Wesley Wyndam-Pryce reminded him a lot of Alfie. Another over-bred, over-privileged limey with an eighteenth-century Staffordshire tea set on his bookcase and an inflatable rubber suit in his closet. Straight, but definitely not narrow. Lots of untapped potential there, Brian thought, studying the other man with a jaded eye. A few weeks of concentrated effort, judicious application of alcohol and pressure in the right areas, and next thing you know he's bent over his antique Chippendale sideboard with a ball-gag in his mouth.

Brian smiled at the image. It might be an interesting little side project to keep him entertained while he scoped the lay of the land here at Wolfram & Hart.

Wesley looked up from Brian's dossier and returned his smile, taking it for the syncophantic grin of the hopeful interviewee.

"You have an MBA from Carnegie Mellon. That's an excellent school."

The words were perfectly correct, but Brian caught the hint of condescension. Typical snotty Brit--they thought any university established after 1776 was pretty much a jumped-up trade school. His smile faded.

"It's no Oxbridge, but they kept a few books lying around. Once in awhile we even cracked one," he said.

Wesley looked momentarily confused at Brian's sudden shift in demeanor. "Uh, quite."

Brian smirked inwardly. That's the kind of thing these public school types always came out with when they couldn't think of anything intelligent to say. Good to know he'd learned something from Alfie besides a dozen interesting uses for parachute rope.

"You were with Vangard Advertising for eight years?" Wesley continued after a brief pause.

"Closer to nine," Brian corrected.

"And it says here that during that time you were director or associate director on seven Clio award-winning campaigns. You received One Club Gold Pencils in 1997, '98, and '99. You were named Employee of the Year twice by your firm, and won the Atlas Award for Outstanding Excellence in 2001."

"Uh-huh," Brian answered, suddenly bored. He wondered if Wesley was going to spend the entire interview telling him the contents of his own résumé.

"You made partner in Vangard early last year."

"That's right." Brian studied his nails and wondered if he'd have time to get a manicure before heading out to West Hollywood tonight. Maybe if he put off hitting the hotel gym until tomorrow morning. Abs or cuticles? he thought idly. Decisions, decisions. In Pittsburgh it would be the abs that got you laid, no question, but he wasn't up to speed on L.A. aesthetics yet.

"What made you decide to leave Pittsburgh?" Wesley asked. "You were doing so well at Vangard. I'm surprised Gardiner Vance was willing to part with you." Sharp blue eyes gave Brian a speculative look over the polished desktop separating them.

This brought his focus back front and center. So that was the point of this little detour down memory lane. He'd forgotten what pussies Englishmen were when it came to asking for what they really wanted. Even Alfie had taken almost five days to get to the diaper thing.

"We had creative differences," he answered. That was the official line he and Vance had agreed on during the severance negotiations. Vance gave him a year's salary and worked his West Coast contacts on Brian's behalf, and Brian didn't sue him for everything he had and label him a homophobic fuck in the process.

Vance was a homophobic fuck, of course, but Brian still had five maxed-out gold cards racking up interest on a daily basis. A little hypocrisy was a small price to pay when your credit rating was hanging in the balance.

Wesley said nothing, waiting for Brian to elaborate further on his sudden departure from Vangard. Brian leaned back in the posh leather guest chair and gave him the blank expression he'd been perfecting since boyhood. If it could defy Black Jack Kinney and his flying fists of fury, it could definitely withstand one weedy English guy.

After a minute or two of the staredown, Wesley's expression darkened. He set down the dossier and steepled his hands on the desk. "Mr. Kinney, can you tell me what you hope to bring to Wolfram & Hart? Your résumé is impressive, certainly, but all of your experience is in advertising, not public relations."

For half a second Brian considered mentioning his PR work on Stockwell's campaign, then thought better of it. You couldn't get much mileage out of being captain on a mayoral campaign that went down like the Titanic, especially when you were the one who'd deliberately steered the ship right into the big iceberg. He decided to stick with the official line.

"Tomato, Tomahto. It's all about creating an image, whether it's soft drinks or a corporate law firm. If I can sell the public on a soda that tastes like fruit-flavored piss, I can even sell them on you people." He let the condescension ooze into his voice. Fucking lawyers, getting all high-and-mighty with him, when they fucked more people in one day than he did in a year.

Wesley's mouth thinned. "I was warned about your less-than-stellar attitude by some of my associates back east. I can see they weren't exaggerating."

Well, son-of-a-bitch. Not only was Vance a homophobic fuck, he was a lying homophobic fuck. Better start hiding those assets, Gard ole buddy, Brian thought darkly, before turning his attention back to the man in front of him.

"I've been doing some research into your firm in the last couple of weeks. I think my attitude is a pretty realistic assessment of the situation. I've heard of flesh-eating viruses with better reputations than this place. Even other law firms think you guys suck--you're the child molester the other felons don't want to eat lunch with. I guess people tend to take notice when you stay in the black by defending pimps and pushers and volatile chemical companies."

Brian wasn't even going to get into all the really disturbing stuff he'd found associated with the firm's name, mentions of Wolfram & Hart on weird and wonderful websites touting conspiracy theories and occult rituals and instructions on how to make gamma-ray blocking tinfoil hats. Time enough to investigate how much of that was shit and how much was bullshit when he was being paid to do it.

Wesley looked chagrined. "That was the old management. We're looking to change all that," he said, a note of defensiveness creeping into his voice. Brian knew he had him.

"Great. But nobody is going to know about the shiny new you unless you have a PR man who knows what he's doing. So you can hire some wet-behind-the-ears kid or desperate hack to kiss your ass and tell you you're wonderful. Or you can hire me and know what's really going on. And maybe, if you guys don't do anything too stupid, I can fix it so the rest of the world won't think you're Satan's private law firm anymore."

Wesley flinched a little at that last sentence, and Brian wondered again about those freaky websites. He filed the thought away for later consideration.

"You're very frank, Mr. Kinney," Wesley said after a moment.

"I save the bullshit for the press releases, Mr. Pryce."

Wesley sighed. He looked at Brian's resume one more time, like it might contain the answer he needed, tapping his fingers nervously on the desk all the while. Then he seemed to come to a decision. He threw the dossier into his Out box with an air of finality, and pressed a code on his desk phone.

"Y'ello?" A cheerful voice answered after a couple of rings.

"Lorne, can you come to my office for a moment? I need you to meet one of the candidates for the Director of Public Relations position."

"No problemo--I was just finishing up my conference call with J. Lo's people. You want me to bring the box?"

"No, I think a capella will be just fine."

"Are you sure? Having the music helps, sometimes--they relax, get into it a little more. You know if the poor things get too nervous it skews the results."

Wesley shot Brian a sour look. "I don't think that will be a problem in this case."

"Oookay, you're the boss. Well, sort of," the voice replied, and clicked off.

There was a long, tense silence while they waited for the voice to make its way to Wesley's office. Brian spent it speculating on what interesting paraphernalia the Englishman might have stashed in his desk. Definitely a riding crop and nipple clamps in the lower left-hand drawer, he decided. For when those Friday night visits to Mistress Roxanna just aren't seeing you through the week. Maybe some amyl nitrate in the center tray next to the White-out? Naah, he's too careful for that.

He was starting on the possibilities of the locked bookcase behind the desk when the voice walked in. Brian glanced at the tall figure in the doorway and did a double-take. He knew that California had elevated body-modification to the highest form of personal expression. But this was fucking ridiculous. The guy was green--with claws and red eyes and little devil horns. Brian hadn't seen anything so outrageous since Emmett's last Halloween bash.

Also, Greeny appeared to be wearing a canary-yellow Roberto Cavalli, which was seven different kinds of wrong.

"This the guy?" Greeny said, like Wesley had several candidates for Director of Public Relations crowded around his desk.

"Yes. Brian Kinney, this is Lorne, head of our Entertainment Division," Wesley said with icy politeness.

"Hey there," Greeny said, holding out one scaly, clawed hand for Brian to shake. In his excellent peripheral vision, Brian could see Wesley watching him closely. This must be some sort of weird coolness check, to see how he responded to the latest and loopiest trends here in La-La Land. Or maybe this guy was just a freak. No sense taking chances either way. After the slightest of hesitations, he took the proffered paw, amazed to find that the scaly flesh felt quite warm and real to the touch. It was unbelievable what they could do with latex these days.

You should know, a voice that sounded too much like Justin piped up in his head. Brian pushed the thought away with a brutal shove.

"Hey," he said politely enough to the vision in front of him. "Lorne what?"

"Oh, just Lorne," Greeny returned. "Like Cher or Madonna." He gave him a little wink.

Yeah, I get it, you're not playing for the home team either, Brian thought wryly. The suit sorta clued me in.

"Has Wesley here explained what we want you to do?" Lorne asked him.

"I thought it'd be simpler to wait for you," Wesley said.

"You just didn't want to be the one to say it," Lorne returned.

Brian looked questioningly at the two men. He was picking up a definite sheepish vibe, especially from Wesley. "What?" he asked, keeping the blank face firmly in place, but inwardly worried. If they were leading up to some kind of mandatory pre-hiring piss test, he was in trouble.

The two men exchanged a significant look.

"We need you to sing," Lorne said finally.

"Excuse me?" Brian said, totally confused now.

"It's just a little thing we do here at the firm with potential hires," Lorne said. "I can tell a lot about you by the way you sell a song. What kind of person who are, how you'll fit in here--"

"What, like some kind of vibe check?"

Lorne beamed. "Exactly. I knew you were a hep cat the first time I laid eyes on you."

Christ, this fucking town. Next thing you know they'd be sending him out to have his chakras opened.

"I'm afraid it is mandatory for anyone under consideration for employment, Mr. Kinney," Wesley put in silkily. He was clearly enjoying Brian's discomfort. "But if you'd rather not . . ."

Oh, fuck you, Jeeves. I don't spook that easy.

"Fine," he sighed. "Sing what?"

"Oh, whatever tickles your fancy," Lorne said pleasantly. "'Happy Birthday' works if you don't know anything else. But you might want to try something more fun. Life's too short to be dull, right, sweetie?" He flashed Brian a big green grin, and Brian had a sudden image of Emmett, trying to cajole a skittish customer into pink pleather pants.

Brian couldn't help smiling back. Just a little.

"Right," he said, thinking for a second. Then his smile widened as he flashed on another memory, of two skinny teenage boys rocking out in the freezing cold Kinney garage, strumming madly on the cheap Fender Stratocaster knock-offs they'd bought at Q-Mart.

"I've got a heart, made out of Christmas coal
Break it, but you're playing with my soul

Simple, way down inside,
You know you blow my mind

Just because you love me
Doesn't mean I can't have my way

Just because I'm leaving,
Doesn't mean I don't want to stay. . ."

Brian trailed off. There was a guitar solo after that, and then it just repeated the last four lines. Okay, it wasn't very good, but hell, he'd only been sixteen at the time.

"Naw man, it's great--you're gonna be the next Robert Smith!" Michael's eyes are glowing like a happy puppy's as he gazes up at him. Brian hugs Mikey, because even though he's the biggest dork who'll ever walk the face of the planet, nobody else ever looks at him that way, or ever will: like Brian Kinney is God in ripped Q-Mart sweatpants.

Shit, he didn't want to think about Mikey. Not now.

Brian felt the pre-interview adrenaline edge he'd been riding for the last hour dull into the numb emptiness that had been consuming him since the morning after the election. He closed his eyes for a second to gather his control, and when he opened them again, saw that both men were looking at him with quizzical expressions. Brian tried to give them the blank face back, but he wasn't sure how well he was succeeding at this point.

"That was catchy," Lorne said brightly, filling the uncomfortable silence. "Did you write it yourself?"

Brian didn't answer. The silence grew uncomfortable again.

"If you'll excuse us, Mr. Kinney," Wesley said after a moment.

"Sure," Brian said, glad to have a few minutes out from under the laser-like scrutiny. He rose, crossed the room and exited quickly, heading for the elaborate water fountains on the other side of the main lobby.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Wesley turned to Lorne. "So, evil, correct?"

"Um, not exactly," Lorne answered.

Wesley's eyes widened slightly. "Really? I'd have thought--my instincts are so rarely wrong in these instances--"

"Yeah, he ruffled your feathers, I saw that. Doesn't surprise me--I picked up a lot of anger and aggression from him. And enough vanity to put Barbra to shame. Not that you can't see where it's coming from--whooh! Talk about bedroom eyes--"

"But not evil?" Wesley pressed.

"Well, no, not as such," Lorne hedged.

"Lorne, we've interviewed twenty-two other candidates for this position. All of them were either inexperienced, incompetent, or just plain evil. And I have other goals for this year besides finding a bloody P.R. Director. Kinney's an arrogant prat, but he's well-qualified. If he's not actively plotting the destruction of every man, woman, and child in this dimension, I'll take him."

Lorne sighed and looked through the big glass windows. Across the lobby, Brian had his back turned to them. To the casual viewer, he looked like he was scrutinizing the magnificent Pollock original hung in the central atrium, a pulsing knot of blue and black that had once belonged to Peggy Guggenheim. But Lorne would have bet cold hard Pylean Quatluudes that the man wasn't really seeing it, too busy looking into that inner darkness Lorne had sensed in him before Brian ever sang a note.

"It's a tough call," Lorne began, "sometimes it's hard to say--"

"I don't have time for fine moral distinctions," Wesley cut in impatiently. "I couldn't care less if he cheats on his taxes or hires call girls in his off hours--"

That's unlikely, Lorne thought to himself.

"--just tell me, is he evil, yes or no?"

Lorne sighed. Despite the power lunches with A-list stars, despite the custom-fitted suits and premiere tickets, there were times when he hated this new life, moments when he would have given anything to have his hole-in-the-wall dive back. Times like now.

What am I supposed to say? No, Kinney's heart isn't evil. I sense a lot of good there--decency, and honor, and even a tendency towards self-sacrifice, if you can believe it. Most of the good is unfulfilled, yeah, but it's there. So how do I make you understand that existing side-by-side with the white is a terrible blackness, a sucking hole at the man's very center, so deep and hungry it could consume every speck of good that ever existed in him? It's unfulfilled, too, but that doesn't mean it's not there. How can I tell you that while he's not evil, that beautiful stranger out there has a potential for evil that could be legendary, the kind of lurking, gleeful, unending malice that only finds satisfaction in the destruction of everything good and innocent? If I do, you'll send him away, when that's only one possible future, and not even the most possible. And by sending him away, we could bring that very future on, just like we could also bring it on by keeping him. How do I tell you that I see that same divide in Angel, but he is a good man, a champion. How do I tell you that I see it in you, Wesley, and in Fred, and Gunn, and even in me, ever since we took this devil's bargain? So how can we judge anyone's darkness, when our own is just slobbering to eat us whole?

"No," Lorne said finally. "He's not evil."

"Wonders never cease," Wesley said acidly. "I'll tell Human Resources to put his office as far away from mine as possible. The less I see of that berk the less likely it is I'll try out my collapsing knives on him."

"You're the boss, sort of," Lorne repeated. "You gonna run this by the big man first?"

"Angel wants all daily administrative decisions left in my hands. He told me I'm better at this sort of thing than he is," Wesley said, a hint of pride in his voice. "This new paradigm will work better if we each play to our strengths."

"Yay, team," Lorne said tiredly.

Wesley pushed the button on his desk again. "Alison, will you send Mr. Kinney in again, please?"

A minute or so later, Brian came through the door and looked at the two men expectantly.

"Can you start two weeks from Monday?" Wesley said. "Provided we can come to an amicable agreement on salary and benefits, of course."

Brian nodded, pleased with the news, but not particularly surprised by it. He'd never had any problem figuring out when he was wanted.

"I can start sooner than that," he said, picking up his briefcase. "I'm not going back to Pittsburgh."

********

One of Brian's few beliefs untainted by irony was that the only thing in life worth celebrating was achievement. And finding gainful employment at Wolfram & Hart after months on the skids definitely came under that heading. Especially after the salary negotiations, which left him feeling like his new employers had just handed him a big sack with a dollar sign on it. The evening after the interview, he hit the lavender Shangri-La of West Hollywood ready to celebrate with a vengeance.

Several hours of the usual scope-and-grope, then he picked up a pair of gym bunnies he'd met at Delerium, the danceteria du jour. Skyler and Tyler? Ryder and River? He couldn't remember, and it didn't matter. They weren't twins but might as well have been--both blond, both bronzed, both waxed and buffed as a North Shore surfer's favorite board. Telling them apart was as difficult as distinguishing two Malibu Ken Dolls, and just as pointless. But at least Steven and Evan (Shay and Trey? Whatever) were anatomically correct, in more ways than one.

They had the body karate going on all right, but his two California dreamboats must have been skimping on the cardio, since Brian wore them both out after a few hours. Or maybe Anita was lacing her E with Viagra these days, because even after he'd fucked them into two tanned, twitching heaps, he still wasn't satisfied. He finally kicked them out with cab fare around dawn, popped a couple of Valium, and fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

When he woke up, he knew by the weak purple light peeking in under the heavily curtained windows that he'd slept through the day. He peered blearily at the bedside clock--6:58, fuck. He was starving, he had to piss like a racehorse, and his head felt as swollen and shaky as one of those stupid bobblehead dolls Michael was always pushing at his comic book store.

Used to push, a voice in his head reminded him.

Squashing the voice, Brian shuffled into the bathroom. He pissed for what seemed like forever, then turned on the impressive waterfall shower. He ducked under the cool, soothing torrent and tried not to think about anything. Showers are good. Showers are proof that there is a merciful God. Showers are my only friend, he thought as the cold needles of water slowly penetrated the fog in his brain.

After about half an hour, he stepped out, dried off, and walked back into the main room of the suite, feeling slightly more human. He skinned into a pair of sweatpants and dialed down to room service, ordering a meal that completely shattered his no-carbs-after-seven rule. Then he sat on the edge of the rumpled bed and tried not to look at the cell phone lying on the nightstand. Finally, he picked it up, staring at the illuminated dial like it was a small thermonuclear device ready to go off any second.

Don't be a pussy, Kinney. Quit fucking around and just get it over with.

Sighing, he hit number one on the speed dial, his home number. He knew better than to bother trying Daphne's or Debbie's first.

One ring, two rings, three--

Come on, come on, answer.

Four rings, five rings, six--

"This is Brian. I'm out, so leave me a message and don't forget your number. I do not have time to look up phone numbers."

Goddammit. He was about to hang up, when it occurred to him that maybe this was the better deal, after all.

BEEP.

"Hey, Justin, it's Brian. I'm still in L.A. and--"

The clattering sound of someone picking up the phone. Brian waited, but no one spoke on the other end. He could tell by the pattern of the breathing it was Justin, though. He sounded a little more labored than usual, and Brian wondered if he'd caught him coming in the door or coming on his 500-count sheets. Equal odds on either scenario.

"Justin?"

More silence.

Okay, this is fucking stupid, Brian thought. In another five seconds he was just going to run through the spiel he'd planned to leave on the machine and hang up.

Then, very quietly, Justin spoke.

"You got it, didn't you?"

"How'd you guess?" Brian asked, surprised.

"You wouldn't bother calling, otherwise. Congratulations." Justin's voice was as colorless as one of his charcoal sketches.

"Thanks."

The colorlessness darkened into sarcasm. "So, when's your flight coming? We have to plan the bon voyage party."

"Don't bother."

"Why? Didn't you tell me once that the only thing in life worth celebrating is achievement?"

This pissed him off, maybe because it was so close to what he'd been thinking last night. Justin had no business getting in his head like that. Not anymore.

"What'd you do, write this stuff down for posterity?"

"No, I listened, Brian. It's this weird thing you do when you care about what your partner is thinking and feeling. I know the concept's unfamiliar--"

Brian rubbed at his eyes tiredly. "I'm not doing this right now."

"Fine. We'll do it when you get back."

Shit.

"What?" Justin said after a few seconds.

Oh just say it, you fucking little faggot.

"I'm not coming back."

"What?"

"They want me to start Monday, and I'll need the weekend to get my bearings. There's no point flying 3000 miles for a couple of days," he lied smoothly. He could start any time in the next couple of weeks, Wyndam-Pryce had said. But Justin didn't need to know that.

"But your loft, all your stuff, I thought you'd at least--" Brian knew Justin was really thrown. He always zoned in on the stupid details in a crisis situation. Such the prissy little housewife.

"I've already taken care of it. There are movers coming on Friday to pack up the place. I e-mailed them the list of what I want shipped out here. There's not much, just some clothes and a few boxes I have in storage. A cleaning service is coming in the day after that."

"Oh." It was more a sigh than a word.

"If there's anything you want, furniture or whatever, go ahead and take it."

"Gee, thanks." They both knew there wasn't much left to take after the Concerned Citizens for the Truth Campaign had gutted his finances. But at least Justin was back to sarcasm. He could deal with sarcasm.

"You can stay there until Friday if you want, but--"

Justin laughed bitterly. "Yeah, maybe I'll throw one last orgy--a farewell fuckfest for the Brian Kinney Era."

"Sure, just don't trash the place. It'll lower the re-sale value."

"And I care because?"

"You wouldn't want to screw your mom's commission over a screw, would you?"

"You're listing it with her? I thought you didn't like my mom."

Actually, it was Jennifer Taylor who didn't like him. Her impeccable WASP breeding hadn't slipped an inch when he'd told her the news, but he knew she'd been thrilled at the possibility of Brian Kinney moving across the continent. She probably would have taken the listing gratis, if he'd asked.

"It's business. Anyway, I figured I owed her a few." Seducing someone's only son and then almost getting him killed did confer a certain sense of obligation.

"Wow, she'll be touched."

"She already is. I called her before I left."

"You called her before--why did you. . ." Justin trailed off, bewildered. Brian sat silently and waited for him to put it together. He was a smart kid. It wouldn't take long.

It didn't.

"You had it all worked out, didn't you?" Justin said slowly. "Even before you left, you had it planned so if this job came through you wouldn't have to come back here and face me." His voice sped up, started to shake. "God forbid Brian Kinney should have to put his new life on hold for a few days to clean up all the shit he was leaving behind him. Not when he could pay somebody else to do it." He was almost yelling now. "Well, who are you gonna pay to clean me up, Brian? Is there a service you can call for that? You fucking coward--" his voice broke on the last word, and Brian knew he was crying.

"Justin, we've talked about this." A slight inaccuracy. Justin had talked, and cried, and finally screamed, and Brian had mostly just looked at him. But no sense dredging up painful memories when brand-new traumas were unfolding right before his ears.

"I'm done with Pittsburgh. Coming back for a couple of days won't change that."

"You mean, you're done with me. That's what you're really saying, isn't it?"

Brian flinched a little at the naked hurt in the boy's voice, but he steeled himself against it. When he spoke, his voice was cool, professional, like he was back at Vangard discussing his weekly agenda with Cynthia, instead of ripping his lover's heart out and feeding it to him piece by piece.

"If that's what you need to get on with your life, fine. I'm done with you."

For a moment all he could hear were the strangled sounds of Justin desperately trying to get himself under control, to stay focused even when his whole world was falling apart. Brian flashed on a night three years ago, when he'd sent a hysterical, lovesick kid out into the darkness alone. Fuck that stupid trick who'd interfered. He should have let Justin go. It would have been better than this. A baseball bat to the head would have been better than this.

"What did I do to make you hate me so much, Brian?" Justin said, his voice straining with hurt. "Was it the Stockwell thing? Were the corner office and the Italian furniture and the plasma TV really so fucking important?"

"I don't hate you, Justin. I made my own choices."

"Then why can't I come to L.A. with you?" A pleading note, underneath all the pain and rage.

Even now, he still wants me back. Even after everything--Jesus Christ.

Brian closed his eyes and readied himself for the death blow.

"Because, I don't love you, either."

Justin gasped, a low, sickly sound, like Brian actually had reached through the phone and stabbed him in the gut from 3000 miles away. The wound must have been lethal, because when he spoke again, he sounded dead.

"You know, I believe you."

Of course you do. Brian Kinney can sell anyone on anything--didn't you see the awards? He swallowed hard, and found that self-hatred tasted bitter, like stale black coffee.

"You don't love me, you never loved me, or you couldn't treat me like this."

"That's right. I couldn't." Words the equivalent of breaking a crucifixion victim's legs to bring on swifter death.

Silence for a moment. Brian held the phone away so he wouldn't have to hear Justin breathing in his ear anymore. It brought back too many memories he couldn't afford to think about right now.

"Goodbye, Brian. I hope you find what you're looking for someday." The words sounded more like a curse than a benediction.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. . .

"Yeah, me too." But he was already speaking to dead air.

Brian threw the phone into the corner and fell back on the rumpled sheets, which still reeked of the musk and sweat from last night. He lay staring up at the ceiling for a very long time.

Finally he got up, ran a hand through his wet, tangled hair, and went over to the bar in the corner of the room. No mini-refrigerators and dwarf-sized bottles of Jack Daniels at the Wolfram & Hart corporate suites. He filled one of the heavy crystal glasses almost to the brim with Johnny Walker Gold, then grabbed his cigarettes and lighter off the nightstand. He pushed the curtains open, blinking a little in the fading sunlight, and opened the French doors to the balcony. He sat down in one of the plush patio chairs, lit up, and took a long swallow of the whiskey. It flowed down his throat and into his stomach like liquid fire, burning away the churning in his stomach and the throbbing in his head. He took a drag on his cigarette and stared down at the neon patchwork of Los Angeles, trying to focus his attention on the tiny cars zipping by like fireflies on the freeway below. But Justin's words kept coming back to him.

What did I do to make you hate me so much?

Saying that the Stockwell blow-up had caused him to leave Justin was like saying World War I had been caused by the assassination of that Archduke guy. Technically accurate, but a gross oversimplification of forces that had been building forever. Truth was, he'd been trying to leave Justin for years, almost since the first time he'd met him. But the boy just refused to stay left, even in the face of casual cruelties that would have sent the most submissive bottom boy into open rebellion. Over the years, Brian had made a couple of serious tries to get his point across. The abortive move to New York had been the first. Letting Justin walk out the door with the fiddler, when he knew that some wilted carnations and a sappy card would have kept him around, was the second.

But he had to admit, his campaign to de-Justify his life would have been more successful if he hadn't fallen in love with him.

Because he did love him, that was the hell of the thing. He didn't believe in love at first sight--or even love at first screw. But Justin had gotten to him early on, probably from that moment at Babylon when he pushed Brian right out of the middle of his trick sandwich. The point had been clear--if I can't join you, I'll beat you, Kinney. Who wouldn't fall in love with guts like that? The fact that he was beautiful, and smart, and talented, and they almost set the sheets on fire every time they fucked, hadn't hurt, either.

But love made you stupid. Fucking did, too, if it was hot enough. That's why he always avoided mixing the two--not even the brilliant Brian Kinney could afford to lose that many brain cells. Which explained all the stupid things he'd done for Justin. Tracking him to New York like a worried mama bear, when he should have let the NYPD drag him out of that hotel room and throw his cute little ass in jail for a night or two. Letting him live at the loft instead of at home with his uptight asshole of a father, who was still practically a saint compared to Jack Kinney. Paying for his tuition even when he was playing out his little starving artists' romance with the fiddler. Taking him back after the fiddler showed his true colors. A series of stupid moves from start to finish.

In fact, the last three years of Brian's life had been a tug-of-war between stupidity and common sense, and in the grand Irish tradition, stupidity finally won. He knew it had won the morning after the election, when the party was over and all the good little queers were tucked snug in their beds, free to fuck their brains out once more. He'd awoken in the cold light of dawn and realized he had no job, no car, no money, and was one more missed mortgage payment away from having himself and his Armani suits thrown out into the street. Assuming, of course, that the suits weren't repo'd to pay off his credit cards. That's when he realized that he had sacrificed everything he'd sweated blood for since the age of fourteen, all over a piece of blond boy ass.

At that least opportune of moments, a sleepy Justin wrapped warm arms around his waist and murmured two small, devastating words in his ear:

"My hero."

And Brian finally understood. That Justin was a true genius, right up there with Dali and Pollock and Warhol. But his greatest work, his most stunning artistic achievement, wasn't in charcoal or oils or even pixels. No, Justin Taylor had actually molded human cells, patiently pushing and kneading and chiseling away week after week, year after year, until Brian Kinney, cold-hearted ad executive, was re-shaped into Rage, Gay Crusader, the self-sacrificing superhero of Justin's dreams. Rage wasn't based on him. Rage was a goddamn blueprint for him.

That's when, in the grand Irish tradition, Brian began to drink.

Once an Irishman starts to drink, he can go on almost indefinitely. Brian might very well have continued like this until he pulled a Jimi or a Janis, if it hadn't been for another early morning awakening.

"Is he up?" Even with his aching head buried under two pillows, Brian recognizes the precise, cultured accents. It must be time once again for the weekly paternal guilt show, starring Gus and Lindsay.

"A pre-emptive strike wouldn't wake him up. He was at the baths all night."

"Oh. I'll just bring Gus by after work, then."

"Don't bother. He'll be out by six. He always is anymore."

"Justin, is something wrong?"

"Remember we used to joke around that Brian had screwed everyone in Pittsburgh? Well, now it's actually true."

"Oh, Justin."

"I thought he'd changed, Linds. After Stockwell--I really did. But he hasn't."

"You have to give him some time. He's lost a lot this year, with the election, and Michael--"

"I know he has. And I know what he did for us. But he's drunk off his ass or tweaked out of his head every night. And he screws anything--I mean, anything. You should see some of the skanks he disappears with."

"That sounds like the old Brian, all right."

"It's like the old Brian squared. I don't know how much longer I can take it."

"I've known Brian for fifteen years, Justin. He's going to do what he's going to do, and you can't stop it. All you can do is be there for him when he's done."

"Why should I?"

"Because he's what you want, isn't he?"

A pause. "Yeah. He is."

"Then have a little faith. He's come so far since he met you--if you stay with him, who knows what he'll be in five years?"

Another pause, and a big sigh. "You're right. I just have to be patient."

They cut off then, because at that point Brian bolted out of bed and into the bathroom, where he proceeded to throw up everything he'd eaten for the last three days.

It was the worst moment, realizing Justin still considered him a work in progress. It was also the only moment that Brian really did hate him, though the feeling passed once he got himself under control enough to think clearly about the situation.

He loved Justin, he really did. But he knew that if this continued, one day he wouldn't. One day, he would hate Justin for trying to turn him into the man he thought he should be, hate him for trapping him in a relationship he never wanted in the first place, hate him for making him suffer through all the guilt and misery and obligation. And eventually, after years of lies and disappointments and betrayals, Justin would hate him, too, despise him for the wreck he'd made of both their lives. But by that point, they'd be too tangled up in each other to ever cut loose. So the hatred would just go on, poisoning them and every other poor bastard unlucky enough to get pulled into their orbit. He'd seen it, first-hand, as one of the poor bastards held hostage by Jack and Joan Kinney for eighteen years.

Brian knelt on the cold granite floor with his head in the toilet and promised any deities that still held him in any favor whatsoever that if they got him out of this, he'd never, ever, fall in love again. He'd open a vein first.

The next day there was a message on his machine from Gardiner Vance, anxious to settle the legal and financial issues of Brian's severance from Vangard once and for all. It seemed like a sign from heaven.

Things developed quickly from there, like they always did once Brian made up his mind about something. With contacts and capital at his disposal, he soon had a sharp new résumé and an even sharper new Armani interview suit. He told Justin nothing about his plans, and for a little while things had been better between them. He was drinking less and home more, and Justin was starting to smile at him again, relieved that Rage was back. Sucker.

Shit didn't hit the fan until a week or so before his interview, when Justin accidentally found Brian's info files on Wolfram & Hart while looking for a graphic he'd misplaced. At least, that's what he told Brian, though Brian strongly suspected that Justin had regularly snooped through his files and e-mails for years, which is why he'd always kept anything he really didn't want him to see on his work computer. There were the expected tears and recriminations, with Justin enlisting the whole gang in the cause of keeping Brian in the Pitts for the rest of his days. Why do you want to leave your family, Brian? We need you, Brian. We love you, Brian. But Brian had had enough of being loved and needed for the rest of his life.

Only Michael could have swayed him, but Michael was gone. He and Hunter hadn't been heard from in months. There had been some inquiries, both official and unofficial, but so far, nothing. Though nobody was saying it yet, they were all thinking the worst. Hunter was a walking disaster, and Michael had no survival instincts. Brian could have murdered that Roidhead Ben, whose bleeding fucking heart had gotten Michael into this mess in the first place, if he hadn't already known Ben was looking at a much nastier ending than Brian could ever engineer.

But as far as Brian was concerned, love had cost him his best friend, too.

The final scene with Justin, as Brian was packing for his flight to L.A., had been about Michael. It was the only time during the whole business that Brian really lost his temper.

"So, you're going."

"Yep, the plane leaves at noon. Have you seen my blue Prada tie? It goes better with charcoal grey than the Gucci."

"Brian, listen to me--"

"Or maybe the Ferragamo. No, purple and yellow spirals would look like I'm trying too hard."

"Please, just--" Shit, he's doing the arms-around-the-waist thing. Brian fucking hates the arms-around-the-waist thing. He pries Justin off and zips up his garment bag.

"On second thought, I'll stick with the Gucci. Nothing says 'hire me and pay me six figures, fuck boy' like red diagonal stripes."

"I wonder what Michael would say if he saw you acting like this. If he knew you were deserting--"

Next thing he knows, Brian has Justin slammed up against one of the loft's steel support beams.

"Don't you dare bring him into this. Drag everybody else into your little drama, J.T. But leave Michael the fuck out of it. You understand me?"

Justin doesn't reply, just makes a few small, choking sounds, and Brian realizes his forearm is pressing on the boy's windpipe. He releases him, his anger dissolving to the familiar emptiness.

"Brian--" Justin says hoarsely, reaching out one hand towards him. Brian knows what he's going to say. It's okay, Brian. I forgive you, Brian. Stay with me and I'll help you, Brian.

And never ending, always repeating, over and over like a bad commercial jingle:

I love you, Brian.

He can't grab his bags and get out of there fast enough.

Looking back on it now, he wished they could have had a better ending. Three years deserved a better ending. But then the end of something always sucked, or it wouldn't be the end.

And none of that mattered now, anyway. Pittsburgh was behind him, and Los Angeles was turning out to be his kind of town. There was a lot of sex, and a lot of greed and vanity out here, but not much love. L.A. was about the look, the image, the packaging--nobody much cared what was underneath. Sell them on the fancy wrappings, they didn't give a shit if there was nothing in the box. This wasn't a problem for Brian. Selling was, after all, what he did best.

In L.A., he could get rid of Rage once and for all. Become something new and different from what he'd been in Pittsburgh. He wasn't sure who this Brian was yet, but without all that love and need dragging him down, he could find out. The job at Wolfram & Hart would help--he had a real feeling about that place.

A knock at the suite door startled Brian out of his reverie. Room service. It was about fucking time. He needed to eat something and get his strength back for tonight.

He had lots of celebrating left to do.

********

"Kinney. To what do I owe the intrusion?"

Christ, he looks like shit, Brian thought.

Okay, a slight exaggeration. He actually looked sort of hot, in a man-on-the-edge-of-a-nervous-breakdown kind of way. Stubble, bedhead, a matching set of Louis Vuitton under both eyes. Though Brian couldn't quite approve the ensemble--what he could see of it, as the man was mostly hidden behind the mountains of files and books piled around him. Wrinkles, ink stains, and toast crumbs from eating breakfast at your desk was no way to treat Ralph Lauren. Still, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce could really work the Absentminded Professor look, though in Brian's sad experience real professors were never this fuckable, absentminded or not.

The extreme makeover must have something do with the big hush-hush project Wesley had been caught up with lately. Brian's new assistant, who followed company gossip the way Wall Street traders tracked NASDAQ, had mentioned it yesterday. Some of the Archives staff had been gabbing about Wes around the water cooler, whining that he was running everyone ragged with his increasingly bizarre demands.

But Brian wasn't really interested in the source of his boss's not-so-quiet desperation. He had his own problems.

"A man just exploded outside my office."

Wesley barely glanced up over the edge of a cracked, leather-bound volume the size of a cathedral bible. Memoriam Incantus Verum, it read on the spine.

"Yes, Security informed me of the incident."

"Did Security also inform you there were no explosives involved?"

Wesley remained unimpressed. He turned another page in the gigantic book, read a few lines, and made a brief note on the legal pad in front of him. "I hope Janitorial hoovered up the dust in a timely fashion. We have some very sensitive equipment on this floor," he said absently.

"Yeah, everything's spic-and-span. One of the meds from R&D is bandaging up Alison's neck right now. The claw marks on her back are gonna need stitches, though."

Wesley said nothing and turned another page. Brian leaned forward and slammed his hand right in the middle of the page, blocking Wesley's view of the faded text. It was the same move he'd always used when Justin got too involved in one of his sketches to pay him the attention he deserved as Sugar Daddy and resident Object of Beauty.

Wesley looked up at him with the same expression of frustrated anger Justin always got when Brian executed said move. But as any ad man worth his expense account will tell you, negative attention is better than no attention at all. Especially when your life's taken a sudden sharp left into the Twilight Zone.

"The Bad Samaritan act would disturb me more, if everyone else wasn't also passing by on the other side. This whole place is acting like fanged men regularly chow down on our receptionists and then spontaneously combust. What the fuck is going on around here?"

Wesley stared up at him, an unreadable expression on his face. This close, Brian could see the jagged lines of red stabbing into the blue of his irises, rawness thrown into even sharper relief by the bruised-looking skin under his eyes. Brian knew those signs all too well--he'd have bet a month's salary his boss was suffering from a skull-splitter of a migraine. He felt a brief, ice-pick stab of sympathy, which he quickly blunted. Fuck him, Wes wasn't the only one burning the candle at both ends.

If Wesley was in that much pain, however, you wouldn't have known it from his voice, which was cool as ever.

"Extraordinary."

"Pretty fucking out there is how I'd put it, but whatever."

"Not the trespasser, you. You really don't know what you just saw?"

"Hence the intruding part." Brian took his hand off the book, sat down in the guest chair, and sprawled out belligerently. Wesley wasn't getting rid of him until he either got some answers, or got escorted out of the building by Security. It wasn't like it'd be the first time.

Seeing Brian make himself at home, Wesley sighed and threw his pen down. "I just assumed--I mean, you work with Lorne on an almost daily basis. It's hard to believe you could be so ignorant--"

"I'm ignorant. The tabula fucking rasa of Spring Street. Enlighten me."

Wesley took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

"Or, I can just assume this is a psychotic break from working fourteen-hour days trying to make you people look good," Brian pressed. "Which means I'll be filing my Worker's Comp claim right before the men in the white coats haul me away. You have any idea what the really good nuthouses cost in L.A.?"

"You're not psychotic, Kinney. At least, no moreso than when we hired you," Wesley sighed. He put his glasses back on and steepled his fingers on top of the legal pad. The air of a harried professor instructing an idiot undergrad was stronger than ever.

"You may have guessed by now that Wolfram & Hart isn't exactly an ordinary law firm."

"Yeah, the arsenal in the basement and the Frankenstein lab sort of clued me in. But the Black Masses during lunch were the real tip-off."

"Indeed," Wesley said, ignoring the sarcasm. "What you clearly haven't guessed is that we cater to a very . . . specialized type of clientele."

"The type of clientele that bites people and explodes when someone rams a stake through its heart?" Brian said slowly, beginning to catch on.

"Sometimes," Wesley said, meeting his eyes steadily. "Often, we deal with creatures so bizarre as to make what you saw today seem positively commonplace. Obviously, a client base such as ours has very . . . particularized demands. Demands that make arsenals and laboratory capabilities something of a necessity. As for the rituals--well, many of our employees also fall under the 'pretty fucking out there' designation."

Brian flashed on those wacky websites he'd found when he was researching Wolfram & Hart before the interview. He'd almost forgotten them in the chaos of the first few weeks on the job. What had they said? The corporate manifestation of all that is Evil in the known dimensions. . . A wretched hive of scum and villainy. . .Wolfram & Hart--by the monsters, for the monsters. . .

"Lorne?" he asked, suddenly feeling a little queasy.

"The eyes, skin, and horns aren't affectations. He's actually an anagogic demon from the Pylean hell dimension."

Oh, fuck me. There's another 500 years in purgatory, his inner Catholic Schoolboy said.

Meanwhile, Brian's inner cynic was saying to get up and walk out right now. To assume that his boss was either fucking with him, or ready for his own trip to the expensive nuthouse. They were the only sane explanations. Yeah, there were times when his life strongly resembled a badly written nighttime drama. And he'd known from the first week that Wolfram & Hart was weird, even by California standards. But monsters and demons? Come on. Things like that just didn't happen in Brian Kinney's sane, cynical world.

But there was the matter of the vam--he couldn't even think it yet. That thing outside his office today. He'd seen it fly into a million pieces from ten feet away. No way that was fake. Neither was that football field-sized armory he'd glimpsed when he'd gotten lost on the way back from lunch the first day on the job. And then there was the lab that looked like something out of Ed Wood's wildest fantasies. And the chanting in the conference suite every day between 12 and 12:30. And the employees with strange lumps under their clothing and eyes that weren't any color found in nature.

And Lorne. If there was anything Brian Kinney knew, it was the difference between latex and real flesh. Lorne just didn't feel fake.

It suddenly occurred to Brian that he wasn't in his sane, cynical world any longer. Hadn't been for almost a month.

This is the moment where I'd say something about not being in Kansas anymore, if I wasn't the only fag in the world who hates that fucking movie.

"Let's cut through the bullshit," he said finally. "What you're telling me is that this is a--God, I can't believe I'm saying this--a demon law firm. A by the monsters, for the monsters kind of thing."

"That oversimplifies it somewhat, but, yes."

Brian peered at Wesley closely. "What kind of monster are you?"

Wesley smiled a little. "No kind. I'm human, just like you. As are some of our clients, though that doesn't always mean much." He glanced back at the book in front of him, and his smile died. "If you stay here very long, you'll find that monstrosity often has nothing to do with outward appearances."

While Brian was trying to figure out what to say to that, Wesley opened his right-hand drawer and took out a silver compact disc. He loaded it into his computer and made a few clicks with the mouse. After a moment or two, he ejected it and slid it across the desk to Brian. He picked it up--it was strangely heavy, like it was made of a material denser than plastic, though apart from the weight it seemed perfectly ordinary.

"That contains all the information you'll need to understand what you're dealing with. Take a few days to look it over. If at the end of that time you feel you can't handle it--" He stopped, a hint of challenge in his reddened eyes.

"I can handle it," Brian returned. Which might be the biggest of the many big lies he'd told so far in service to Wolfram & Hart, but he wasn't going to admit that to Prince Charles over there. "I just don't like being surprised."

"I'm pleased to hear it," Wesley said, looking anything but pleased. "Neither do I. So I assume after this you won't be surprising me with any more of these interruptions."

Well, fuck you very much, Brian thought, standing and heading towards the door. "Just trying to stay on top of things, boss," he said.

It was an unfortunate choice of words.

"By the way," Wesley said. "While you're already here, there's something we need to discuss."

Brian turned, and saw that Wesley's expression was even colder than usual. "What?"

"It's come to my attention recently that you've been carrying on inappropriate relationships with some of your staff."

"Define inappropriate."

"Anything that involves you, a Xerox machine, and one of the boys from the mailroom."

Brian bristled instantly.

"Would it be more appropriate if it was one of the girls?"

"Your orientation means absolutely nothing in this instance. Fraternizing with employees--of either gender--under your supervision is not only a breach of ethics and a threat to office morale, it could leave us open to litigation."

Brian couldn't believe it. Second-in-command at the most notorious law firm--or whatever the hell you wanted to call this place--in the country, and Wesley was obsessing over who was fucking below the line.

"We're litigators. Demon litigators, apparently. I think we could handle a sexual harassment suit. Besides, I'm not doing anybody any special favors." Despite his anger, he couldn't help smirking. "Except the obvious."

"This is no joking matter, Kinney. I'm not going to risk the public embarrassment and waste of manpower a sexual harassment case against one of our senior employees would involve. This behavior stops, now. Or you won't have to worry whether you can handle the truth about Wolfram & Hart or not."

"I have a binding contract. Which does not contain a morals clause."

Wesley raised a mocking eyebrow at him. "We're litigators. Demon litigators. I think we could handle a breach-of-contract suit." His voice dropped another few degrees. "From now on, there will be no more carrying on with your subordinates. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Brian replied just as coldly. "But since you're getting all moral majority with the senior staff, you really should have a chat with Fred about those nooners she taking with her assistant. What's his name, Fox?"

Wesley went very still.

"He's pretty hot for a guy in a lab coat and Hush Puppies," Brian continued mercilessly. "But that can't be good for morale over in R&D, Dr. Frankenstein fucking Igor."

"Where did you hear this?" Wesley asked quietly. Too quietly.

"One of my subordinates. Funny how the people at the bottom always have the best dirt on the people at the top. You'd be amazed what they'll tell you, if you ask them the right way."

Sketching him a little salute with the hand holding the disc, Brian opened the door with the other.

"I'll stop interrupting now."

********

Putting the English Mental Patient in his place should have elevated Brian's mood like Ketamine, but for some reason it wasn't having the desired effect. He blamed it on bad vibes from the monster mash in the lobby earlier.

He headed back towards his office, located on the other side of the lobby, giving wide berth to the janitorial crew vacuuming up the remains. Thankfully, the weeping Alison had been taken away to be stitched up someplace else.

Brian decided to blow off everything else he had scheduled that afternoon and get started on the disc, since Wesley had basically double-dog-dared him to look at it. Passing by Susan's desk in the outer office, he told her to get him his usual triple espresso and hold all his calls and appointments.

Susan Wing, a whip-smart Chinese-American girl with an A.S in Business from UC-Sunnydale, bore a striking resemblance to Lucy Liu in both looks and demeanor. Brian had plucked her out of the steno pool the first week, sensing in her the same steely loyalty and boundless energy that made Cynthia such a valuable ally at Vangard. Unlike Cynthia, Susan was also in love with him, which normally Brian would have considered an inconvenience. But in a snake pit like Wolfram & Hart, it wasn't a bad thing to have an assistant with that extra bit of motivation.

Unsurprisingly, Susan had his coffee order already on his desk--she seemed to have a sixth sense about when he'd need a caffeine fix. She also enthusiastically agreed to run interference for him with the world at large that afternoon. Lorne's drive-by huggings had become a particular nuisance lately, and Brian felt no remorse over subjecting him to Susan's Dragon Lady routine. An anamorphic demon from Hell should be able to handle it.

Brian walked into the inner office, sat down at his desk, and took the lid off his coffee. Finding that the Starbucks across the street had, as usual, heated the stuff to atomic temperatures, he set it down to cool while he booted up his computer. Normally, Brian had never had the time or patience to do huge amounts of background reading. That's what Lindsay and, later, his assistants with their trusty bullet-pointed notes were for. But remembering the smug look on Wesley's face, he decided to do his own homework this time.

We'll see who can handle things, Percy.

Brian slipped the disc in the drive, noticed the movie designations on most of the files, and plugged in his headset. He clicked on the first file, titled 'WRH1.xmv', and prepared to be bored.

That's when everything on the screen exploded.

At least, that was the best way he could describe it to himself later. The disc, whatever it was made of, gave whole new meaning to the term "multi-media." It was as much like your standard boring corporate training film, as homemade hetero webporn is like a three-way in the back room at Babylon. The fact that Wolfram & Hart wasn't exactly your standard Fortune 500 Company further added to the Must-See TV effect.

The first six files were linked to flow seamlessly together, so there was nothing to break Brian's concentration until the last one, documenting the recent takeover by the New Management, had finished. Brian was going to click on the next set of files, entitled, strangely enough, 'Grrarrgh1.xmv'. But he thought he'd take a quick break and pick up his messages from Susan before he got started.

Taking off the headset, he reached for his latte and took a big swallow. The next instant he had to strain to keep from spitting the stone-cold sludge all over the shiny desktop. Looking out the office windows, he saw with a shock that it was pitch-black outside, and the outer lobby was deserted. Brian glanced at the clock--9:03 PM. Fuck.

He noticed then that on the edge of his desk was a steam-fogged yellow plastic container, which he recognized as coming from the Golden Buddha, his favorite Chinese take-out place. Susan must have brought him dinner before she left, but he had absolutely no memory of her coming into his office. Weird.

He also had one bitch of a headache.

Brian ejected the disc from his harddrive and held it up to the overhead fluorescent light. Except for the strange weight, there still didn't seem to be anything unusual about it, nothing to hint at the technology that had kept him glued to his seat four hours past quitting time on a Friday night.

Finally, he shrugged and tossed the disc on his desk. Wesley's laser light show had given him a lot to think about, but that was enough nose-to-the-grindstone for one week. After the day he'd had, he deserved a little down time at Delerium. Or, more accurately, a little going down time.

But he slipped the disc in his briefcase before heading out the door.

Brian's new place was one of the glossy luxury lofts that had risen from the wreckage of decaying office buildings during the recent rebirth of downtown Los Angeles. He'd chosen it for the view, the investment potential, and the mercifully brief commute to work every day. Tonight it was more of a mercy than usual: with the migraine and general mind-fuckage, he doubted he could have negotiated the freeway without severe collateral damage.

After a dinner of Excedrin and Susan's take-out, he took a quick shower and slipped into his newest black Versace fuck-me shirt. He was just heading out the door when he happened to glance at his desk, where he'd left his briefcase with that damn disc in it. He looked at the clock hanging over the desk. 10:42 PM. It was still pretty early--the boys never really started swinging down on Hollywood and Vine until midnight.

Throwing his keys on the desk, Brian sat down and loaded the disc in his laptop. He'd take a quick look at the first Grrarrgh file. Just long enough to find out what that weird name meant.

Brian never did make it out the door that night. Or the next night, even though Delerium was throwing its ten-month anniversary Decadance on Saturday. Basic needs like food and sleep and personal hygiene didn't hold much sway over the next forty-eight hours, either. It was a lot like the marathon study sessions he'd sometimes pulled back in college, when balancing soccer and a social life that verged on the Caligulan threatened to bring his GPA crashing down on his head. The only difference was he actually wanted to be learning this stuff instead of getting a blow job in a back room somewhere. You could get head any old time, but it wasn't every day that somebody dropped the secrets of the universe in your lap.

Brian finished the final file early Sunday evening. Running on the last of his energy, he scrambled half-a-dozen eggs and washed them down with a carton of orange juice. After a quick, much-needed shower, he collapsed on the sofa.

Michael and Brian are dancing.

Just another Saturday night at Babylon. Swelling technomusic cradling the crowd in its kinetic embrace. Blue-white-purple lights painting living tattoos on glistening skin. The smell of smoke and sweat and sex in the air.

Brian, as usual, is more or less standing in one place, swaying slightly to the beat while Michael rotates around him. Moving out, falling away, but always, always coming back, a moon in thrall to Brian's gravity.

The next time he's in near orbit, Brian pulls him close. Tucks him under his chin, their bodies fitting together like two puzzle pieces locking in place. They're both bare-chested, and for a minute Brian just revels in the sheer animal pleasure of skin sliding against skin. He buries his nose in Michael's thick black hair and breathes him in. His friend smells like newsprint and clean laundry and Juicy Fruit gum. The safe, warm scents of Saturday mornings.

Brian bends his head to whisper the secret to him. He's the only one who gets to know. Brian's already decided that.

"It's true, all of it!"

Michael's pulls back a little, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. "What?"

"Everything. Every cape-wearing, collect-all-four jerk-off boyhood fantasy we ever had is fucking true!"

Michael just shakes his head, points to his ears. Brian pulls him closer, practically yelling.

"Monsters and magic and superheroes, Mikey. They're really real!"

But the music swells louder, and Michael can't hear him.

"What?"

"The monsters, they're--" Brian tries to repeat, but the crowd suddenly surges in around them. Ripe young bodies glowing with sweat and glitter press in from all sides. Brian's grip on Michael breaks, and he watches helplessly as his best friend is ripped away and carried to the edge of the dance floor by the current of the crowd. He tries to follow, but hands keep tugging at him, trying to pull him back into the sea of men. Brian struggles against them, brutally pushing and shoving through the chaos, ignoring both the come ons and the cries of pain. But the bodies push closer and closer, until he feels like he's drowning, suffocating in a tidal wave of flesh.

Finally, after what seems like hours, there's a break in the crowd and he sees Michael by the entrance archway. He looks small and pale in the eerie blue lights of the club.

"Michael, wait for me! I'm coming!" Brian yells.

But Michael can't hear him. His wide dark eyes are scanning the crowd, looking, looking, always looking for Brian. Brian tries to wave his arms and get his attention, but Michael can't see him through the crush of bodies. Brian fights even harder to get to the edge of the crowd, but the dance floor seems to grow with every step he takes.

After a few minutes, Michael's face crumples with disappointment. He thinks Brian's deserted him. Again. He turns and ducks through the archway, headed towards the street.

That's when Brian really panics. He knows there are monsters in the darkness outside. And Michael is all alone.

"No! Mikey, don't go out there!"

For an instant Michael is framed in the archway, a perfect blue-white silhouette surrounded by black. Like a photo negative, a world reversed, where everything familiar has gone dark and strange.

Brian screams so loud he thinks his lungs are going to explode.

"MICHAEL!"

But Michael is gone.

Brian awoke with a start.

Have to call Mikey, he'll get it, he's the only one who'll get it, have to let him know before--

Leaning over, scrabbling on the floor next to the couch. Awake enough to know where he'd left his cellphone, but not awake enough for the truth, not until he'd already hit number one on his speed dial. It was only when he heard his own words on voicemail that he remembered:

Michael was really gone.

It all fell on him then, night descending in the tropics, heavy and sudden and awful. The missing persons reports, the private detectives no one else knew about, the trail that went as far as Chicago but no farther, the months of waiting and wondering and pathetic rationalizations, trying to convince himself of something, anything but the truth.

He's gone he's gone he's gone he's gone

The words always there, leaching in when he was working and shopping and sleeping and fucking, like a song you hate but can't get out of your head. Because when Michael disappeared into the crowd on election night, he'd taken a chunk out of Brian with him, and no matter how many pills or men or suits he stuffed into the wound, it just kept bleeding. No matter how much he worked or slept or shopped or fucked Michael was gone, Michael was GONE, and Brian stumbled around like an amputee who thinks he can walk because he can still feel his legs, goddamnit. Because Michael wasn't supposed to disappear, any more than your legs are supposed to disappear, things like that just didn't happen in Brian Kinney's world.

I guess we're not in Kansas anym--

Brian bounced to his feet and threw the cellphone as hard as he could, smashing it into the heavy tempered panes of the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up two entire walls of the loft. With a sharp crash the gadget shattered into a million pieces, circuits and fragments of casing scattering all over the polished floors.

He stood there for a minute in the nighttime dimness of the loft, listening to the sound of his own labored breathing. Looked around the big, airy space, with its sleek lines and killer view, stark designer furniture and chrome appliances. Everything cool and rich and shining, the Twenty-First Century equivalent of Paradise.

What did I say to him that time? Fuck the world, take the power. Well, I did. All this power, and all this money, and now the kind of knowledge that would knock the world right on its ass. And not one goddamn person to call about it.

He turned slowly and looked out the magnificent windows, into the neon-scrimmed darkness of the night sky.

"Where are you?" he said softly.

But the only answer was the faint whine of sirens from the street below.

Brian sank down onto his Italian sofa and put his head in his hands.

********

He just got the fuck out after that. Couldn't stand the loft another second, couldn't stand the thought of Delerium or some other trendy watering hole, either. Thought about heading to the beach, sitting and staring at the calm black nothing of the Pacific. But he knew he couldn't even begin to deal with the freeway. So he broke the cardinal rule of California and walked, not knowing where he was going and not caring. That's how he ended up at Mickey Finn's.

Mickey Finn's was one of the old holdovers from the days when Downtown after hours belonged to the Unbeautiful People. With gentrification spreading through the area like the latest STD, in another few years it would probably be a bookstore or coffee bar or, God help us, a Pottery Barn, that ever-present canker on the corpse of urban funkiness. But for now Mickey Finn's held on grimly to its prime location, the neon beer signs in the dirty windows glowering at passersby on their way to the new boutiques and expensive restaurants a few blocks away. Brian had driven past it twice a day for weeks now, as it lay on the most direct route to the office. It wasn't his usual style, but he'd kept it furtively in the back of his mind, the way you'd keep a skanky trick's phone number in the back of your wallet.

Even before he walked in the door that night, Brian knew exactly what he'd find. Mickey Finn's was the kind of dive where the only things older than the music on the jukebox were the peanuts on the bar. Where all the glasses had mysterious smudges, but luckily you couldn't see them because the only light came from the signs in the window and the single snowy television, which was always tuned to sports. You could have any drink you wanted as long as it was beer or rotgut, and the bathroom where you got rid of both was so filthy it made the one in Trainspotting look like an operating theater. It was a place meant and made for working stiffs to drink the courage to go home and unload the White Man's Burden on the wife and kiddies.

Jack Kinney would have loved it.

Grimacing at the smell of stale sweat and old beer, Brian glanced quickly around the small, murky space. It was pretty much as advertised: a single shoebox-shaped room, bar on the left, booths on the right, bathroom in the back. There was an Archie Bunkerish bartender behind the bar, listlessly wiping some glasses with a greyish rag while he kept both eyes on the Raiders game playing silently on the ancient television overhead. Connie Francis was asking "Who's Sorry Now?" from the equally ancient jukebox, and the answer seemed to be the handful of patrons in the establishment. They all had the tired, beaten look of men who'd been slapped around hard by Dame Fortune, but had long since given up on ever hitting back at the bitch. Aside from a few bleary glances, they didn't acknowledge the newcomer in their midst at all.

Not much chance of getting cruised in here, Brian thought. Though you never could tell. He'd gotten some of the best head of his life behind a bar just like this one, a place in the Pitts called O'Malley's. He'd been sixteen, and the giver was one of his father's favorite drinking buddies, a tough Irish cop with a wife, three kids, and a mouth like a vacuum pump. Brian used to hate it when his mother sent him to fetch the old man home--drunk, Jack Kinney had two volumes: loud and mean, and quiet and mean. But he didn't mind so much once Ray Shaughnessy started meeting him out back. After one of Ray's Saturday Night Specials, a bloody nose or the old I-took-your-mother-out-to-dinner-and-told-her-to-get-an-abortion rap didn't hurt much at all.

By now the bartender had torn himself away from third down long enough to notice Brian's presence, though he, too, seemed singularly unenthused by it. Brian bellied up to the bar and ordered a double Jack Daniels, figuring straight whiskey was probably strong enough to kill whatever microbes might be setting up housekeeping on the glass. With an unintelligible grunt, Archie slapped one on the counter and filled it half-full, barely waiting for Brian to pay before turning his attention back to the game.

So much for the friendly neighborhood bartender, Brian thought as he took a long swallow of his drink. But he hadn't expected much else. The only people who showed up at a place like this on a Sunday night were men with one thing on their minds: diving to the bottom of a bottle as quickly and quietly as possible. You didn't exactly need the Life of the Party acting as lifeguard.

Is that what you're doing here, man?

It was Michael's voice, which was so totally fucking unfair. Brian finished his whiskey and signaled Archie for a refill. Looking put-upon, Archie sloppily poured another couple of shots and glued his eyes back to the television. Brian picked up the glass again but didn't take a drink, staring into its amber depths.

That's better. I always thought you drank too much, y'know.

Brian's hand tightened on the glass. Shut up. You're not here.

C'mon, don't you wanna hang out? Isn't that what this whole thing's about?

"Go away," Brian muttered.

"Sorry. But it's kinda packed and there aren't any other empty tables. . ." The voice is high-pitched, nervous. He can barely hear it over the noise of the crowded cafeteria.

Brian shrugs and turns his attention back to his English homework. He usually doesn't mind reading, but these Hawthorne stories are turning out to be a real bitch. And he needs to pull a 4.0 this semester if he wants to have a chance in hell of ever getting near an athletic team again.

Clatter of tray and silverware, as the voice sits down across from him. Brian can see in his peripheral vision that it belongs to the skinny runt from homeroom and a couple of his other classes, the one who sits in the back and never says anything.

Unfortunately, it looks like he's decided to start talking.

"You're new, right?"

Brian just nods, the stupidity of the question not deserving a verbal reply. He reads the next question on the homework. 'Why do you think the Minister wore the black veil?' 'Because the Puritans hadn't invented sunscreen,' he's tempted to write, but restrains himself. They'd probably up the visits to the school counselor to twice a week.

The runt tries again. "I heard you used to go to Immaculate Heart."

"Yeah, where'd you hear that?" Brian mutters. He's not really listening, trying to frame a homework answer that won't result in him having to look at more ink blots.

"Some people were talking about it."

That gets Brian's attention. He puts down his pencil and gives the runt the thousand-yard stare.

"Really. What else did they say?"

The runt pales a little. "Um, that you were, y'know . . ." he falters.

Brian leans forward. "No, I don't know. Why don't you tell me?"

"Y'know . . . expelled." The runt speaks in a whisper, like a medieval peasant talking about excommunication. Brian half-expects him to cross himself.

"Yeah. So?"

The runt squirms uncomfortably, but soldiers on. "So, uh, did you really give your gym teacher a black eye?"

"No."

The runt's shoulders relax a little.

"I gave him a concussion."

"Oh." The runt's voice is very small, eyes gone as wide and dark as the little Mexican kids' in those pictures at his Grandma Kinney's. Brian's waiting for him to bolt at any second. To act like every other fucking person who's heard the story of how it took Father Goodwin and Father Clericuzio to pull Brian Kinney off of Coach Nelson. Like Brian has a case of the Deep Down Crazies, and you can't get too close or you'll catch 'em. Even though nobody has heard the real story.

But the runt doesn't run.

"Do you like comic books? I read 'em down at Fisher's drugstore all the time. I don't have that many at home 'cause they're kind of expensive, but my mom gave me some for my birthday. I've got a couple of volumes of X-Men, and this year's and last year's Captain Astros. The new one is really good--Captain Astro's been tricked into revealing his secret identity by Galaxy Lad, who's really Tentaclor in disguise, while the real Galaxy Lad is held prisoner in Tentaclor's lair--"

The runt breaks off, because Brian is staring at him like he's grown a few tentacles himself. Embarrassed, he ducks his head and starts playing with his mashed potatoes.

"Captain Astro's pretty cool," Brian says, after a minute.

The runt looks up from his potato sculpture, grinning now. "Yeah, he's awesome! I mean, he's not that popular, it's all about Batman and Superman and stuff, but at least you don't have to look at Captain Astro on a bunch of crappy Burger King cups, y'know? I mean, sometimes it's kinda cool to be into something most people don't get, right? If you haven't seen the new ones, maybe you could come over sometime and we could read them--"

He sees Brian's blank expression and stops, biting his lip.

Behind the blankness, Brian looks at the runt, really looks at him. Sees the Q-Mart bookbag, the too-big clothes bought second hand, the haircut that looks like his mom did it at home over the kitchen sink. Sees the smallness and the paleness and the skinniness. All the natural markings of a geek. A loser. A bottom-feeder in the school pond.

But he also sees something else, shining out of those big dark puppy dog eyes. It's not the lovey-dovey crushy look he's been dealing with forever. That's definitely there, but it's not the only thing there. Underneath that is something else, something better. Something that looks at the new kid with the bad rep and the worse attitude and doesn't bolt.

Brian glances at the ID tag on the cheap bookbag.

"Yeah, Mikey. Maybe I could."

That was how it started. Though it was weeks before Brian saw the skinny kid with the comic book obsession as anything but convenient. As with Justin Taylor 15 years later, Brian's brain took awhile to catch up to his instincts.

But from the beginning, Brian found Michael less annoying than his classmates. At lunchtime, it was strangely soothing to hear him enumerating the canonical differences between Superman the movie and Superman the comic, or criticizing the latest Captain Astro artist for getting Galaxy Lad's proportions all wrong. Brian didn't always talk much himself--there were days he just couldn't--but those times Michael calmly babbled on. He never once acted like there was anything odd or offensive about his lunch buddy sitting there and staring at him in glazed silence for forty-five minutes at a clip. Even at fourteen, Michael's instinct for knowing what people needed was keen.

The trips to Fisher's came later. They started out as a one-time deal to get Michael to shut the fuck up about it already, but actually ended up being something Brian looked forward to. Hanging out at the cramped, old-fashioned drug store, with its dim brown lighting and soft dusty smell and rows and rows of brightly colored comics, was about a billion times better than anything he had going on at home.

Still, Brian didn't take Michael, or the friendship, all that seriously. Hanging out with Michael was like doing the extra math problems in the back of the book, or trying to knee his soccer ball a hundred times in a row, or getting a five-dollar blowjob from Marcia Kendrick in the boiler room before school: one more way of not having to think about the things he couldn't stand thinking about.

The first time Brian realized Michael was more than a distraction was the first day he went to his house. Michael was always inviting him over, but it took Brian some time to work up to that kind of commitment. What finally swayed him was his dad going on one of his really bad binges, combined with Michael's solemn assurance that his mom, who worked double-shifts most weekdays, wouldn't be home until late and would let Brian sleep over. Brian would have followed Michael to the Black Hole of Calcutta for a night free of parents, anybody's parents.

Mellow amber sunlight streams in through the Captain Astro curtains, playing over the two boys sprawled out on the floor of Michael's bedroom. Comic books, unfolded laundry, and the bewildering array of junk food his mom keeps in the house surround them in a typical adolescent asteroid belt. Madonna's "Like a Virgin" chirps softly from the radio on the trunk at the foot of the bed.

Brian makes a disgusted noise. "Turn that shit off, Mikey."

Michael reaches over and spins the dial on the radio, turning past a McDonald's commercial and a lot of static until he finds the unmistakable bass beat of the Police's "Every Breath You Take." He looks at Brian, who nods approval and gestures to turn it up. Michael does, then settles back onto his stomach. He opens Captain Astro Vol. 13, No. 4 again, but Brian can tell he's not really reading. After a moment or two of faking it, he looks up again.

"Madonna's pretty hot, isn't she?" The words sound practiced, like he's repeating one of Mr. Barningham's Geometry proofs.

"She's okay." Brian's on his back, the comic book held high over his face. He turns a page, his eyes lingering over the panel depicting a shirtless Galaxy Lad tied up in Tentaclor's lair. "But Sting's hotter." He turns his head to meet Michael's gaze. "Right?"

Michael flushes a little and doesn't answer.

Brian throws the comic on the floor and rolls over, half on-top of the much smaller boy. He props his chin on one of Michael's narrow shoulders, his hand cupping the back of Michael's neck in a casual way. "Hey, Mikey?"

Michael's flush has deepened. "Yeah?"

Brian's fingers clamp down, moving in slow circles over the baby-soft skin just under Michael's hairline. A move that could feel too-fucking-good or hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, depending on the pressure. Brian settles for something in-between. Michael goes tense as a bowstring, but doesn't try to pull away.

"Wanna try something cool?" Brian says softly.

"Uh, okay." Under his fingertips, Michael's pulse is racing like a rabbit's.

Brian leans close, until his face is scant inches from Michael's own. He can see his lips beginning to quiver, the pupils dilating in those big dark eyes. Brian leans still closer, almost nuzzling him. Michael smells like Mallomars and Irish Spring Soap, but beneath that is another smell, something ripe and salty and strangely familiar.

"You sure?" Brian's mouth is right against Michael's ear. He slides his hand from Michael's neck, tracing the curve of his spine to the sweet spot just above his ass. The thin cotton t-shirt Michael is wearing has ridden up a little, and the skin there is warm and damp beneath Brian's hand. For a few seconds they just stay like that, the bass thumping around them, Sting wailing about love and loss and obsession.

"S-sure," Michael says finally. His voice is barely a whisper.

"Excellent!" Brian cries, pushing away. He scrabbles for his bookbag on the floor next to the bed, taking out a big silver thermos and unscrewing the lid. Returning to his spot, he sits Indian-style in front of Michael and holds it out.

Michael's still on his stomach, breathing hard and looking a little dazed. He stares at the thermos like it's one of Tentaclor's ray guns. "What is it?"

"My dad's best bud."

"Huh?"

Brian rolls his eyes. "Jack Daniels. I swiped it from the old man's stash."

Michael's forehead wrinkles. "Aren't you afraid you'll get in trouble?"

"Believe me, he won't miss it." Brian wraggles the bottle enticingly. "C'mon, Mikey."

Michael swallows hard. "I dunno . . . I've heard that stuff'll make you sick."

"Only if you're a pussy." Brian takes a long swig by way of demonstration, not even grimacing as the cheap sour mash slides down his throat. A year ago it made him sick enough to yak, but he's had a lot of practice since then.

Michael looks properly impressed by Brian's skill, but he still doesn't reach out to take the bottle.

Brian leans forward, hooking Michael's gaze with his own. "Don't worry. I'll help you."

"You will?" Michael's eyes are huge, staring at him with that strange, trusting expression again. The one that seems to look right through him and see everything, understand everything, and accept it. And not just accept it, but still think Brian Kinney is the coolest motherfucker to ever walk the face of the planet. The sight of it makes something deep inside Brian melt a little, in a way the clowning around a few minutes ago didn't.

He puts his hand on Michael's shoulder, feeling the tremble of the muscles there. His fingers tighten possessively.

"Trust me, Mikey."

So he does, of course, and Brian keeps his word, he doesn't get sick. Though Brian does feel kinda bad when Deb, home from work early, walks in on them a couple of hours later, and Michael ends up grounded for a month.

It was that look that kept Brian with Michael, long after he'd lived down the scary rep and become the biggest of the Big Men on Campus, and could have hung out with anybody he wanted to. He found that if you were good-looking and athletic, popularity wasn't that hard to come by in high school. Even the gay thing wasn't such a big deal--Brian was still in his experimental phase then, and probably screwed as many girls as boys between the ages of 14 and 18. Enough, anyway, to keep the Golden Boy bullshit going. The few times the whispers turned into threats weren't a problem: he still knew how to be scary when he wanted to be.

No, popularity was cheap if you were pretty and athletic. But acceptance, the real kind? That shit was rare. Brian was self-aware enough even back then to know there were large parts of him that weren't pretty at all, parts that were Elephant Man ugly. The rageouts, the depression, the drugs and the stealing and the shit with his family, Michael saw all of it and never flinched. More than that, he never lost that light in his eyes when he looked at Brian. And not because he was in love with him and wanted to screw his brains out, though Brian had clocked Mikey's crush about five seconds into their friendship. People had been crushing on Brian since Kelly Gunderson showed him her panties on the first day of Kindergarten. But Brian doubted Kelly or her many successors could have seen him stoned drooling on 'ludes, with belt marks all over his back, and still looked at him like he walked on water the next day.

As long as Michael still had that look in his eyes Brian was okay, Brian was normal, Brian could deal. On the days the whole world went flat, and all the people in it were stupid blanks and Brian thought he was going to disappear inside the bleak landscape of his own mind, Michael stayed real. Seeing the reflection of himself in Michael's eyes, Brian could make the grades and make the team, take the head cheerleader to prom and fuck the starting quarterback in the parking lot after. He could lie to the team doctor about where those cracked ribs came from, shoplift clothes he couldn't buy, give his salutatorian speech done up on vodka and reds and pull it off. He could do it all, without the cold, empty rage that was never far from the surface back then cracking through and perma-frosting his future.

Long after high school, when a stellar GPA and a soccer scholarship had helped him escape to a better world, Michael stayed his touchstone. Because one thing Brian learned as he got older was that the rage never really drained away, it just got colder. For years, Michael was the only thing that kept him from slipping into a permanent emotional ice age. Even after Justin came crashing into his life like a blond space shuttle, Brian never had any intention of letting Michael go. He loved Justin, but he needed Michael, in a way he'd never needed anybody else.

Which was why the thought of never seeing him again wasn't just sad. It was terrifying.

Over the last few months, as the endless days limped by and there was still no word of Michael, Brian had tried to deal. To do what he'd done the few times he and Michael had a serious difference of opinion, and remind himself how unbelievably pathetic it was for a grown man to clutch onto his boyhood buddy like a human woobie. But it hadn't worked then and it sure as shit wasn't working now. In the past few weeks, he'd begun to see the signs again, subtle at first but getting clearer and clearer, that he--

Someone was watching him.

Brian's head snapped up, surprise warring with anger. Fond memories aside, he didn't expect to get cruised in here, didn't like being stared at like meat in a butcher shop while his memories bled him white. His eyes narrowed coldly as he peered through the dim, smoky space, searching for the source of the scrutiny. This wouldn't take him long.

It didn't. Brian's eyes widened, as he took in his second big surprise of the evening.

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was sitting at the end of the bar.

********

Man, do NOT go over there.

Michael again. Brian could almost feel him leaning over his shoulder, face set in the worried mother hen expression that was the only time he ever looked anything like Debbie.

Relax, it's just Wesley. Funny, I never would've pegged him for the slumming type.

I would. Look at him, Brian.

He had to admit Michael had a point. In the two days since he'd seen Wes, the man had gone from Absentminded Professor to Drugstore Cowboy. Ralph Lauren separates had been replaced by old, dirty jeans and an even older grey t-shirt with a rip in the hem, a ratty cloth jacket on top of that. His hair, which was damp with sweat, looked like it had last been combed sometime around Tuesday. That also must have been the last time he'd shaved, as the Crockett-style stubble on his cheeks had grown into the beginnings of a real beard. Underneath that his face was chalky pale, except for a hectic red spot high up on each cheekbone, like a corpse wearing too much funeral blush. His bagged, bleary eyes were naked of glasses, and so red it looked like it must hurt him to blink. One trembling, ink-stained hand clutched a glass nearly full of what definitely wasn't water. Brian spotted the half-empty Stoli container by his elbow, and did a quick estimate of how many drinks Wesley must have ordered for Archie to take the preemptive measure of leaving the whole bottle. He came up with a very impressive number.

That's your boss? He reminds me of that homeless guy who used to sniff oven cleaner behind the Q-Mart dumpsters.

Dollar Dan? I heard he gave a wicked blow-job, if you didn't mind a few open sores. Think ol' Wes has set his price yet? Think I should ask?

I think you should go home before you get in trouble.

You always say that, and I never go. Isn't the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?

No, the definition of insanity is fucking with the man who signs your paychecks.

Our mysterious absentee CEO does that.

Finishing his second drink, he set down his glass and began closing the twenty feet separating him from Wesley.

This is just like the time Galaxy Lad warned Captain Astro not to take on Dr. Dread without the support of the Galactic Council, and he did anyway, and wound up banished to the farthest reaches of the Zeta Quadrant for like the next four issues.

God, even in my grief-induced delusions you're a big geek.

"Kinney. What the devil're you doing here?" Wesley's usually precise Oxford accent was blurred, like copperplate script smudged by careless hands.

"I live around here," Brian said, commandeering the stool next to him. "What's your excuse?"

Wesley tried to shrug, but the gesture came out as a twitch. "Coming from the office, saw the sign. Looked. . .quiet."

Brian glanced around the bar. In the half-hour or so since he'd walked in the door, several people had left, leaving the place empty except for them, Archie, and one lone rummy in the front booth. Archie continued to stare at the muted television like his entire life's savings was riding on the Raiders game, which it probably was. The rummy was looking out the dingy front window with the trance-like absorption of the deeply drunk, a single line of drool oozing from one corner of his mouth and making a dark spot on his grubby plaid shirt. The only sound in the dismal space was the eerie opening piano solo of the Doors' "Riders on the Storm," playing softly on the dented jukebox.

"Yeah, I'm a real sucker for the ambience," Brian said.

Wesley followed Brian's line of sight to the battered Wurlitzer, staring at it a moment or two with the expression of pained concentration Brian recognized from the office.

"You know this was the last song Jim Morrison ever recorded?" he said.

Brian shrugged. "I'm a Stones man."

"When I was at university, I had L.A. Woman on vinyl. I must have knackered half-a-dozen needles listening to it, especially this number. There's another track beneath the main vocals. Those are dark enough, but all the while they're going on there's this other track. It mimics the main track but it's not exactly the main track, you know? It's very strange--an almost inhuman whisper, like a demon muttering awful things in your ear. You hardly notice it most of the time, but it's there all the same, coloring everything, making it all go wrong. That whisper track was the very last thing Morrison put on tape before he left for Paris to die. You can hear Morrison's death in the whispers, if you listen hard enough."

He picked up the glass and drained it in one go, with the back of one hand wiping lips cracked from anxious licking.

I think your boss is about ready for his 19^th Nervous Breakdown.

Courtesy of Mother's Little Helpers. Did you get a look at his pupils?

What do you think he's on? Crystal?

Naah, he's too linear, even with the vodka chasers. And he doesn't have the balls for coke or PCP.

Well, he's definitely not happy enough for E.

I'm gonna go with good old-fashioned speed, maybe bennies or dexies. Trust Wes to get blitzed on something that hasn't been cool in twenty years. What a twat.

Wes was continuing his stumble down memory lane. "--others, Soft Parade, Morrison Hotel. He always made California sound like Hell. But a pretty, palm-tree lined Hell, where the fiery pits were lit with neon, and the sinners drove convertibles while devils strutted about in black leather trousers. I was mad to go, everybody in my program was. California was where the action would be, that's what they told us."

Wes picked up the vodka bottle and filled the glass full again, his hand trembling so badly that little rivulets spilled down the sides and onto the counter. Then he held it up like he was making a toast, his mouth twisting in an awful parody of a smile.

"Those whom the gods would destroy, they first grant their heart's desire." He drained it a second time, the muscles in his throat working spastically.

A few more shots, and we're gonna be finishing tonight in the ER.

Fuck that, I'm calling him a cab. The doctors in those places never look like George Clooney.

Why don't you help the poor guy out before they have to shove a tube down his throat?

Give me one good reason.

How 'bout three? High School Graduation, Spring Break '92, and your sister's wedding reception.

Sighing, Brian reached forward, moving the vodka bottle to the floor next to his stool, out of Wesley's reach. Wes didn't see the move, too focused on reaching into the pocket of his jacket and fumbling out a small foil packet. He tried to open it, but had apparently lost the fine motor skills needed to undo the rubber bands holding it together.

After watching him pick pitifully at it for a minute or two, Brian took the packet from him, paying no attention to Wes's protesting noises. He undid the bands, and to his complete lack of surprise saw it was full of small capsules. He shook a couple into his hand, holding them up to the dim light of the television for a closer look. They weren't like anything he'd ever seen before, and he'd seen plenty. Instead of the normal bright primary shades, they were a grey so pale it was nearly white, with a mirror-like sheen. Brian was usually open-minded about this sort of thing, but he didn't like these. For no reason at all, he didn't like them. They lay in his palm like two tiny silver bullets.

Mikey, I think we may have underestimated him.

Those things look like fucking Russian Roulette in a bottle, Brian. Do something.

What do you want me to do, call the DEA? I don't even know what this shit is.

At least say something.

Yeah, he's got such a high regard for my opinion.

Remember the trip to Cancun six years ago? And the time you got a false positive on your HIV test? And when Justin got bashed by that psycho Chris Hobbes?

Okay, Jesus H. Christ.

"You better watch it with this stuff. You know what comes from too much pills and liquor."

Wesley snatched the packet back. "S'not what you think. And anyway, it's none of your business."

"Fine, get fried," Brian sighed. "Maybe Wolfram & Hart gets a corporate discount at Betty Ford."

"As usual, Kinney, you haven't a sodding clue what's going on," Wesley shot back.

He reached behind him for the vodka that used to be at his elbow, and Brian barely suppressed a grin at the comical expression of confusion that crossed his face when he didn't find it. After a minute or two of unsuccessful searching, Wes just sat there blinking at the space where the bottle had been, like he expected it to re-materialize as magically as it had disappeared. When it didn't, his face fell another few inches, and he began fumbling with the foil packet again. He popped a couple of the pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry.

See what I mean?

Wow, he's really messed up. Is he always like this?

Actually, he's less obnoxious than usual. Maybe I should give him the vodka back.

Come on, the guy's obviously in pain. Why don't you ask him what's wrong?

I know what's wrong: it's called a thousand years of in-breeding. All the caring and sharing in the world won't help.

Your father's funeral. The time that twinkie charged you with sexual harassment. Or how about when Justin dumped you for--

Fine, fine, shut the fuck up.

"Something on your mind, Wes?"

Wesley gave a strange little laugh. "Not nearly as much as there should be."

Brian tried one more time. "Anything you feel like sharing with the rest of the class?"

"Even if I felt like telling you, you wouldn't bloody believe it." He lapsed into a morose silence, one finger tracing patterns in the puddles of vodka on the counter.

That was emotional. I don't know about you, but I feel really close to him right now.

Hey, at least you tried, man.

Whatever. When they find him in a bathtub like his man Jim, I'm totally taking his office.

Well, don't start looking at carpet samples yet. Check him out.

Brian glanced over, and saw Wes had straightened up and was staring at him with something close to his usual aggressive disdain. It was a little soon for his latest dose to be kicking in--those weird pills must have one hell of a placebo effect.

"So, Paul, how was your trip to Damascus?" Wesley said challengingly.

It took Brian a second to get it, since the disc and its implications hadn't exactly been weighing on his thoughts for the last hour or so. He took out his cigarettes and lighter to give himself time to think. In the meantime, he saw Wesley's disdain morph into a sour amusement at his silence, evidently taking it for ignorance of the reference.

Fuck him, I went to Sunday School, too.

Please. You spent every Sunday your Mom dragged you to church getting handjobs from Kit Floyd in the back pew.

Shhh, I'm about to be enigmatic.

"Illuminating," he said, lighting up and blowing a puff of smoke in Wesley's face, by way of illustration.

Wesley's amusement shifted into annoyance. "That's all?"

"I'm Irish. Acceptance of the supernatural goes with the territory. Like drinking cheap whiskey and the ability to recall U2 lyrics at will."

Wesley's face darkened. "Irish. Of course," he said with grim satisfaction, like it was a nasty disease he'd long suspected Brian of carrying. "But maybe you should check all that Celtic cocksureness till you've actually finished the primer disc."

Brian took another drag of his cigarette and exhaled slowly, smirking at Wesley through hazy clouds of smoke. "I finished it tonight. Procrastination in the face of harsh realities is an English thing."

Wesley ignored that. "I didn't see you in the office this weekend," he said, frowning.

"I wasn't there to see. I took the disc home."

His frown deepened. "You shouldn't have done that."

"Yeah, 'cause if the Times ever got hold of it. . .not a goddamn thing would happen. Nobody outside of D.C. Comics is gonna buy this Tales from the Crypt bullshit. I wouldn't buy it if I wasn't still trying to brush it out of my new Hugo Boss."

"Now you're being deliberately thick. The significance of that information is immeasurable. Imagine the repercussions if--"

Yeah, just imagine--it would be one amazing comic book. High-powered executive by day, rogue demon hunter by night. Exploring the dark underbelly of Los Angeles, fighting evil and making the streets safe for--

No fucking way. My credit rating still hasn't recovered from the last time you decided to immortalize me in print.

Hey, I never told you to grow a social conscience. I just wanted to see what you'd look like in spandex.

"Kinney? Are you listening?"

Brian made an impatient gesture with his cigarette. "There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy. Got it. Remind me to dig out the St. Christopher's medal I got for Confirmation next time I go to Delerium."

Wesley looked seriously annoyed, whether at Brian's attitude or the realization that someone besides himself had read a book Brian wasn't sure. "You've been given knowledge that would make most men question their entire existence, and all you can think of is your sordid sex life. Congratulations. You've taken venality to a new level."

For the first time, Brian began to get really irritated. "You're right. It would make a lot more sense to bury myself under a pile of books like some sad little monk, while other people took everything I wanted." He leaned in close to Wes, much closer than necessary to be heard in the quiet bar. "But I guess I'm too cocksure for that."

Wesley recoiled, jerking his stool back a couple of inches. He stared at Brian, bloodshot eyes gone shiny with anger.

"It's so easy for your kind, isn't it?" he said softly.

Oh, he's not gonna go there, is he?

I told you he was a twat. Five bucks says he uses the word 'sodomite' in the next two minutes.

"What kind is that?" Brian said.

"Alpha males. Top dogs. Leaders of the bloody pack. You march through life, doing what you like, getting what you want, never giving a thought to who you're stepping on in the process. You expect the world to conform itself to your every whim, and the hell of it is, the world just--"

Huh. Guess his raging Oedipal complex trumped the rampant homophobia. Not sure where the xenophobia factors in. After a certain number of neuroses it's hard to lay fair odds.

He's starting to get a little scary.

That's why I don't try to have conversations in bars anymore. I always wind up talking to the crazy person.

Hey, remember when Woody's used to have dollar longnecks during happy hour? And we'd meet up after work, and you'd tell me about the married trick you fucked in the men's room during lunch--

--and you'd tell me about the hot guy in the comic book store that you didn't. You were such a pussy.

And you were such a slut. Good times.

You know, I only did half that stuff so I could tell you about it later.

I know. I never understood why nobody else got that.

You really think our friends could've gotten their minds off their own dicks long enough to parse the finer nuances of our relationship? Not that it was any of their fucking business.

"--can calmly face down things that would send other men screaming into the night. It has nothing to do with being a hero, and it has fuck all to do with being Irish. When you look at the world, all you see is yourself. You're not braver or better than everyone else, you're blinder. You don't see the hell you create for everyone else when you shape the world in your image. You don't see the consequences of--"

Fuck, is he still talking?

Sounds like it. Are you getting any of this?

Apparently, I'm a myopic, narcissistic sociopath who is single-handedly responsible for the decline of Western Civilization. Like I've never heard that one before.

Maybe we should go.

Wait, I want to see how long he can keep this up.

"--do, I wonder, if someday the world didn't give you everything you wanted on a silver platter? If one day one of your sad little betas stood up and said, 'Stop. You can't keep doing this. I won't let you go on tormenting me like--" Wesley's voice broke and he cut off, swallowing hard.

Somebody call Guinness. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce has set a new world's record for drug-fueled rants.

He's looking over here. I think he wants an answer to his question.

Well, let's give him one, shall we?

"That would never happen."

"Why's that?"

"Because if he challenged me, he wouldn't be a beta. He'd be another alpha."

Wesley's haggard features brightened a little.

"I'd have to kill him."

Wesley started violently, right hand reaching up and covering his neck in an instinctive protective gesture. He looked at him with wounded, accusing eyes, like Brian was the one who'd just gone for his throat.

"Or he'd have to kill me," Brian continued. He looked pointedly at Wesley's hand, smirking a little. "Metaphorically speaking, of course."

Wesley glanced down and grimaced self-consciously. He dropped his hand from his neck and curled it on the edge of the bar, clutching on so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Brian took a deep, thoughtful drag on his cigarette. "But it amounts to the same thing. You can't have two top dogs in one pack, Wes. One of us would have to go."

All the fight seemed to drain out of Wesley. "I expect you're right," he said, the words barely audible. He stared down at the dirty counter, his face like someone trapped on an ice floe who's just been given a big push out to sea.

That was way harsh, man.

Hey--he asked, I told. You really want me to sugarcoat the truth for this asshole?

I dunno . . . but he looks like he's gonna cry or something.

Damn, where's the digital camera when you need it?

Stop it. He's a human being, Brian.

Actually, the jury's still out on that one. If you saw what else I had to work with--

Never mind, let's get outta here. Isn't the revival theater down the street doing a Brando retrospective this week?

Yeah, but they're up to Last Tango in Paris by now. Last time I caught that on cable I was off butter for a month.

Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll be showing Apocalypse, Now. Martin Sheen was hot back in the day.

Brian turned around. "Martin Sheen? Christ, Mikey, you're so path--"

He stopped. Because Michael wasn't pathetic, of course. Michael wasn't tired, or angry, or bored. He wasn't even horny and ready to go watch Martin Sheen journey shirtless into the Heart of Darkness. Michael wasn't anything, because Michael wasn't there.

Brian stared at the empty bar stool, the truth coming back to him the way it always did: with the fresh agony of first experience. Michael would never sit in a bar and listen, simultaneously wide-eyed and skeptical, to tales of Brian's latest exploits. He would never bring over greasy take-out and fall asleep in Brian's lap while they watched bad sci-fi on deep cable. He wouldn't sit next to Brian on any more road trips, or share hits with him in any more back rooms. There would be no more movies, no more comic book conventions, no more breakfasts at the diner or dinners at Debbie's house. No more dirty dancing on the floor at Babylon, no more kisses that went on longer than they should have for just best friends, no more sly groping and blaming it on the drugs. No more pulling Brian back from the ledge, and still looking at him like he could leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Michael would never do any of these things again, not ever. Because Michael was gone.

Brian sat very still, trying to steel himself against the sudden, gutting anguish, like having something vital ripped out of him without anesthesia. Tried to pull away and pretend the hurt was happening to someone else, the way he used to do when Jack really laid into him, and he'd have died rather than let that bastard see him flinch. But this was so much worse than any physical injury. Welts healed and bruises faded, you toughened up, grew protective scar tissue, got used to playing through the pain. There was no getting used to this.

he's gone he's gone he's gone he's gone

With every repetition, he lost another little piece of himself. Every time he faced the cold, empty place beside him, the cold, empty space that had always been inside him grew bigger. He was afraid one day he'd disappear into it entirely, and then there would be nothing left of him, nothing but that icy rage that froze everything it touched. That's what the frantic tricking of the last few months had been about. Not grudge fucking like Justin had thought, but a desperate bid to keep his core temperature above subzero. Because when things got bad and he was standing right on the edge of that icy void, the only way to pull himself back was to throw as many warm bodies as he could between himself and the abyss. When things got really bad, the way they were right now, any body would do.

Brian turned and looked at the miserable figure seated next to him.

Anybody at all.

Brian stubbed out his cigarette and rose. "Come on. Let's go get something you want."

Wesley gave him a startled look. He'd been so busy attending his own little pity party, he hadn't even noticed Brian's festival of pain.

"The disc. You want it back, don't you?"

"The disc. Yes--quite," Wes faltered.

"It's at my place."

Wesley looked at the empty glass in front of him. "I don't think either of us should--"

"I live four blocks from here. We don't even have to call a cab." Brian looked at him, bearing down with that focused gaze he'd been honing since he was fourteen years old. A visual centering of will, like arm wrestling somebody with your eyes. Brian had taken down straighter and soberer men than Wesley Wyndam-Pryce with it. This wouldn't take long.

It didn't. Wesley blinked a couple of times, then stood. "I have to settle up with . . ." he made a vague gesture in the direction of the bartender, then began fumbling around in his pockets again. Brian noticed he was weaving more than a little, like the earth was shaky beneath his feet.

He put a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it. He's not."

The muscles under Brian's fingers tensed as he began steering Wes towards the door. But the other man didn't try to pull away. Amazing how soft some people turned out to be, once you got a feel for their defenses. Like touching a stone wall and finding out it was painted Styrofoam. You could rip it to pieces with your bare hands, if you wanted.

Still, Wes was surprisingly pliable, even given the number of controlled substances gumming up his system. There had been a strange, reluctant excitement in his eyes when Brian stared him down. The look a heroin addict gives a dirty needle, one that might kill him, or might give him just what he needs. Brian wondered what he was supposed to be the methadone for.

"This is about to get interesting," he said to himself as they stepped out onto the broken sidewalk.

"What?"

Brian's hand tightened on Wesley's shoulder. "Nothing. Watch your step."

********

Brian didn't bother turning on the overhead lights in the loft, a habit he'd fallen into in recent weeks. The flashing sign of the revival theater across the street sent a psychedelic glow through the eastern bank of windows until 2 AM every night, plenty of illumination. He'd always seen better in the dark than most people, and the play of red and blue neon on white leather and brushed chrome appealed to him. A few tricks complained, but since Brian had stopped taking repeat business when he moved to the 213 area code, such input didn't carry much weight.

His latest trick was standing just inside the open doorway, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, weight shifting from one foot to the other. Brian had seen this posture a hundred times before, always with the newbies and closet cases. Back and forth, back and forth, the dick and the brain having a tug-of-war. Ninety-nine times out of that hundred, the dick won. But in this case you couldn't be sure which had more muscle.

"Shut the door," he said over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen. The words would shove Wes one way or the other. If he was going to pull an eleventh-hour punk out, better to know right away. Any of the decent escort services would take forever to deliver on a weekend.

A few seconds later the heavy steel door slammed shut, hard enough to rattle the framed Kenneth Anger poster on the wall nearby. Brian stopped and shot a look towards the vestibule, but Wes was already headed into the main area. Mentally shrugging, Brian passed through the kitchen and went to the bar by the dining table.

"Want a drink?" he asked, because that was how the script went in these situations. Wes certainly wasn't in need of any additional lubrication.

"What do you have?" He sounded doubtful, like a traveler in a third-world country leery of the native potables.

Brian cocked an eyebrow at him. "Irish, remember? Everything."

"Right. Of course." He scrubbed one hand across his mouth. "Vodka's fine."

Brian reached for the bottle of Grey Goose and half-filled a glass, then poured himself two fingers of scotch. After considering a second, he went back to the kitchen and added enough ice to turn both into civilized drinks. No point having someone get sick or pass out at a critical moment.

Walking into the main living area, he saw that Wes had drifted over to the eastern windows, leaning against one of the oversized panes of glass. This wasn't unusual, as the spectacular view of the downtown skyline was always a focal point for visitors. But Wes wasn't focused on the view at all. By the glow of the neon sign he was staring at a small square of paper in his hand, that familiar look of strained concentration on his face.

Brian came up, drinks in hand, and looked over Wesley's shoulder. He recognized the paper immediately: a 3X5 photo that had been on the table nearby, thrown atop a pile of opened mail. Lindsay, framed against one of her prized rose bushes. Gus was on her lap, the two of them looking at the camera with solemn, almost accusing faces. She had sent it last week, along with a brief, careful letter she probably spent hours sweating over. He had to give her points for persistence.

"This your son?" Wesley said, turning. "He looks just like you."

"Guess he's mine, then." Brian plucked the photo out of his fingers and replaced it with the glass of vodka. He didn't like Wes looking at it. Not with that weird focused expression, like he was filing the faces away for future reference.

"His mother's lovely. Reminds me of someone I used to know, a long time ago." Wesley's voice was oddly flat, as if that someone hadn't exactly been a favorite of his.

Brian ran one thumb lightly over Lindsay's pretty porcelain blondeness. "Yeah. She is." Just like one of Joan's antique dolls, that's what he'd thought the first time they met. The really valuable, fragile one, the one he'd been whipped within an inch of his life for grabbing with clumsy seven-year-old fingers and cracking. Lindsay had proven much less delicate, despite lots of handling over the years.

"Didn't realize you'd been married." Wesley sounded surprised.

Brian wasn't. People had been making that mistake about Lindsay since graduate school. Occasionally even Lindsay herself, the commitment ceremony bullshit with Melanie notwithstanding. In a not-too-distant parallel universe where she liked pussy a little less and he liked it a lot more, she probably was his wife. And he was something besides a line on Gus Marcus-Peterson's birth certificate.

He shoved the photograph back under the pile with more force than necessary. "Last time I checked, you didn't have to be married to have a kid."

Wesley gave another one of those sudden strange laughs. "Or even alive. How's that for social progress?"

Just as suddenly the laughter died out of his face, and he took a long swallow of his drink.

"He's a beautiful boy," he said after a minute. "Do you see him often?"

"No," Brian said shortly, already weary with this line of questioning.

"Must be hard for him, being separated from you like that," Wesley said, his eyes narrowing disapprovingly.

"He has two mommies and half-a-dozen uncles. He's fine," Brian replied, and wondered why he was justifying himself. And why Wes suddenly gave a damn about a boy he'd never met.

Wesley's lips stretched in a humorless smile. "Think he's better off without dear old dad in the picture, eh?"

Brian felt a spark of irritation ignite in his chest. "I didn't say that."

"But that's what you meant, isn't it?" His smile widened, though it looked more like a grimace of pain. "You'd be amazed how often that sad old tune gets sung."

Brian fixed him with a baleful stare. "You have any kids?"

Wesley sobered immediately. "No." Two fingers went to his throat, lining the skin just over his Adam's apple. "I'm--I'm not good with children."

"Then you don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Procreation isn't a requirement for understanding how your type thinks, Kinney," Wesley persisted. "Told yourself you were doing him a kindness, didn't you? Better to leave the lad to others than subject him to your tender mercies." He brushed the hair off his forehead with a jerky, agitated movement, pale features openly hostile now. "What utter rot. You're so fond of the harsh realities, why don't you admit what it really was--abandonment?"

Brian stilled. "I didn't abandon anybody," he said. Slowly, he set down the heavy crystal glass on the table nearby.

Wesley either didn't understand the gesture or didn't care. He went on.

"And he's not the first one you've done that to, I'll wager. That's how your kind operates. Seductive as the serpent in Eden, and every bit as deceitful. You pull people in, twist them around and turn them inside out, until all they are is what you've made of them. The poor bastards sacrifice everything for you, because they think they're part of something special, something real. That you actually give a damn about anything besides your own selfish desires. But when it matters, when it really counts, that's when you leave them crying in the dark, isn't it?"

He began advancing on Brian, his voice taking on a high, hysterical whine. "How many lives have been ruined for your personal amusement? How much pain and misery have you caused? When you close your eyes at night, do you see the faces of all those lambs you led to slaughter? Do you even remember them, now that they're gone--"

The words cut off with a brittle crash, Wesley's drink shattering on the hard wood floor as Brian sent him smashing into the window with one brutal punch. Dazed, Wesley slid down the slick wall with a hand clamped over his left eye. Before he had time to rally Brian grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and hauled him to this feet. Clutching his shoulders, he slammed Wesley's head against the window, skull hitting glass with such a satisfying crack that Brian had to do it again. That cold fury was taking over, rushing through him like all the blood in his veins had turned to ice water. His mind had gone blank except for one word, echoing like a scream in the emptiness:

gone gone gone gone gone

It might have been a Looking for Mr. Goodbar ending right then and there, if Wesley had made any of the expected responses to the attack. But he didn't cry out or struggle, didn't try to fight back in any way, just hung limp as a rag doll in Brian's hands. His complete passivity was odd enough to break Brian's deadly chill a little. He stopped and took a good look at Wesley's face. What he saw there made him slacken his grip and take a step back.

Wes didn't look angry now, or even in pain, though his left eye was already beginning to swell into an ugly purplish mass. This was something beyond anger or pain, something darker, that Brian hadn't seen since a few blurry, half-buried nights during his wild college days. Nights spent at a certain underground club, a place with no name and a password at the door. Someplace that never got mentioned when it was story-swapping time at Woody's.

Really dangerous submissives looked like this, the ones who would let you do anything, anything, safe words be damned. Boys so desperate and damaged that pleasure and pain had become the same thing, eros and thanatos all mixed up in one sad, masochistic urge. They taunted you sometimes, tried to make you lose control, while their eyes begged you to take them and make them bleed. Brian had quit going to the club because of that look. Not because he didn't like it, but because he did, too much. It awakened things in the dark corners of his mind