway, he says Fletcher saw the lights on down the hill at Gordon's station and said he would walk down there to wait. Jesus took off. He says Fletcher was fine when he started walking. Jesus didn't see anyone else, or hear any cars. One odd thing though. He said there was a marked car down at Gordon's with the light bar going. Which is why he didn't give Fletcher a ride all the way down." The sheriff pulled out onto the road and picked up his radio.

"Come in Marge, over."

"Go ahead, Sheriff, over."

"Did we get a call to Gordon's Filling Station tonight?"

"Yeah. Daniel took it. He didn't call anything in."

"I'll check with him. Out."

The sheriff adjusted something and called, "Daniel, you out there, over?"

"Here, boss, over."

"Were you at Gordon's? Tell me about it."

"Yeah. Mike Rodriguez called. He went for a fill, and found the place dark. But the pumps were still on, and the door was open. It seemed weird, he couldn't locate Gordon, so he called us. I went on by. It was like he said. Gordon's old truck and the tow were both there, but no Gordon. No sign of violence, nothing stolen, money still in the till. I used to work there so I know where Gordie keeps the keys. I killed the pumps, locked up. I thought it was odd, but we had bigger things going on. I figured you needed me out here patrolling past the bars more than chasing down an adult who has a right to go missing if he feels like it."

"I'm not saying you did wrong," the sheriff told him. "But we've got another mystery. The guy who started all this with the 911 call vanished between Turbo Hill and Gordon's place, just about the time you were there."

"Shit." There was a pause. "I didn't see anyone. Maybe a car or two up on County D, but nothing went by the station."

"Well, head back there. I've got Dale on his way too. We need to find this guy. Out"

Ian had a bad feeling about this. "That filling station," he said slowly to the sheriff. "Is it a little beat-up place? Two pumps, cracked asphalt?"

"Yeah."

"When Chris and I got loose from the kidnappers, it was at a little filling station. I thought at the time they might go after the attendant, if he saw anything. I didn't hang around to find out. We ran on foot, made it to that mine in less than an hour."

"No other gas station around except Gordon's," the sheriff said. "You think they might have killed him?"

"Yeah. Maybe." Ian shifted uneasily. _All this, and Chris had been walking unknowingly back to where it started. Feeling safe, if he saw the cop car down there. And he should have been safe by now. The goons were up at the mine. So what happened?_

The sheriff slowed. "This is Turbo hill we're coming up on now." He pulled over at the crest. Down and off to the right, a small paved road led to a familiar-looking gas station. Ian might have had only a couple of glimpses as they ran away, but even with the faint light from the sign, he recognized the layout.

"That's the place," he said.

"Okay. I'm going to cruise down slowly."

"I'll look left," Ian said.

"Right," Jenny added.

They rolled slowly down the hill, turned and headed over a small bridge. Ian stared into the darkness, but saw nothing. The road swung around past the repair bays. A field of old cars littered the grass to their left. The station was dark. The sheriff pulled in and stopped.

A moment later, another marked car cruised along the country road coming towards the hill, then turned and pulled in beside them. The officer from the mine site, Dale, gave the sheriff a nod. They all got out and looked around. Nothing moved except the slight sway and creak of the overhead sign, as the breeze caught it.

"What now, boss?" Dale asked the sheriff.

The sheriff pointed him toward the building. "You look around there. Look for any sign of Gordon, or our witness, anything out of place. Daniel will be here soon. Get him to find those keys and open up again, turn the lights on but don't touch anything else. Just look around. I'm going to walk back up the hill with lights, search the road."

"We will," Jenny said. "What do you have for hand lights?"

"Give the woman your Maglite," the sheriff told Dale. He popped the trunk of his car, and handed Ian a boxy work light. "You try this one."

They headed away from the station along the paved road. Ian took the left side. The work light threw a wider but shorter beam than the sheriff's own, so Ian scanned the ditch, while the sheriff checked the brush beyond. On the right, Jenny swung her light in economical regular sweeps. The night was quiet, and Ian kept wanting to shake his head at the tinnitus in his ears. He resisted, listening for a cry, a call, anything.

They crossed the small bridge. The stream below sat in a narrow cut, with a surprising flow for early fall. Ian swung his light over the brown water and up the banks. Nothing. "How deep is that water?" he asked the sheriff.

"Not much," the man said with a dismissive glance. "In the spring it can go eight feet, but right now I'd be surprised if it's more than three-and-a-half, maybe four. You can wade across it."

_And Chris could swim well, or at least he'd claimed he could._ Ian gave the water one last sweep and moved on.

They crossed the bridge and continued up the hill. At the crossroad they paused. The intersection was marked by stop signs on all three approaches. There was a good view. Ian turned around. From here, the kid said he'd seen Chris start down toward the station. Then what?

The lights of the cop cars were clearly visible in the parking area. A third car appeared in the distance, flashing lights but no siren, and turned into the lot. A minute later the lights inside the station came on.

"That'll be Daniel," the sheriff said. "He used to work for Gordon in high school." He headed back down, sweeping the other side of the road. Ian looked at Jenny, and then they swapped too. New eyes, couldn't hurt.

Ian paused to cup his hands to his mouth. "Chris!" he yelled. "Chris, it's Ian and Jenny. We're good. Come on out." Because maybe Chris got spooked and decided to hide. The grass and bushes on the hill bent in a puff of wind that swept across them. There was no other answer.

"Chris!" Jenny called in turn. "Christopher Robin Fletcher! Where are you?"

Nothing.

The sheriff was halfway down the hill, heading toward his officers. Probably he was worried about this Gordon guy, someone he no doubt knew. His light sweeps of the hillside were quick and perfunctory.

Ian and Jenny began walking down, moving slower rather than faster. "What if he saw this was the same place and got spooked," Ian said. After all, Jenny had known Chris a lot longer. "What would he do? Would he hide? Run the other way?"

Jenny shrugged, not taking her eyes from the roadside ditch. "Either one. But by now there've been cop cars with lights all over the place. You'd think he'd flag one down. Was he hurt at all?"

"Not badly," Ian said. _Was that an arm? No, just a plastic bottle in the ditch_. "He was bruised up. He gashed his back getting out of the cave. I didn't think it was that bad. But it was bleeding."

"Bad enough for him to pass out?"

"I don't think so." Ian slowed still more. "He did get hit one time, right at the beginning. Knocked him out, or close to it. Maybe he got a concussion." Ian paused at the bridge. Once they crossed this, they were almost back at the station, and if Chris were there they'd have seen him. This railing was low and uneven. "I'm going to follow this stream down a bit. If he got dizzy, fell in..."

Jenny didn't sneer at his grasping straws. "I'll get the other side."

Ian rounded the end of the rail and began following the stream. The lip of the cut was crumbly and soft. He had to place his feet carefully to avoid skidding over. He shone the light down at the steep embankment and the narrow tumbling water. Nothing.

Then from the other side Jenny yelled, "Ian! Here! Got him!"

The sheriff said you could wade the damned thing. Ian slid down the embankment in one uncontrolled skid, ignoring the rocks that banged his shins. The water was a shock of cold around his thighs as he splashed in. A sink-hole grabbed his foot, and he almost lost a boot. He saving it only by going with the fall. Water filled his nose. He staggered up, uncaring and wrenched his foot free. The light had gone out. _Shit._ Three more strides, as the water level dropped, and then he was able to drop to his knees beside Jenny.

Chris lay on his side, half in the water, his eyes closed. One out-flung hand clenched a fist-full of grass stems. His mouth was open a little, his bruised face white in the beam of the flashlight that Jenny was scanning over him. Ian bent to press his fingers against Chris's flaccid neck. The skin was clammy and cold. He had a moment of déjà vu from the downed plane, railing at an uncaring fate. Last time he had won.

This time too, he felt the rhythmic flutter of a pulse under his fingers. Faint and slow, but there. Ian cupped his hands around Chris's head, feeling for injuries. The curly hair was soaked. Ian pulled his hand out and checked in the light, saw only water and mud, not blood. He ran his hands over the rest of Chris's body.

Jenny had her cell out. She grunted. "No bars. There's blood on his shirt."

"From the cut on his back," Ian said, and then reconsidered. He eased the stained shirt upward. Low on Chris's side, a bullet hole oozed slowly, the dark blood sliding down to mix with the water at the river's edge.

"Shit." Ian glanced around swiftly. No one popped up to finish the job. Which didn't mean there was no one there. "You armed?"

"In this?" Jenny gestured to her sequined sheath, now much the worse for wear. "You?"

"No." Ian gritted his teeth. "You go for the sheriff. I'll bring Chris."

"Okay." Jenny didn't argue. She lifted her skirt and scrambled quickly up the bank. Ian heard her yell toward the station as she cleared the lip.

Ian bent and lifted Chris in his arms. Chris weighed more than a small guy should have. Or maybe it was the way Ian's arms were shaking. He paused a moment, for steadiness and balance. It was difficult to climb. Chris was a limp dead weight, his head rolling loosely, arms flopping. Ian would have boosted him higher, but was afraid of losing his grip altogether. At the lip of the cut he slipped to one knee. _But he didn't drop Chris, never letting go of this man._

The sheriff and a deputy were running toward Ian, but he found his balance and refused their reaching arms. "He needs an ambulance," he said urgently, striding toward the station.

"Put him in the cruiser and we'll meet them," the sheriff directed. "It'll be faster."

Someone yanked open the door of a car and Ian slid in, with Chris sprawled across his lap. He wasn't going to have Chris slide around on that hard seat. He scooted over and helpful hands arranged Chris's legs on the seat, as Ian cradled the man's head in his lap. A clean towel was passed back.

"Apply pressure on the wound," a deputy said. Ian couldn't recall the man's name. "She says he was shot?"

"Yeah. Watch yourselves out there." But the shooter was already a passing thought. Ian lifted Chris's shirt, finding the small entrance and bigger exit wounds in the flesh of Chris's side. He wrapped the towel around, and applied pressure over both spots between his hands. He tried to lean over and use his body to stabilize Chris further as the car leapt forward, and swung to the right. His world narrowed down to the slowly spreading stain on the white terrycloth. Very slowly spreading. Was that good, that Chris was bleeding slowly, or bad because he didn't have much blood pressure left? Ian squeezed harder. There was no reaction from Chris, no grunt of pain, no tensing of muscles.

Chris's eyelashes screened his eyes. They were open just a slit in his pale, pale face. Only a crescent of white showed behind the wet amber fringe. _Eyes rolled up - is that good? Bad?_ Ian vowed if they survived this he'd take another first aid class. Maybe get EMT training. Med school? _Come on Chris, stay with me_.

"How is he?" Jenny's voice asked from the front. Ian hadn't even realized she was in the car.

"I don't know." His voice sounded hoarse. "The same. Still breathing."

The siren hurt his head, piercing his ringing ears. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them swiftly. _Watch Chris. Just watch Chris_. As if his gaze could keep the man with him. The car rattled and swayed over the rough road. Ian counted slow shallow breaths.

After an interminable time, the car shuddered to a halt. Ian glanced up. "We're here?"

"Meeting the paramedics," the deputy said. "They can start working on him en route. Here they come."

And then his door was pulled open, and hands lifted Chris out of Ian's lap. Other hands took over the towel pressure. Chris's hips and legs slid across Ian's thighs as he was pulled out. One shoe came off as the Chris's feet cleared the door. Ian picked it up, looking out.

The ambulance stood in front of them, lights flashing. Two uniformed paramedics eased Chris onto a gurney, strapping him in. They scrambled into the back of the ambulance hauling Chris's stretcher with them, reaching for oxygen, supplies, the stuff Ian hadn't had to try to save Chris. Ian took two steps toward the ambulance but the deputy grabbed his arm.

"There's only room for one," he said. "Let his fiancée go with him."

Ian turned and stared at Jenny. She hesitated, and then ran for the ambulance. The ambulance driver boosted her into the passenger seat, closed the doors, and got in. A neat three-point turn, and Ian was left staring at the departing lights, as the siren faded.

Ian looked down at the shoe in his hands, and then up at the deputy. Dale, the man's name was Dale. "I need to be there," he said. "I know I promised to give a statement, and I will. But can I _please_ do it at the hospital?"

The deputy hesitated. "I need to call in."

"Go ahead." Ian leaned on the car, turning the muddy sneaker in his fingers. Size eight. Chris had such small feet. Small hands, small bones, small everything. Well, not everything. Big heart, for one. Small brain, though. What the hell was the man doing getting himself shot after they were safely rescued!

"Okay," Dale said, opening his car door. "The sheriff says I can take you in, if you promise to stay available." He looked Ian over. "I'm thinking it wouldn't hurt to get yourself checked over too."

Ian just nodded. He got in, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. Without the siren the ride was quiet, almost soothing. His fingers traced over the side of Chris's sneaker, feeling the edge where the sole was uneven snagging on the nicks in his fingertips. His jeans clung to his legs damply. His head hurt, his ears still rang, his heart...that was miles ahead of him down the road, in the hands of that man on the stretcher.

All Ian wanted was the chance to tell him so.

***

The world around Chris shook like some prolonged earthquake. Someone was sitting on his chest, while another tormenter stuck a skewer in his side and twisted. Ian's banshee perched on the battlements and wailed about coming disaster. Someone moaned piteously. Oh, maybe that was Chris. He tried to close his mouth, and bit his tongue.

Somehow, the sudden sharp pain helped. The world around him came into focus a little. The banshee became a siren, rising and falling at close range. Chris blinked sticky eyes and found himself staring upward at a low white roof. A blurry unfamiliar face loomed over him, and he caught a glimpse of an IV bag hanging behind the man. _Ambulance._

He didn't remember getting hurt. Didn't remember anything much. There was a lot of cotton in his brain. That noise wasn't helping. He tried to sit up a little and someone's hand pressed his shoulder down.

"Don't try to move," a voice said over the din. "You're going to be fine. Just lie still and let us help you. You're going to make it worse if you move."

The warning was unnecessary. Just the tightening of his muscles, thinking about sitting up, almost made him pass out. The skewer guy upgraded to white-hot pokers. _Shit._ Maybe he was hurt enough for an ambulance. He wished he could remember what happened.

He shifted his arm, trying to reach out. Someone pushed his hand down, and wrapped a Velcro strap around his wrist. _Bastards._ He turned his head a little, but the world was still blurry. Maybe he didn't have his contacts in. He blinked hard and tried to say something, anything.

"You're going to be fine," the voice repeated. "Take it easy and hang in there."

There was something else he should remember. Chris tried to shut out the noise and the pain and concentrate. Something important, vital. Something he had to tell someone. It skittered across the surface of his thoughts. He couldn't grab onto it. Something life and death.

He slid a little as the ambulance turned sharply. There was a controlled bounce or two, and then they stopped. Chris on his bed was slid rapidly feet-first, with attendants beside him. He rolled out of the ambulance, and got a brief whiff of night air and car exhaust before he passed through a set of doors. _Hospital._ A new face bent over him as they moved.

"Hey, Chris," the face said. "You're going to be fine. We'll take good care of you, okay. Everything's going to be fine."

It would be more reassuring if they didn't feel the need to keep saying that. He realized he couldn't talk because something was pressing on his face. He reached up with his untethered hand and shoved the mask off his face. "Ian," he said. Or tried to say. It sounded more like a grunt. He turned his face to escape the hands trying to muzzle him again, and said it louder. "Ian!"

Then Jenny's face came into focus. He said "Ian," again. Whatever he was supposed to remember, to tell someone, that was the vital part. "Ian...needs..." Jenny put a finger on his lips.

"Hush," she said. "Ian is okay, he's safe, he'll be here shortly. You saved him. You got the word out. Ian is fine."

Chris felt himself go limp. He didn't fight the mask sliding back over his face. He'd lost sight of Jenny, but as always she'd given him what he needed. Ian was safe. Whatever Chris was supposed to do, he'd done it. He was being lifted, jostled, and the pain in his side flared. He let himself go under.

Chapter 13

Three hours later, Ian drank his fifth cup of coffee and paced back to the window. It still looked out on a well-lit, mostly-empty parking lot. Just like the last twenty times he'd looked out there. Nothing changed, nothing moved. At least his shirt was almost dry.

The cops had insisted Ian get a medical check-up. That had been hell, sitting isolated in a little curtained alcove waiting for someone to come look at him, while who-knew-what was happening with Chris upstairs. After fifteen minutes he'd gone AWOL, looking for answers. He'd made it to the surgical waiting room without anyone spotted him. Jenny was there, and she told him Chris was still in surgery. No news was good news. He'd let himself be steered back downstairs. Jenny had sworn she'd keep him updated.

His own injuries were judged minor. Like he hadn't told them that all along. The cops swabbed his hands for traces, and the doctor put a couple of stitches in a little cut on his left thumb, which would have been fine without them, but he'd given up arguing. Someone found him a pair of sweats to replace his soaked jeans. He'd made them let him keep the boots.

Then two hours of giving statements. He'd gone through it all three times, with both the State cop and a sheriff's deputy giving him the same look of disbelief. They made him show them the lock picks he used to get out of the trunk, made him demonstrate his skill on a pair of handcuffs. Then the fuckers had taken the picks, boots and all. They'd given him fucking flip flops to wear. He didn't care. By then he just wanted out.

They'd finally let him come up here, back to the waiting room. The surgeon had not yet appeared. Ian paced.

"Ian." Jenny's voice was a little sharp from where she sat on one of the hard plastic chairs. "Aren't you tired? Could you just sit still!" When Becca beside her laid an admonishing hand on her arm she sighed and added, "When you pace, those freaking flip flops squeak and snap, and it's driving me crazy."

Ian realized it was driving him crazy too. He slipped them off and stuffed them into the nearest trash. His bare feet would survive a hospital floor.

"I didn't mean..." Jenny began more softly, and then she stopped and looked up.

A doctor stood in the doorway, dressed in clean scrubs. "Family of Christopher Fletcher?" he said. All three of them stepped forward eagerly. So eagerly that the doctor stepped back and said, "Um. All of you?"

"I'm his fiancée," Jenny said, but she kept her hand on Becca's arm. "How's Chris."

"He's in recovery," the doctor said. "Surgery went fairly well. I'd be happy to give you the details in private."

"These are our best friends," Jenny said. "Anything you tell me, I'm going to tell them. Can we just cut out the middleman?"

The doctor looked at them speculatively, and then sighed. "Okay. Chris lost a lot of blood, and the bullet damaged several loops of bowel, which we either closed or removed. Otherwise it was a relatively simple wound. He had a couple of cuts that needed cleaning and suturing, and we did a CT scan for possible head trauma, due to the bruising on his face. The CT was clean."

"So he's going to be okay," Ian said with relief.

"He should be." The doctor's enthusiasm was a little too subdued for Ian's piece of mind.

"But?"

"There's always a chance of infection, whenever a bowel loop is damaged. We have a drain in and we're monitoring, but it will be a few days until we know whether we're in the clear. He also may have aspirated some water. There were a few patchy areas on his chest films. That puts him at risk for pneumonia. I've got him on oxygen and antibiotics, but that's another wait-and-see situation. And he came in pretty shocky, low temp, low blood pressure, slow heart rate. We've transfused him and he seems stable, but he's not completely out of the woods yet. We're monitoring blood pressure, kidney function, and so on. "

"Can we see him?" Jenny asked.

"He'll be in ICU, once he gets out of recovery," the doctor said. "We allow one visitor at a time, for ten minutes each hour. We need to keep the ward clear for the nurses. We don't send ICU visitors home at night, if you choose to wait in the lounge, but Chris will be sleeping for the next few hours at least. You might want to make one quick visit, and then get some rest yourself. Then you and his friends can come back tomorrow."

"We'll all go and wait," Jenny said firmly. "Where is it?"

"One floor up," the doctor said. "Left off the elevator."

"Doctor," Ian said quickly. "I'm not trying to be difficult or insult you but I just want to know. This is a pretty small hospital. You probably don't see a lot of emergency cases. Is there anything Chris needs that he can't get here? If he needs to transfer elsewhere, we can afford it. Just tell me."

The doctor nodded. "I'm not insulted. You're right; we're small. If your friend was a tiny preemie baby or someone with major metabolic problems, we'd be airlifting him out. But the one thing we do see here is trauma. Car accidents, farm machinery, even accidental gunshots. His case is pretty straightforward. He may have complications, but I don't think it's anything a bigger hospital would handle better."

Ian tried to judge the truth of that. The doctor looked back calmly. Ian nodded. "All right. Thank you."

"Up and to the left," the doctor repeated. "And find some shoes."

It was another hour before a nurse came out to tell them that Chris could have his first visitor. Ian pushed Jenny forward. "Go, already." Because if Jenny wasn't his fiancée then none of them had the authority to hear about Chris's condition. And that would be intolerable.

Jenny came back after ten minutes and sat between Becca and Ian. "He's sleeping," she said. "They have him on oxygen and tubes and he looks like shit, but he's sleeping quietly."

"You don't think..." Ian said. "Head trauma, low oxygen and all. He's not in a coma?"

"I don't know," Jenny said. "What's the difference between sleeping and a coma? But he woke up once coming into the hospital. Before the surgery." She smiled wanly at Ian. "He said your name, a couple of times. 'Ian needs.' I think he was still trying to get you rescued. I told him you were safe, and he kind of smiled."

Ian nodded. "Good. That's good."

Becca got up. "I'm going down to the vending machines. Anyone want anything?"

Ian almost said coffee, but he figured he'd already OD'd on caffeine. "No. Thanks."

"I'll go with you," Jenny said. "Let's take the stairs. I need the exercise. And a bathroom break."

They passed through the door together. Ian stared after them with mixed envy and sadness. No doubt, somewhere between the stairwell and the ladies' room, they would find a quiet space to share a real embrace. Ian could use a hug about now himself. Although not from Becca. But then the women would come out into the public areas and go back to a limited touch, maybe a supportive glance. _This is bullshit_ , Ian thought. _This has to change._

Jenny brought back a muffin, a candy bar and a bag of chips from the machine downstairs. Ian took them, even though the knots in his stomach didn't make food appealing. "You'll make a great mom someday," he muttered. Becca and Jenny exchanged a cryptic glance. Ian nibbled on the chips, more willing to face salt than cloying sweetness. He took tiny bites, washed down with bottled water, trying to make the miniscule bag last out the hour. He missed by a mile, and spent an interminable half hour reading an automotive magazine from 2008. Gas prices hadn't changed much.

Finally the nurse came out to invite Jenny back in. "You go," Jenny said to Ian. "Give him my love."

The nurse hesitated, but turned and led Ian back into the unit. There were six rooms in the ICU, each a glass-walled cubicle lined with machinery. Five were in use, and a second nurse kept watch from a central station. One old man sat at the bedside of an ancient-looking woman. He held the woman's hand in his, but his eyes were closed. The other patients didn't have visitors. Ian realized with a start that it must be after midnight.

"Over here," the nurse said softly. Chris lay on the bed, pale and still. Carefully, Ian slid into the room and sat in the hard chair at his bedside. For a minute he just watched the man breathe. There was an oxygen prong up Chris's nose, and more tubes and wires than Ian could identify running under the lightweight sheet that covered him. Bags of IV fluid and blood hung on poles, while bags of other less savory liquids were clipped below the bed.

The bruise on Chris's face had darkened, spreading from his neck over his jaw and cheek and almost up to his hairline. Scrapes on his forehead and hands testified to their blind fumbling in the dark. His golden skin had a greenish cast, pallid and translucent. Ian wanted to just take the man in his arms, but even without the nurses playing witness, he was almost afraid to touch him. Chris looked so fragile. And in the eyes of the world, he didn't belong to Ian.

Ian reached out with one finger to stroke the back of Chris's hand. His body hid the touch from the nurses, and he brushed over and over on a small undamaged square of skin. The world could go to hell. This was his Chris. So the man was a little creative with his back story. It didn't matter. Or at least, it didn't matter enough to make Ian walk away from him again. Not when Ian had found someone who would follow him uncomplainingly in the darkness, just because he asked. A man whose first reaction on getting out of imprisonment was to reach back and say "Not without you." For Chris, Ian's body would step in front of a bullet without the need for thought. Even back in that barn when it all started, Ian's body had recognized what Chris was to him, before his mind ever knew.

He leaned in a little, speaking softly so the nurses couldn't hear. So softly that even Chris himself might not catch the words. "You have to get better, baby," Ian whispered. "I need you. We have a lot of talking, a lot of figuring out to do. But that's the bottom line. I love you, Christopher Robin, and I'm not letting you go again."

For a few more minutes he sat and watched Chris sleep. That square inch of his fingertip touching Chris's wrist was all the contact they had. Ian willed all his energy, all his strength through that touch and into Chris. _Take it, take everything, babe. I'm yours._

The nurse touched his shoulder and he startled out of his focus. "Time's up," she said softly. Ian stood obediently. He reached out and just brushed the unbruised side of Chris's jawline with his hand. "Jenny sends her love," he said. "She'll be back soon, and I will too."

A man was in the waiting room with Jenny and Becca when Ian rejoined them. He wore a dark suit, and seemed tidy and unruffled for ICU at midnight. He stood looking out at that same unenlightening parking lot. Ian wondered who he was there for. The old man had remained in the ICU, unmoving. Ian would have envied him, except that he had a suspicion the old woman was dying. Not a reason Ian wanted to have for being allowed to stay longer.

Ian said to Jenny, "Chris is still sleeping. He seems pretty stable. You should get some sleep too. I can hang out here till morning."

"I don't know," Jenny said slowly.

"Go on," Ian told her. "Becca got rooms, right? Go get some sleep. I can't close my eyes yet, and this way you'll be fresh when I'm ready to crash in the morning."

"All right," she said reluctantly. "Makes sense." She gave him a quick hug. "Watch out for Chris for me. Tell him...tell him if he gets better fast I'll let him drive the Corvette home."

"You will?"

"Don't define fast. Then I can wriggle out of it."

Ian's lips twitched. "Got it. Bait and switch. I'll tell him. Goodnight ladies."

To Ian's surprise, as soon as the women had disappeared down the elevator, the man in the suit turned to him. "Ian McCallum?"

"Yes," Ian said slowly. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe this wasn't over. The crime boss might still be after them, and Chris was completely vulnerable.

His thoughts must have shown, because the man quickly pulled out a badge and passed it over. "Special Agent Arroyo, FBI," he said.

"What can I do for you?" Ian asked.

"I want to get your statement," the man said. "And I have some pictures for you to look at."

"Jesus. Can't it wait till morning? You can get my statement from the sheriff. Or the state cops. They recorded it and wrote it down. All three times."

"I will," Arroyo said. "But I have a few other questions. Part of what I'm trying to determine is whether you or Mr. Fletcher are still in danger."

Which echoed Ian's concern. "Okay," Ian said. "Tell you what. You make sure Chris gets some kind of protection for tonight, a cop on his door, I don't care what flavor. You do that, and I'll answer any questions you have, even if it takes all night."

Arroyo nodded slowly. "The local cops are pretty swamped right now. I'll see what I can do. Where can I find you?"

"Here," Ian said, dropping into the familiar chair and picking up an ancient magazine about fishing. "I'll be right here."

***

Chris swam up to awareness slowly, like digging his way out of molasses. Sound came first, humming and beeping, and over it Jenny's voice. She was talking in a steady aimless way, like she would to a pet, not expecting an answer.

"...so Becca had to tell him that no woman is going to buy underwear with that texture. I mean, no matter how the fabric looks, without a lining we'd be clawing it off within minutes. She proposed a sheer lining, and he had a hissy fit and accused her of trying to steal his idea. When she took this new position, she had no idea it would involve so much management." Jenny's voice trailed off and there was a rustle as she adjusted her position. "She sends her love, Christo, but she's not likely to make it back out here this weekend. She has to make up the hours...It was good having her here though, almost like a vacation, if your scrawny ass wasn't in that bed."

Chris tried to protest. His ass was his best feature; Jenny didn't get to insult it. "Not scrawny." He heard the words in his head, but not much sound came out. Enough that Jenny's voice moved nearer, though.

"Chris? Can you hear me?"

He grunted, not trying for words, and licked his lips. He felt parched, and his mouth tasted like something had died in there. Chris blinked hard against gummed-shut eyelids and looked up. Jenny's face swam into view, blurry but smiling.

"Hey, there," she said softly. "It's about time."

"Hey." He got some sound this time. He licked his lips again. They were chapped and flaking under his tongue.

"Wait, let me..." Jenny disappeared from view, and then came back. The cool glide of chapstick over Chris's mouth was a relief, but not enough.

"Water?" he rasped.

Jenny's smile got bigger. "You want a drink? I have some ice chips, okay? That's all you can have, until the doctor okays more. You weren't swallowing well. But here."

The slick edge of ice touched his lips, slid inside. The moisture melting into the parched desert of his tongue was bliss. Chris sucked every drop and then opened his lips again. Jenny slipped in another piece. "Thanks," he whispered when it was gone.

"God. Anytime, Chris. You want more?"

He risked a small nod. The room wavered a little, but not too badly. Three ice chips later, he felt almost human. "So," he tried. "Where..."

"I swear Chris, if you ask, 'Where am I?' I'll write you off as hopeless. You're in hospital. Obviously."

_Obviously._ He cleared his throat and tried again. "Where's...Ian?"

"Oh. He's downstairs in the cafeteria, getting his ninth cup of coffee or something. He's been basically living in your room, you know, since they moved you out of ICU."

"Ian's...okay?"

"He's fine. He was a little bruised up but nothing worse. He's ready to wrestle bears and hunt terrorists through caves or whatever you need him to do."

"Bring me...candy?" Chris quipped weakly. Ian was okay. Hearing that was like the best drink of water in the world, washing cool right through him. He closed his eyes.

"That's my Christopher," Jenny said. "Still got your priorities straight." She paused. "Does it hurt? Do you need the nurse?"

_No, I need Ian._ But Chris had blown that. No matter what Jenny said about Ian sticking around for him, no matter what his foggy memory dredged up, that was clear as day. Ian's face, walking away. Ian would keep him safe, but the man was never going to bring him candy. Once Chris was better he would walk away again. For a moment Chris wanted to sink back into that darkness. His chest hurt, his side hurt, the tip of his freaking nose hurt, it would be easy. And then Ian would stay...but that would be like lying. "I'm okay," he managed, opening his eyes again. "I...we..." Memories were coming back, patchwork, in flashes of vision and sound. _A woman's head dissolving in a spray of blood_. "She died. A woman died."

"Yeah, she did." Jenny put a finger on his lips. "Don't rush it. A lot of things happened. We'll tell you all about it, and the cops will want to talk to you too. But not now. There's nothing urgent anymore."

_Anymore._ Chris thought about that through the fog. He opened his mouth but Jenny slipped in another piece of ice before he could speak.

"You need to rest and get better," she said. "Ian will be here soon and he'll be glad you're awake. You've been sleeping way too long, you lazy slob."

"How...long?"

"You've been in the hospital almost six days," Jenny told him. "Four days in ICU and two days in here."

"I don't remember..."

"You were pretty out of it. That's okay, you're waking up now."

Chris moved a little, and pain jabbed him chest and back and side and head and...shit. He kept his complaint to a grunt. Then he grunted louder as a thought hit him. "My health insurance!" He had a whopping deductible. It was the only way he could afford the coverage. Six days in hospital! He'd never be able to pay for that. And from the feel, he wasn't getting out soon.

Jenny held him still with a hand on his shoulder, stroking his hair. "Chris, don't worry about it. Really. We'll get by. I promise, it's covered. Anyway, your publisher called. All the publicity you're getting has pushed your book sales way up. They did another print run on the first one, and they're upping the copies of the second book after it releases next week. Along with an actual publicity launch. You know, 'Thriller author Chris Fletcher's new book released as the author remains in hospital recovering from gunshot wounds'. You'll make money."

That was good, wasn't it? But..."Gunshot...I wasn't...shot."

"Yeah, babe, you were," Jenny told him. "You may not remember it but you were."

Chris tried to focus. No memories of getting shot emerged. "Fuck, that's butch," he managed. He _hated_ not remembering.

"I'll tell Ian you said so." Jenny leaned over and kissed his forehead. "Listen, Chris, I'm going to go tell Ian and the nurse that you're awake, okay? You just rest."

Like he could do anything else. Chris closed his eyes as Jenny's face slid out of view. Nothing about the ceiling tiles he needed to see. He tried to move a hand, and felt that fly-in-amber slowness. Nope. Not going anywhere anytime soon.

He tried to remember what happened. He got flashes of running through woods, tripping on branches. Memories of following Ian's shoulder in a darkness so thick he could almost taste it. There had been shots fired, he remembered, but he got out safely. Hadn't he? It was Ian who might have been shot. Somehow, Chris had things backwards.

He took a deep breath, and gasped as his chest zinged him. _Had he been shot in the chest?_ He almost didn't want to know. Ian would tell him. Ian would give him the whole story, in that calm smooth voice that made the scariest stuff seem reasonable. He sank down into the bed, willing himself to relax. He breathed shallowly, and waited for Ian.

***

Ian stepped though the elevator doors with his latest cup of the sludge this hospital passed off as coffee, and did a quick sidestep to avoid pouring it down Jenny's front .

"Oh!" She grabbed his arm and moved back from the doors. "There you are. I was just coming to get you. He's awake!"

Ian blinked. "Awake like muttering and writhing around?" Because that was the best Chris had managed for interminable days.

"No, really awake. He asked about you, and he said he didn't remember getting shot." Jenny smiled, through tears in her eyes. "Damned fool is worried about his health insurance."

_Yes!_ Ian grabbed Jenny, kissed her squarely on the mouth, and pressed the cup into her hand. "Here. Coffee for you. I'm gonna go see him."

"I'm going to call Becca," she told him. "The nurse said the doctor will come by in a while to check on him."

"Right."

Ian walked into Chris's room almost tentatively. He and Chris had parted with so much left unsaid. And now wasn't the time to say any of it. As long as Chris was getting better, they would have time.

Chris didn't look much different as Ian sat slowly down in the bedside chair. Still pale, thin, with the oxygen, the tubes, the monitors. His blond hair was greasy and tangled, despite Jenny's best efforts over the past week, and the dark roots showed. But Chris's skin didn't have that sheen of sweat that had marked the days of fever and delirium. And when Ian touched his arm, Chris's eyes opened.

Ian looked into those familiar grey depths, and smiled. "Hey, Chris. You're awake."

"Yeah." Chris's voice was thin and hoarse. "'Bout time, huh."

Ian reached out and ran a finger over Chris's mouth. "You scared the shit out of me, babe."

"Sorry."

"Like you planned to get shot, just to keep me hopping, right?"

It was a joke, but Chris's brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't remember..."

"It's okay," Ian tried for his most soothing tones. "Don't worry, all right? I'm here and Jenny's here. Markham had to give her compassionate leave since you managed to almost die. Again."

Chris moved his head on the pillow, and then winced, and reached out. "It's all mixed up..."

"Give it time. There's no rush." Ian took Chris's aimlessly moving hand in his, and held it in a firm grip. "Right now your only job is getting better. Understand?"

"Yes, Ian." Chris's eyes drooped shut. His lips moved. Ian leaned closer to try to catch the words. He thought he heard 'bossy' and 'tired'. He smiled.

"Sleep, baby. I'll be here to boss you around when you wake up."

Chris made a soft sound, like a sigh, and was asleep again between one breath and the next.

When the doctor came by, Chris roused enough to answer a few basic questions, and then drifted off again before they were done. The doctor shrugged and stepped back. "He's better, obviously," he said. "It will be a long recovery process. Between the wound, the water in his lungs, and the peritonitis, his body is pretty drained. But barring further complications, it looks like he'll do well."

Ian would have danced a jig behind the doctor's departing back. Well, if he could dance, and if he wasn't afraid of waking Chris. He sat back in the chair. Jenny stopped by a little later, but just gave Chris a brief kiss that he slept through and then headed for the hotel. Ian opened the book she'd brought him. One of Chris's favorites, she'd said. Ian scanned the first chapter.

It was midafternoon when he heard someone at the door behind him. He turned to look. The visitor was a tall pretty blonde of about thirty. She was neatly and expensively dressed. She carried a pot of blooming greenery and a box of chocolates. Her expression was uncertain.

"Can I help you?" Ian asked.

"I came to see Chris," she said.

"He's sleeping," Ian told her. "He's still pretty out of it. Can I ask who you are?" They'd been plagued with reporters and publicity seekers at first. The ICU staff and the cop on Chris's door had held them at bay, until that protection had been pulled off. When Chris was moved from ICU to post-op care, Ian had convinced the hospital to keep his room unlisted. One or two intrepid news types had still showed up, looking for follow-up stories, but Chris had been unconscious, and Ian had sent them on their way. This was the first one today.

But this woman said, "I'm his sister. Angela."

Ian blinked. They had called Chris's parents, of course, during that first long night. The call was received with expressions of concern, but then neither of Chris's parents had shown up to see him. Jenny had called again, when the peritonitis developed. She said his father seemed cool and indifferent, and his mother hadn't come to the phone. Jenny hadn't had a number for his sister.

"Come on in," Ian said. "Do you want to sit down?" He rose and gestured at the chair. "Here, let me get those."

The sister passed pot and box over almost without looking at him, and sat slowly, her eyes on Chris's face. After a moment, she ran an acute gaze around the room, at the monitors, the fluid bags. Ian remembered that she was a doctor.

"Tell me what happened to him," she said softly. "Medically, I mean. I read the papers."

"There was a lot of bullshit in the papers," Ian said. "But medically...he was shot in the side. The doctors said he had several perforations." Ian tried to remember the technical terms. "Then he got peritonitis. That was bad. He had a drain. They took that out yesterday. His oxygen was low at first, because he aspirated some water. He was shocky. They were monitoring his kidneys." Ian couldn't remember it all, just the grinding fear with each new complication. Day after day, sitting beside Chris's bed as he lay flat and white and motionless, or restless and delirious with pain and fever. "You could probably read his charts, being a relative and a doctor and all."

Angela nodded. "I will. I want to make sure they're treating him right."

Ian was surprised but he tried not to react visibly. Chris had told him that he got along well with his sister, but that had been part of the idyllic fantasy of Robin's fake childhood. Jenny said the woman hated Chris's guts. And she hadn't called for a week. But that didn't sound like hate.

Angela must have caught his expression, because she sighed. "I don't know what you've heard."

"Mixed things," Ian said tentatively.

She nodded. "Mixed stories. That was always Chris's pattern." She looked at her sleeping brother for a minute, and then without turning asked softly, "Are you his lover?"

Ian choked. "His, um,...?"

"I know," she said quietly. "About him and Jenny. I came home once over Christmas, when my parents were out of town. Jenny and Chris were home from college, and they were in Chris's room, arguing. Jenny was supposed to be his steady girlfriend, but she was getting on his case about the men he was going out with. He told her that she should have some fun in college herself, because it would be a lot harder to date women once she was in the Navy. I...I eavesdropped long enough to get a pretty clear picture."

"But you didn't tell his parents. Your parents."

"No." She looked at Chris, lying flat in the bed like there was a weight holding him down, each breath coming with a little rasp at the end. Ian thought she was going to reach out and touch Chris, but she pulled back and folded her hands in her lap.

"Chris and Jenny are still engaged," Ian said after a while.

Angela nodded. "That's their business. My parents were pleased about it, before. I didn't disillusion them." She hesitated, eyes on Chris. "Once upon a time I would have. I tattled on him all the time when we were kids. Trying to get my parents' approval. I hated his guts. But he didn't tattle back. In fact, sometimes he covered for me." She laughed a little. "This one time, we were bickering over the stereo. He was playing something loud, and dancing. I told him at least he could get the moves right, and demonstrated it right into the shelf holding my mother's crystal angel collection. Two of them broke."

Angela shook her head. "I was freaked. Mistakes were not...well tolerated in our household. But Chris said he'd fix it. He went and caught our neighbor's cat, who liked to wander through our yard. Then he set it up like the cat got in through the screen in my parents' bedroom. He made it artistic. Even held the cat up to get nice damning paw prints on the angel shelf. My parents never knew."

"He liked to tell stories," Ian said slowly.

"Oh, yeah. For fun, just being creative, and for cover when my parents were going to come down on him. They didn't catch a quarter of the things he said and did. But after the angel thing at least I stopped tattling."

"And now?"

Angela was quiet for a while.

Eventually Ian said, "I am his boyfriend. And I love him. So if you can help me understand..."

"My parents called me," Angela said. "They found out he's not in medical school. He's not, is he?"

"No."

"My father was furious, my mother was having weakness and palpitations right over the phone. They were going to disown him as soon as they could find a lawyer. And I realized that might be the best thing for him. My parents could make anyone crazy." Angela slid her hands over her knees and began pleating the fabric of her skirt between her fingers. "I've met someone special and I've been seeing a therapist. She made me realize just how little my feelings about my brother really had to do with Chris. It was all about my parents and their expectations. And when I realized Chris wasn't going to be a doctor, wasn't even trying to compete with me...well..."

"Chris didn't get past the first semester of med school. He's a writer."

Angela smiled. "And a successful one. It's good. And I realized that all this stuff I was carrying around was keeping me from remembering the little brother I actually lived with. He was a sweet kid, so easy to hurt and yet he'd forgive me, you know? So I wanted to come see him." She glanced at Ian. "I'm glad he has you. And I won't tell our parents."

"I wouldn't care," Ian said. "I'd tell the world. But Jenny is still doing Don't Ask, Don't Tell. So we don't have a choice right now."

"I understand." She leaned forward and touched Chris's cheek. "Hey, little brother, you in there?" When Chris didn't respond, she glanced at Ian. "Has he been awake?"

"Yes. He's talked a little. He's just really tired."

"Then I won't wake him." She stood and rummaged in her purse for a card. "Here. My cell number. Will you tell him I'm here, and I'd like to see him? But I'll understand if he's not up to it. I'll check his chart on my way out, maybe talk to his surgeon. Will you call me? I'll be in town for a couple of days."

"Sure," Ian said taking the card. "I'll call you, either way."

When the door closed behind her, Ian took back the chair and frowned at Chris. "Open your eyes, Chris."

Chris twitched, and then blinked up at him. "How did you know?"

"I know you. How long were you awake?"

Chris sighed. "About halfway into they plan to disown me?"

"She's right," Ian told him. "It would be the best thing they could do for you. Do you want to talk to Angela?"

"Yeah," Chris said wearily. "Later. Is there ice?"

"Better. The doctor okayed some lovely water for you." Ian held the cup and straw, while Chris took a few small sips.

Chris licked chapped lips. "Thanks." He looked down, and asked uncertainly, "Is pretending to be asleep the same as lying?"

"I'm thinking there's more shades of grey to this than I realized," Ian told him.

"Really?"

"Yep."

"So you're not going away mad right now?"

"I'm not going away period." Ian cupped Chris's face in his hands and gently forced his lover's gaze upward. "Chris, I love you and I need you, and I am damned well not living without you. We'll work it out."

Chris's smile was beautiful. His eyes lit. "Really?"

"Really." Ian bent and kissed him lightly, around the tubes and lines. Chris's mouth tasted like crap. Ian could care less. He settled back in the chair and took Chris's hand. "I know we have to work around Jenny's situation. I know that involves telling stories and hiding stuff. Just promise you won't tell lies to me."

Chris's face fell and he slipped his hand free. "I can't."

Ian stared at him. _What?_ "Why not?" _Didn't loving someone mean being honest with them? Or maybe Chris didn't feel the same way about him._

"I want to." Chris stared at him intently, his eyes damp. "God, Ian, I want to be with you and I don't ever want to deceive you. But I know myself." He bit his lip, and went on urgently. "I promise to try. I promise to never tell you lies that would endanger your health or safety. I promise to love you and care for you and never so much as look at another man, even if he's wearing leather. But there's going to be times, some little thing. Like I'm late for dinner and I'll tell you it's because there was a stall on the freeway, instead of admitting that I stayed too long in Borders watching to see if anyone bought my book. I just...it's the way I've always handled things. It just comes out of my mouth."

"So small stuff, you lie about out of reflex," Ian said slowly.

"Yeah. Small stuff, medium stuff." Chris choked. "Big stuff when it's my parents. I'll try. I'll really try. But I can't promise."

Ian looked down at him. _So, will you walk away from this man because you can't live without absolute trust. Or will you try too?_ "I want you," he said. "I trust you. Maybe that's why it's so hard. Because my gut believes every word that comes out of your mouth, completely. And then it hurts like hell when I'm wrong."

"So yell at me," Chris said.

"I can do that. You confess when you catch yourself lying, instead of piling it up, and we go on from there."

"I'll try," Chris repeated. "Just...don't go cold, okay? Don't walk away and shut me out. When I was a kid, if I got caught in a lie, I got the silent treatment. My parents froze me out and I wasn't allowed to say anything, not say a single word aloud at home, until the next Sunday in church, when the communion...the blood of our Lord washed my lying tongue clean." He offered a shaky smile. "I just figured out why I have such a jones for grape juice. Good thing our church was dry, or I might have become a raging alcoholic."

Ian nodded. "I promise. No cold treatment. I might yell. I'll try not to throw things."

Chris's smile became wider. "I know how to duck."

"Not _at_ you. Jesus."

Chris's eyes had regained their sparkle. Those gold lights danced in the pretty grey, as he looked up at Ian. Ian felt his own lips twitch in an answering smile. He was about to move closer when there was a tap at the door. Ian turned to see Arroyo, standing in the doorway.

"Mr. McCallum," he said. "Ah, Mr. Fletcher. You're awake."

"He's still pretty weak," Ian said warningly. "What does the FBI want with us now?"

Arroyo came in, and pulled an envelope out of his pocket. "I want you to look at some pictures."

"More mug shots?" Ian had identified the four men from the car. One was dead, the other three were in custody on a variety of charges involving weapons and firing them at police officers. He thought he'd convinced the cops that he'd never seen any of the other men close enough to recognize them.

"Not exactly." Arroyo passed over a set of four-by-six photos. They were all views of the same man, clearly dead from a shot to the head. The bullet had been small-caliber, not enough to obscure the man's features. Ian pulled a breath in through his teeth.

"What?" Chris asked, reaching weakly for the pictures in Ian's hand. Ian turned them so Chris could see.

"Cornwall," Chris said. "I mean, Wilson."

Arroyo looked at Ian. "You agree?"

"Yes," he said, passing the shots back. "That was the guy we knew as Cornwall on the plane. What happened?"

Arroyo tapped the pictures back into a neat stack, and slipped the envelope into his pocket. "I'm guessing his boss happened. That man was found in a hotel room in Mazatlan, two days ago. We confirmed his identity from the fingerprints, but I wanted to be sure it was the same man you saw on the plane. If you're trying to escape from a man who deals drugs, Mexico is not a safe haven."

"What does this mean?" Chris asked. "To us, that is?" He shifted like he might try to sit up, and Ian put a firm hand on his shoulder. Although from the whimper Chris had made when he moved, it might be unnecessary.

"It means the boss man has no more reason to go after you two," Arroyo said. "He's cleaned house without your help."

"What about his men?" Ian asked. "Is he likely to try to stop us from testifying against them?"

"I don't think so," Arroyo said. "You only identified four, and of those, the only one who was anything was Francisco, who's dead. The other three are low-level thugs. They'll do their time and not make waves. They don't have any information on the big boss that he might worry about. And we have them all cold on other charges. It's not like they're going to walk away if you two don't testify. So even if they don't just take a plea bargain, I can't see it being worth his while to go after you." The agent smiled slightly. "Other than maybe an ego thing. He set seven or eight of his men on the two of you, and you beat them. Still, it was just a bunch of his foot-soldiers. I don't think he'll take it personally."

"So we're safe?" Chris said thinly.

"I believe so." Arroyo hesitated. "What about the man who shot you? Do you remember anything about him?"

"I don't even remember getting shot," Chris muttered. "It still...do you know what happened?"

"We found the gas station attendant, Gordon Fisk, hiding in one of the junker cars on his property," Arroyo told him. "He says he saw you guys run from the kidnap car, saw a guy heading his way with a gun out, and was smart enough to take off out the back. He caught a bullet in his arm, but was able to keep going. He played hide-and-seek with the guy with the gun for a while and found a spot to stay hidden.

"Then a car dropped off three more guys. The four men conferred, and a couple headed up the hill, presumably toward the mine. The other two hunted for Fisk for a long time. Eventually one of them drove away, and Fisk watched the other one keep looking for him until he passed out. We think that man hid when Rodriguez arrived, maybe even waited until the sheriff's deputy rolled onto the lot. Then the man gave up and left. Fisk was out cold and still hidden. The deputy didn't see either of them.

"We figure the man with the gun was heading up toward Turbo Hill as you were heading down, maybe looking for cell phone reception. He either recognized you, or just thought you saw him. He shot you, and you fell or jumped into the river. Fisk says he never got a close look at any of the men. And the four men that McCallum identified are all accounted for. If you can't identify the guy who shot you, then we have no clue who he was."

Chris shook his head silently.

Arroyo looked over at him. "I still need your statement, but frankly you look like crap. I don't want McCallum getting after me if I set back your recovery. Someone will come by tomorrow and go through it. Have a good day, gentlemen."

Ian looked down at Chris as the door closed. The man's eyes were shut and he looked pale. "Should I ring the nurse?" he asked. "Do you need pain meds?"

Chris turned his head marginally from side to side on the pillow. "I hadn't thought..." he whispered. "Do _you_ think we're safe?"

"Sure," Ian said firmly. "Agent Arroyo's right. There's no reason for anyone to come after us." _Not that Ian wouldn't be watching for them, just in case, for a long time to come._

"What about the woman?" Chris asked. "I remember...who was she?"

"Her name was Miranda White," Ian said.

"My proofreader? But...I met her once. I didn't recognize...But she was in New York...I thought."

"I guess not," Ian told him. "I found out she moved out to San Diego a month ago. I guess you can proofread by e-mail these days. She was confused. She had this idea that she was the Miranda character from your books, and you were going to fall in love with her."

"She called me Ben," Chris remembered. He looked sad.

"Yeah. She kind of mixed real world and fiction together. I don't know how it would have turned out, but Wilson's boss had our cars both tagged with GPS, waiting to pick us up for questioning. When we both headed to some nice secluded country spot his man decided it was a good opportunity for the snatch. Miranda was just in the way, so they got rid of her."

"Because she couldn't keep the truth and my fiction straight," Chris muttered. "And it killed her."

_Enough was enough._ "She was loony," Ian said firmly. "You're just a good liar, when the need arises. You know the difference, and you would never hurt anyone. We need to suck it up and move on."

"She won't move on."

"No. But I swear, Chris, if you start wallowing in guilt I'm going to paddle your ass."

Chris suddenly smiled. "I like the sound of that."

Ian stared down at him. Every inch of his body leaned toward the man in the bed, seeking that electric heat that only Chris seemed to possess. Including about eight inches of Ian that were going to just have to wait. Ian took Chris's face in both hands and leaned in to kiss him, long and sweet and slow. Chris's lips moved under his, opening. Chris's tongue stroked him, and the smaller man made a soft sound that was not pain. Ian pulled back and smiled at him, not letting go of his face. He stroked along Chris's cheekbones with his thumbs, and watched his lover's eyes darken. "Hold that thought," he said.

Epilogue

Chris stretched luxuriously. Ian's big bed was positively decadent, especially when Chris had it all to himself. High thread-count sheets in pale grey slid against his skin. The pillow was soft, the comforter was warm, the sun was filtered down to a soft glow by the blue-and-brown curtains. Chris rolled over, ready to drop off for another two hours or so. Until the flat heavy weight of the newspaper landed hard on his cheek.

"What the fuck?" He sat up and glared at Ian. "I thought we had an agreement. You don't make me get up in the mornings, especially on weekends, and I cook you dinner in the evenings. Just because you work weekends so your clients can be home to watch you lumberjack around..."

"Thought you might want to see that," Ian said, gesturing to the paper.

"Why? Did someone review my new book?" Chris opened the paper, heading for the entertainment section and then paused to read the headline. Front page above the fold. _Senate Votes to Repeal Don't Ask, Don't Tell._

"It's not always about you," Ian teased. Chris tuned him out. He grabbed his cell phone and hit the speed dial.

"Jenny, sweetiecakes, did you see the headlines in the paper?"

"Chris, it's six in the morning and of course we saw it. I get the news online, and we were waiting for it. We heard almost as soon as the votes were tallied."

"So, aren't you excited?"

"It's too soon to get excited," Jenny said. "There's all sorts of steps they have to go through. It has to be approved by the Secretary of Defense and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and then..."

Becca's voice suddenly replaced Jenny's. "She's being cautiously optimistic. I, on the other hand, turned cartwheels down the hallway."

"I'd pay money to see that."

"I haven't done cartwheels since high school, and I was naked."

Chris grimaced. "Okay. Not much money."

Jenny must have taken back the phone. She said, "Chris, we love you. And I'm glad you care. Now go bother your boyfriend, and let us go back to sleep."

"Love you too." Chris hung up. He set the phone on its charger and looked up at Ian. "I can't believe it. Our politicians actually came through."

Ian smiled at him. "Now will you stop feeling guilty about leaving Jenny?"

"Maybe. Eventually." Jenny had practically forced him out the door, but Chris still felt like he'd abandoned her. He had been ready to do the same stealth-dating she did with Becca, and Ian had reluctantly agreed. But Jenny had flatly refused to let him do that. When Chris finally got out of hospital, which had taken way longer than he would have liked, Jenny had his stuff boxed up to move out. She staged a public breaking-of-the-engagement and kicked his ass to the curb in dramatic fashion. Whereupon, Ian rounded him up, took him home, and found much more interesting things to do with his ass. Speaking of which...

Chris eyed Ian speculatively. "Are you headed off to work right now, or do we have some time?"

"I don't have to leave for a while," Ian said. "I was thinking about eating some breakfast."

"I was thinking about eating, too." Chris let the sheet slide down his chest a little, and licked his lips.

Ian laughed, but his eyes were beginning to heat up. "I've heard real food is over-rated."

"We should celebrate," Chris told him. "Engage in some of that sodomy that the Navy will soon have to condone."

"Well when you put it all sexy like that," Ian drawled in his smooth voice. He stalked closer, beginning to unbutton his shirt. "You have a particular variety of sodomy in mind?"

Chris gave his lover his best wicked smile. "If you come back to bed naked we can negotiate."

Ian shook his head, even though he was already pulling his shirt off. "I don't know. When I negotiate with you naked, I get distracted."

Chris reached out and grabbed a fistful of denim to haul him closer. "I'll help you stay focused." He unzipped Ian and shoved the jeans off his hips. Ian was already interested, and he got harder as Chris slid his tongue along the soft cotton over Ian's length.

"Oh, yeah." Ian pulled away to finish undressing, and then climbed in with Chris. They kissed slowly, softly, like there was all the time in the world. Gradually they became more heated. Chris locked his fingers in Ian's hair and tipped the man's head back to feast along his throat. He nipped Ian's shoulder, and then ran his tongue back up to that sensitive spot under Ian's ear.

Ian's hands slid down Chris's body, gliding over his skin. Those rough fingertips stroked him, halfway between tickling and arousing. Chris twisted a little, trying to get more contact, and bit Ian again, harder. Ian's hands caressed Chris's back. He scraped a fingernail over Chris's spine above his ass, and then slid his touch across the rough scar of the exit wound above Chris's hip. Chris didn't like his scars, but they meant something different to Ian. Chris had stopped protesting when Ian took foreplay across those damaged patches of skin.

Ian's hands moved around Chris's hips and then down, and then okay, not tickling any more. Chris moaned against Ian's mouth as those big hands closed on him and jacked him slowly. "Oh, baby, oh, baby," he groaned. "Yeah, like that." Ian aroused him with practiced touches, stroking, pressing, fisting around and over him. Chris panted and bit his own lip.

Then Ian shifted all the way onto his back, and pulled Chris on top. "You," he said. "In me."

_Damn, he loved hearing that in Ian's voice, when smooth turned rough with need._ Chris shuddered, and drove his mouth down on Ian's. He had been hard, but now he was aching. He'd always figured being five-seven, blond, with a great ass and an ordinary cock made him a bottom all the way. But with Ian it turned out not to be that inevitable. They had played around, experimented. Chris could remember every moment of that first time Ian had told him to top. He'd nearly come before he could get in there. And then they'd both about broken something coming together in the incredible heat and rush of the moment.

Chris still mostly bottomed. He loved being fucked. But now and then, they'd switch, and that was amazing too. Like now; Ian looking up at Chris with those blue eyes on fire with needing him. Ian's voice, Ian's hands, Ian's hard muscled body underneath him.

Ian rolled a condom onto Chris, and then slid a handful of lube over him. He brought his thighs up around Chris's hips and tilted his ass up, asking. Chris kissed him and then slid down the bed through the press of Ian's thighs. He used every trick of tongue and lips he knew, sucking, biting, arousing Ian. The man was arching and bucking under him by the time Chris raised and spread him over Chris's knees. Chris bent down, inhaling the musk of Ian's body. He used his hands to part those strong thighs wider, and then lifted Ian and went to work with his tongue. Ian softened and opened for him, moaning in little panting cries with each stab of Chris's tongue.

Chris reached for the lube, and slithered it over two fingers. Ian grunted deep when Chris pressed his fingers inward. Chris worked inside him, flexing, stroking. He recognized the jolt of Ian's body as his fingers ran over Ian's gland. Chris paused, stroking slowly, and looked up at Ian's face. He loved this, the way a flush climbed Ian's neck and his mouth dropped open as the sensations swept over him. The way he gasped and clenched with each press of Chris's fingertips.

"Now," Ian said urgently. "Now, baby."

Chris slid up Ian's body and kissed him wetly, sharing his tastes. Then he reached down and positioned himself against Ian's ass. A slow, firm press, and Ian's body reluctantly opened for him. Ian's hiss was satisfaction touched with pain. Chris looked down into Ian's eyes and began rocking his hips faster.

***

Ian raised his thighs higher around Chris's hips, and angled upward to meet his lover's thrusts. His body was tight, reluctant, but Ian cherished the burn as he and Chris pressed deeper together. He'd spent so long resenting the way Jack had done this that he had almost forgotten the good things about being underneath. He'd forgotten the slow slide of pleasure, as a man pressed in against the clutch and grab of his ass. He'd forgotten just how sweet it was to say yes, and be taken. He'd forgotten that there's no way to be closer to a man than when he's deep inside you, and you have your arms and legs wrapped tight around him.

With Chris, it wasn't about dominance or playing games. It was about getting the most pleasure they could out of their two bodies. And holy hell, Chris had learned to do that well. Ian cried out as Chris changed the angle of his thrusts and nailed Ian's prostate just right.

"Like that?" Chris's voice was hoarse. "Tell me sweetie, is that good?"

"Shut up and fuck me," Ian groaned.

Each drive pressed that sweet hard length over Ian in exactly the right place. He locked his hands behind Chris's shoulders and just hung on, panting. His breath came in short gasps. His senses were filled with the sight and sound and smell of Chris over him and in him. Chris was grunting now, short wordless explosions as their bodies came together. Again, again, again, straining towards that brink, oblivion close enough to taste it. Then climax rolled over Ian, taking him under.

Ian's body vibrated, wringing every last drop of pleasure from him. As he began surfacing, Chris cried out and came too. Ian locked his legs and arms hard on Chris, dragging him in tight. For a second, Chris held out, arms braced, bucking those last uncoordinated tremors into Ian's trembling ass. Then he collapsed into Ian's hold. His breath stroked over Ian's skin in satisfied puffs. The room was quiet and warm.

Ian nuzzled his face into the blond curls on his shoulder. Chris still dyed his hair. Not that Ian was complaining. He loved the way Chris looked with those blond strands trailing into his eyes. But he hoped someday, if Chris wanted to, he'd feel secure enough not to bother. Chris would be gorgeous with dark hair too. Ian kissed his damp skin.

"That's a nice send-off," he murmured, although he made no move to get dressed. He didn't think he _could_ move, yet.

"You really have to go to work this early?" Chris murmured, snuggling in a little.

"Eventually." Ian still didn't shift, beyond twitching a lazy finger to stroke over Chris's shoulder.

Chris sighed. "You know, you have the hottest ass on the planet."

Ian laughed. "Yeah, right. What about that guy in the cowboy hat and chaps at Trent's Christmas costume party last night? Your tongue about hit the ground."

"That was you," Chris protested. "I wasn't looking at the guy. In fact, I don't remember going to that party. Costume party? What costume party? Anyway, who has a costume party for Christmas?"

Ian shifted a hand to tap Chris on the lips, fighting a smile. "Liar."

Chris rose on his arms to look down at Ian. "So maybe I was there." His eyes became more serious. "I love you, Ian. And I don't give a damn about any other man, no matter how hot his ass looks in chaps."

Ian locked his hands in the halo of Chris's blond hair and pulled the man down into a kiss. Because there were times when Ian had no doubts at all. Moments like this when he knew that what Chris was telling him was the pure and simple truth.

#####

If you enjoyed this story, look for Life Lessons by Kaje Harper, in print from MLR Press May 2011.

